As I commute around New York City, I often find myself faced with a difficult choice: whether to stay in the subway car where I have a seat but am forced to smell the homeless guy two seats away or move to the unknown, most likely a hot and crowded subway car with no empty seat in sight. Tonight was one such night, returning home from a Hunter College Open House for their MFA Writing programs. I sat briefly pondering my next move: Can I stay in my current career as a teacher, would a different school be better suited for me or should I just pursue other seemingly less-stressful interests like a MFA in writing?
It was when my thoughts were interrupted by the smell of urine that I recognized a correlation between my two dilemmas. At the root of the second dilemma is the feeling that nothing I do as a teacher really matters all that much. Despite all my efforts at guiding them in the right direction, kids will nod and smile then continue doing whatever they feel like doing. And this recurring cycle of disappointment leads me to the thought of switching to a non-transfer school. What would that mean? Kids who are motivated, perhaps. Kids who come to class regularly with their homework completed-- that would be amazing! I suppose if one can endure the stress, the aggravation of constantly trying to convince kids to stay in school, to come to class, to complete their assignments, to not smoke weed during school or chug beers during lunch, for months or years until they finally snap out of it and start earning their credits-- hopefully before they turn 21 and run out of time-- then it's rewarding. But I have to be patient and I have to remember that every kid won't make it and it's nearly impossible to know which kids are worth putting the energy into trying to "save" so I spread myself thin trying to help them all. Until one day I realize it's not sustainable. My life as a teacher is akin to Don Quixote battling windmills. My windmills are all the bad choices that my students make and as hard as I try to battle them, no matter how many Sanchos I can recruit to join my army, I can never defeat the windmills.
So, do I stay where I'm at and shield myself from burning out by doing less and less? Or do I make a move to the unknown? Maybe it will be a great school where kids always come to class on time daily with their homework completed, excited to learn and grow, maybe they never question anything. Or maybe it will be the kind of school where teachers pass the kids through just to avoid the principal's wrath. Or maybe I take a break from teaching in general and get a second Master's degree just because I can and I want to write more. But then I think: how will I have any money? It could easily be the best or worst move of my life, but it's the fear of the unknown that keeps me seated where I am, hoping I won't have to hold my breath or cover my nose for too long.
Choosing the right subway car: not that different from choosing the right public school or the right career path. Not that different from most of life's choices, I suppose.
As a transfer school, students come from all over the city hoping to leave their previous high school(s) for a variety of reasons. We hold open houses for prospective students and interview them to make sure they will be able to adapt to the culture of the school, find out if there are any red flags, and get an idea of their academic abilities. Although the process definitely raises some ethical issues for many of us, it is still one of my favorite parts of the job. We get to meet students when they're completely vulnerable, listening, and expelling all the details of their lives. We learn so much about who the kids are and what they've been through in their lives.
Today I interviewed a real odd-ball and complete sweetheart of a kid. He's a student who receives special education services. He talked of many things often using animal metaphors to describe himself. "Waking up is hard for me sometimes. I sleep like a bear... I'm a real class clown— very hyper—I'm basically a monkey."
" When I asked him how he spends his free time, he told me about his pet lizard which he described as "some kind of dragon, I think. I forget."
"A bearded dragon?" I asked.
"Yeah, I think that's it."
Then he told me, "He tastes my blood and other people's blood. That's how he knows when it's me and when it's someone else— But once he tastes their blood, he warms up to them."
I thought about it for a moment, slightly confused and asked half-joking, "Wait. So does he like go around biting people to figure out who they are?"
"No, no. It's not like that. I just make a little prick on my finger and he tastes the blood."
"Oh, okay," I said, pretending that was a completely normal thing for lizards and humans to do.
When I asked questions about his old school, I found myself on a journey from as early as elementary school. He told me, "You know, you're a girl and I'm talking to you now, but I used to be really afraid of girls because I was bullied and picked on by them." When I asked more about the bullying, he told me that people call him names at school but he doesn't mind so much because other kids stand up for him. I was reminded of this heartwarming news story about Danny, the water boy, and his football team.
At the end of the interview process, we came together as a staff to reflect on the day. People talked about how incredible it feels to get to know the kids so quickly and hear their stories. We talked a lot about knowing when we're talking to a kid who just really needs to be in our school. I thought about a student I interviewed two years ago. He was a student who received special education services, had scored a 92 on the ELA Regents and was diagnosed as ADHD. When I spoke with the student he discussed social dynamics at his current school, lots of fights where he always tried to be the mediator but was constantly accused of being the instigator. I saw a kid who had a lot of growing to do. He had yet to learn how to accept responsibility. I saw a kid with a wall up, displaying an air of confidence that seemed too extreme to be real. And I didn't know if we could really help him, but we accepted him. He ended up in my advisory and for two years, I struggled to tap into this kid's' emotions, searching for a shred of empathy and beginning to lose hope of ever finding it.
In our second year together I found myself in multiple meetings with this student after he displayed some rude and unprofessional behaviors and showed no remorse, took no responsibility and simply blamed everyone, but himself for things "not working out." One of his internship coordinators remarked, "I'm really concerned, Jamie. He has shown absolutely no growth in his year at this school." His guidance counselor, who always raved about him, finally began to see it too. "I can't even listen to him anymore. He's so full of himself and thinks he knows everything." How were we going to show this kid just how naive he is?
Midway through the school year, I showed a Teaching Tolerance video called Bullied, which created a lively discussion and had clearly upset this student, in particular, in a way I didn't expect. He talked about his own experiences being bullied, he talked about how no one ever did anything to stop it, how no matter who he told or how he tried to fight it, nothing worked. He spoke only with anger. He didn't understand how this one short video, featuring one gay student in Minnesota in the '90s who was beat up, sexually assaulted by classmates, and even urinated on, was helping anyone.
Handout included with Teaching Tolerance's Bullied
In April, I took a group of 43 students into the woods for a 3-day overnight trip in Upstate New York. When this student asked if he could come, I hesitated. Did I really want him on this trip? This kid who was known to gossip and spread rumors? Would he ruin the community we had to work so hard to create to make this trip successful, to allow kids to be vulnerable, reveal some deep, dark truths, and really trust one another? And so I told him my concerns and what behaviors he had displayed in school (multiple students had come to me saying that he had been gossiping and spreading rumors about them) influenced the existence of those concerns. He nodded, said he understood, and we reached an agreement. And on that trip, I saw a side of him I had never seen before. There was genuine kindness in there.
Our last morning on the trip, the coffee station in the mess hall was closed down because students left it a wreck the previous night. The group was in uproar. "It wasn't me," they all claimed. "Why am I being punished for something I didn't do?" As much as we tried to explain, "We are a group, the actions of the few affect the whole group," we couldn't escape the whining and complaining. The real surprise came when my advisee approached me. He made a comment about the immaturity of the group and how rude they had been to the staff. I said, "Would you like to thank the staff here for working with us?" He immediately turned to a few of the staff and told them, "Thank you so much for all you've done for us. I apologize for my fellow students and take full responsibility for their actions."
The staff members laughed, "Are you sure you want to take FULL responsibility?"
As we left the cafeteria to board our bus home, he turned to me and said, "You didn't think I could do this."
"You're right. I didn't. And you proved me wrong. You were great on this trip, very mature. I'm proud of you."
He snickered and climbed on the bus.
Months later, as we wrapped up the end of the school year, this same student procrastinated his work, argued with me, took little to no responsibility for how behind he was, and just drove me insane. As he scrambled around to find proof of gym credits he had earned outside of school, I just shook my head. When he finally scrounged up all his credits he told me, "I will never procrastinate again." Yeah, right, I thought. "Yeah, right," his guidance link said when I told her what he said.
Then he presented his graduation portfolio. Of course, it was at the last minute, still revising and begging for signatures, but when he sat on that panel something changed. He began by speaking about his personal history, his journey to our school and his experiences. He had spoken for no more than a minute when he burst into tears as he said, "No one in my old schools ever gave me a chance. Everyone just assumed I was a bad kid and thought they knew me. Here, people cared. They supported me and never made me feel bad about who I am. They just pushed me to be better." And then the tears came to my eyes. Holy shit, I thought. He's grown. He's finally grown.
Or maybe he just finally revealed what he was hiding inside all along.
Three years ago I was finishing my masters program, reflecting on my first two years of teaching and my philosophy of education. I thought about my undergraduate program at Hampshire College and realized I was teaching in a school that went against what I believe education should look like. I yearned for the creativity that places like Hampshire inspire and support. I missed the freedom of choice not only when it comes to students choosing classes, but choosing and designing what classes to teach. I missed writing about things that matter rather than just writing to prepare for a test. And I hated watching my students in special education suffer from a punitive discipline system when what they really needed was a holistic approach. I knew where I needed to be: a consortium school.
Consortium schools oppose high stakes testing by instead requiring students to create a written portfolio of their work across all subject areas which are then presented to a panel of teachers, peers, and other community members for evaluation. Sound familiar, Hampshire folks? This was my new dream: I needed to work in a consortium school. So I did some research and found a list of the 28 consortium schools in New York City. I went down the list alphabetically sending out my resume and cover letter to each principal. I had gotten just past the D's when I received an email from a principal in the C's. I walked into the school at 2pm on July 13, 2011 and was greeted by a smiling school safety officer. While the school safety officer took my ID and signed me in at the front desk, I thought, "This is the friendliest school safety officer I have ever encountered." I watched a young Asian man talk to a teenager sitting in a red chair about his bike a few feet away in the lobby/gym. The man rolled the bike back and forth across the light gray floor tiles a few times before handing it back to the teenager and walking towards me. I whispered to the school safety officer, "Is that him?"
She nodded.
"Are you Jamie?"
"Yes. Are you Alan?"
"Yes." We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and I followed him through the maze of hallways covered in student murals. We sat at his desk, he pulled up my resume on his ipad and we talked. I took what felt like too long to think answering certain questions and he just smiled and said, "Take your time."
Then he asked me, "If you could design and teach any class here, what would it be?" I knew this one. There was no pause. No thinking time needed. "A zombie film class."
Six days later I came in for a follow up interview with the assistant principal. When she asked why I wanted to leave my current school I told her, "I want to be in an environment that matches my educational philosophy and allows me to advocate for students." And she told me, "That's extremely important to us. Our teachers are advocates. It's not looked down on. It's expected of them." Where was I? I felt all my stress and anxiety worked up into tangled knots from the previous school year just melt away suddenly. This was where I needed to be. This was my dream school. After she gave me a tour of summer school, I turned to her and said, "I really want to work here."
And when September rolled around, I was rolling out my first Social Issues in the Zombie Film class. Shortly thereafter I became known as "The Zombie Teacher". During registration for classes, I was approached by students I had never seen before, "Are you the zombie teacher?" At parent teacher conferences, "So, you're the zombie teacher?" And when we hired new staff, "Oh, I heard about you. You're the zombie teacher."
Zombie Teacher. Halloween 2013.
Last summer I received an email from one of my former "Zombie" students filled with kind words. The subject line, of course, was ZOMBIES. She wrote:
Hey Jamie! So I've been watching the Walking Dead nonstop these days, and I just wanted you to know that your class actually taught me a lot. As I watch this series and observe society in general, I find that a lot of things we discussed in class are SO relevant/applicable. Whether it's our society's growing mindlessness and general disconnect, or our constant use of euphemisms to represent our fears (instead of directly confronting them), I've been realizing a lot of things about myself and humanity as a whole. Only thing is I don't know whether to remain hopeful or lose faith in humanity. I dunno. Anyways, the point of this email was to thank you for teaching such a cool class and for giving me things to think about.
Hope you're having an awesome summer! Stay safe out there O.O <3
Emails like that might be the nicest thing a student can do for a teacher. Often it's a job where you wonder if what you're doing is really helping anyone, whether it has an impact on any of the thirty-something bodies on your roster (of which maybe fifteen or twenty showed up for class, if you're lucky). It's an incredible feeling to know that one class could keep a kid thinking about it months later. It only reinforces my views on how important alternative education and performance based assessments are. I'm getting emails that kids can't stop thinking critically about the world! That's incredible.
Around the same time I received this email I was taking a workshop, "Teaching the Academic Paper" at Bard College's Institute for Writing and Thinking. For my final paper, I wrote about alternative approaches to academic writing, specifically research papers. In my own experience as a teacher I have come across academic research papers where students write full page introductions setting the scene for the paper and later analysis. Students often times are “conscious of constructing alternative text” for the readers they imagine, who may be quite different from rational academic readers, who like to stick to the rules. One student wrote an 11-page paper for my class, Social Issues in the Zombie Film, where she spends the first 2 pages describing the setting of the zombie apocalypse in the second person narrative.
“17 days , 6 hours. You keep track of time since what you lovingly refer to as “The End” occurred, although it serves no purpose to you. Night and day are now completely related to survival advantage. In the day, you can move, you can see. In the night, you are nothing but a target. A target to them, those moving corpses that feed on the living and turn the faces you knew into targets.
You run from the moving dead, or not-so-dead-anymore, and you try to scrape together the scraps of knowledge you have related to basic survival. Too bad you didn’t pay more attention in school, seeing as not once in your dull, day-by-day existence, did you ever consider preparing for a world-wide apocalyptic event, because really — what were the chances of that happening? How many times has “the End of All Days” been predicted now? What is the world now? An image of its original savage state? You don’t want to get all Nietzsche or Jung on yourself, but man do you feel like you’ve time traveled back into the Paleolithic Era.”
After displaying a clear understanding of the zombie film genre and establishing a clear voice, she then transitions into her thesis stating,
“The struggle of survival and weighing the worth of continued life is a recurring feature in zombie media. A contender for one of the most paralysing fears in existence is being confined to an inescapable fate. In the context of a zombie apocalypse, it is the constant threat of danger combating the innate human desire for survival, in an unforeseeably bleak future.”
This student demonstrates a clear understanding of the conventions of academic writing, yet she is able to create a piece of writing that ventures outside this box and allows for a more creative writing process. She displays a strong voice, a sense of writing style and experiments with different writing genres. This student was so engaged in the topic that she was able to write a paper twice as long as required. This one example demonstrates that when students are given the opportunity to think outside the box and use an “alternative” approach to academic writing, the results can be astonishing.
And so I wonder, by following the rules of scholarly writing, by following a traditional approach to education and teaching, are we, in fact, losing our humanity? Are we giving up a part of ourselves? Our voices? Our morals? Are we, as educators, giving up who we are in order to follow the norm? Are we simply mindless drones, following an academic path that stinks of rotting flesh?
