Let's look at the positive side...

I've been blah-blah-blahing about the downside of working in an inner-city school. It's difficult, yes, but it also has its shining moments. Today, let me share some of those.

Friday, during my last class, after a hard day, I was reviewing vocabulary through a translation exercise. I had created 10 sentences in French, using vocabulary I've given them since Day 1. The class and I were working through the sentences--when, voila!, I realized I did not have to tell them a single word. They translated all ten sentences themselves! Let me declare my amazement, my happiness, and their utter delight! This is a class of 30 students. I would say that half were engaged and participating while the other half, no, wait, I'll not go there. Half were engaged and reading French! That's truly what I want to share!

After they translated from French into English, they had to put five English sentences into French. They did that, also. My students are reading and writing in French!

(Note: pronunciation still comes as a problem, although face-to-face, I can get the student with the most twisted tongue to pronounce to my satisfaction. Shoot, my family has exactly the same pronunciation problems--IF I can get them to repeat anything! Speaking a new language after puberty is difficult for anyone. It's too embarrassing, but I'm saying that ALL my students at least try even if they forget it ten seconds later. It is difficult to pronounce sounds and words in a, dare
I say?--"foreign" language!)

On another note, the faculty at my school is so multicultural. One librarian is Chinese, there are about a dozen men and women from the Philippines who teach various subjects. I would say that a third of the faculty is Caucasian, the rest being African-American. I'm guessing that the faculty is about half and half in gender, that being a real deviation from a majority of teachers as female. All ages are represented from the brand shiny new teachers to two of us who came out of retirement to teach this year. And, of course, all our teachers are American.

More...

I'm posting here rather than Facebook about the demands of my new job. That way I can write about what's real rather than covering up. After all, who reads this?I teach French to 9th through 12th grade students in a long-time "failing" school. If you picture those inner city schools in movies with forceful kids dominating hallways and classrooms, you would see only a snippet of what is actually true. My school is clean, polished, and looks successful. The principal, who has directed the school for one year now, is gradually turning it around. He looks for success in any way he can find it. He demands adherence to the rules for students. After all, establishing procedure, following successful practices--these are the groundwork for success. You would think creativity, high energy, working outside the box--that these would produce a successful school. But first, but first, there must be order drilled and instilled into students. A creative, innovative teacher cannot work in chaos when only a handful of students are interested and the others intent on making sure that success does NOT happen. Why would that be? Why would they want failure? Just listening to other teachers talk about their experiences makes me brace up, buck up, anything to rage, rage, (not literally) against the chaos of the lives of these students. Truthfully, there are only a few that I have problems liking and only because they are belligerent. Belligerence does not beget a happy teacher.

So Friday, here's what happened: Last class of the day, filled to the brim with students. Oh, sure, here comes a transfer into a class of 30. Now we have 31. This is the class with four girls, three of whom have bellowing voices. They talk in those voices to each other and across the room. "Boy, don't you touch me again. You touch me, I'm gonna come over there and punch you," bellows the ringleader to some boy who did not touch her. She's just showing whose boss of the classroom. I tell her to do her work. "What do you think I'm doing?" she bellows. But there's that cell phone, the presence of which is against all rules. "Hey, girl!" she shouts across the room. "Blah blah blah," hollers to her friend over there. "Sudie (not real name), you need to put that phone away, get your paper out, and pay attention." "You not taking my phone," she lets me know. You might think this girl dresses like a hoodie, but, no, she always is dressed to the nines, even in school uniform. Her hair is immaculately styled. She looks like a "good" student in all sense of the word. But no, she is a problem. Finally, after an hour of their bellowing, I buzz for security. The students who are trying cannot hear me nor can I hear them over the loud talking of these girls. Why did I wait so long? Because I am supposed to follow a precise procedure, in order, including calling parents, before I send students out of class. However, I'm having them removed because they are seriously disturbing the learning process. The students and I cannot avoid hearing their conversation because it is SO loud AND learning is difficult in this situation. Know what these girls said to me and security: (1) You better not be sending us out of this class (2) I don't want to be here any way (3) We better not be the only ones being sent out. Everyone else is talking, too. I sent four out, the loudest ones with the most prolonged talking/bellowing. As they stormed past me, I wanted to throw up, not out of nervousness, but out of disgust at such behavior. Me, me, me, me--there must be a reason why.

Evaluations start this week. Not only have I not mastered the lesson plan style with all its jargon, most importantly, I have not mastered the classes. I jumped into this job like a pit bull (not that I am one) dropped into a pit of bears. So, the bears are working hard to destroy me, but the pit bull was still alive at the end of the day. Bloodied, sure, limping, yes, but I was still in the game. I went to see the new friend I made the first day I was there--the Spanish teacher. I cried on her shoulder. For a woman of many words, after I told my story, she looked at me, then said, "I got nothing. I don't know what to say." Then another teacher came in, then one of the security guys. They closed the door and we had a real heart-to-heart. They gave me a new perspective. I won't share those thoughts at this time, but I feel I understand things a little better.

Anyway, all weekend, as I drive along, I find myself bellowing comments out loud like those girls. I know I don't have control of this situation, so I am reliving it. What do I do? I know I'm calling parents this afternoon and doing all that documenting the discipline administrator wants. And planning! You bet!

New job...

Guess what I'm doing?! I left the leisure of retirement behind and jumped head first in medias res to teaching French in an inner city school. I was hired one week after school started and could not begin until two and one-half weeks into the school year. Things were established and I was not part of the plan. Most of the students embraced having a certified teacher, some absolutely don't care one way or the other, nor do they care whether their classmates learn. The situation is actually much better than I anticipated, but it still hurts to be treated so badly. Anyway, the discipline principal is working with me and neighbors around me have been helpful and encouraging. We'll get this thing under control, sooner or later (most hopefully sooner!). It's a struggle for some students to get their mouths and tongues around the sounds of the French language, but we're working on it.

Just posting about the job...more later...

The poem

Crossing to Safety

I could give all to Time except--except
What I myself have held. But why declare
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept
I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There
And what I would not part with I have kept.

Robert Frost

I like poetry. Not enough to read it regularly, or even occasionally. I taught poetry at the high school level and thoroughly enjoyed doing that. But sitting and reading poetry when I could read a novel? Especially when the poem is like the one above? Mr. Frost, you're a good poet, America's poet, but this poem is sliced and diced and oddly arranged and settled disjointedly. It's not my favorite, not like "Swinging Birches" or "Fences" (Something there is that doesn't like a fence), and, of course, "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening."

What does it all mean?

The local branch of the public library has a summer reading club. I discovered this in time to read the next selection: Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. He's one of those writers whose names I know, but I haven't read him. Now I have. 

In participating in a reading club, I thought, I would meet like-minded people, hear lively and thoughtful comments, and perhaps argue a point or two. Instead, I was oddly disappointed. Oddly? Yes, oddly. There were about twenty people present--over half had not even opened the book or were only at mid-point. OK, so the group represented that same group of high school students I taught who also did not do their homework. And the but? But they were interested enough to come listen to a discussion.

Crossing to Safety--titles always fascinate me, especially ones that seemingly suggest themes, as this one does. The book is about two couples, oh so different, but oh so sympatico. Their lives intersect at the end of the Depression and crescendo several years later when one of the wives contracts polio during an important hike on their mutual vacation. Stegner steadily builds his story from their initial meeting as young professors and wives on the University of Wisconsin campus.

Larry Morgan, the narrator, is a successful writer and becomes a published novelist during that first year. It's not enough to get him tenure. Meanwhile, Sid has gobs of inherited money, a big house in-progress, and holds parties and takes in house guests. He gets tenure, though he is little published. He is, however, a gifted teacher.

One of the first and most serious conflicts is between Sid and his wife Charity, a severely manipulative and controlling woman. She runs Sid's life, making him follow a path he would not have chosen and by-passing the life of the gentleman farmer who ruminates and writes poetry. Sid does not get to live the life he wants.

When Sally becomes stricken with polio, the story halts, then jumps forward many years to the end. Larry fills in the story through his conversations with one of Charity and Sid's daughters. Even at the end of the story Charity controls how it plays out. Was that safety for Sid? Or was it stagnation? A gradual death by artistic strangulation?

In one tiny moment Larry reveals his own manner of strangulation--his wife's crippledness. He has described her through the novel with great compassion and love, but now, in this one tiny scene in which he describes her jerky movements, he shows, I think, a deeply buried, mild revulsion. There's another method of revealing this revulsion and it is through disguise: At the point of her illness, the novel skips ahead a multitude of years. The reader is given a couple of wonderful scenes, but limited in comparison to the earlier sections. Or perhaps I'm all wrong--I hope so.

Am I glad I read the novel? Yes. What was my overall impression? Writer pulling the strings of his creations, including himself. Mostly, when I read, I think of the story. In this case, I thought of Wallace Stegner, the writer, aware of his presence and his omnipotence, his own struggle to assert control over his own life.

So, who crosses to safety? What is meant by the title? I offer this: Sid Lang, so long repressed by his domineering wife, disappears during the last chapter, gone to the woods while his wife has her last say in all matters. Larry finally sees him, asking, "Sid?" Sid's reply? "Yes." Yes, now to life as he would want it, yes to his wife's final act of control, just yes. 

Travels with Kids

My sister Linda lives in north Virginia near Norfolk. Our birth family lives here in north Louisiana. It is 1100 miles from one place to the other. My sister got permission from her daughter Angela to take the two grandchildren on that long drive for a week's stay here.

So, how to keep them busy and out of childish mischief? Linda and Angela came up with a car game. They thought of all these things that a passenger might see on a lengthy trip and created a sheet of images: hay bales, rivers, bridges, dog panting out a car window, and so on--three pages worth. The above photo shows them circling the last of the images they saw on the last leg of their trip down here. They are just about ready to start the long drive back to their home and wanted a marked sheet to take. Just a few images remain uncircled.

The other game they made is the standard car license look-see. Vivian (the girl) can read letters and was able to identify the correct state by the state abbreviations. Then she colored that state. Viewing their journey through colored states marked because of their car licenses told a story: most states marked were along their interstate routes. Odd, huh? (or not!) There were a few odd states and countries out: Ontario and Quebec. But the oddest thing was no identification for South Carolina. All the southern states were marked except that one.

One activity we did here was visit the Louisiana State Exhibit Building where these old dioramas are displayed. Each tells the story of one of Louisiana's industries of one kind or another. What amazes me is the clarity of the picture taken through the glass protecting the diorama.

                                                 Sugar cane industry

Cotton picking time

We also went swimming at Cypress Lake where the water is marked off. There are picnic tables and a grill at each one. We found one right there almost at the water. Perfect location and small crowd on a weekday. The three siblings: brother, sister, and I took the six kids, four the brother's grandchildren, two of my sister's and none by me. It's a nice lake and a good place to swim or just chill.