Imaginary Friends

Laura Ingalls was my imaginary friend.  I had lots of invisible literary playmates, but she was the main one.  She just had such a childlike sense of wonder, you know?  No matter how boring my daily activities, Laura found them amazing.  “This is a lamp, Laura!  Look; I just flip a switch and it comes on!”  “See, Laura, no horses!  The car goes all by itself!”  Laura brought her homespun prairie wisdom to the most mundane events.  Plus she always took my side when my big sister was mean to me, because let’s face it - Mary Ingalls was sort of a sanctimonious bitch.  Laura understood.

The weirdest part about this?  It’s actually not all that weird.  A friend of mine (and a mutual Friend of Laura) even gave me a book about this; apparently it’s a thing for a lot of people.  Tons of little girls are out there demonstrating to Laura the finer points of flush toilets and hair dryers.  Turns out, I’m not the only one who stole the plug-in Christmas candles and hung out in my closet, pretending to lack electricity so Laura wouldn’t be too overwhelmed.  Well, actually I may be the only one who took it to that extreme.

My childhood was a constant attempt to live in the world of my favorite books.  (A precursor to my grown-up fantasies of escaping into a musical in which everyone magically knows all the lyrics and choreography.)  I was perpetually on the lookout for portals to Narnia.  I took careful note of how my toys were positioned when I went to bed, convinced they’d have moved by morning like the Indian in the cupboard.  I attempted to create a Secret Garden, only to be thwarted by my lifelong black thumb.

Reading was my major source of fun and magic and, often, morality.  That’s why I became an English teacher.  But my students feel differently.  Some of them adore books; some of them try to climb into their favorite novels and live there just like I did.  But for many of them, reading is a chore at best.  It’s just another homework assignment standing in their way.  Luckily for me, I think I’ve found the solution.

“When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind; Paul Newman and a ride home.”  That’s the answer.  The first line of The Outsiders.  Because somehow, from the minute I read - well, recite - those words, my seventh graders are gone.  They beg to read the second they walk into class.  They dress up as Greasers for Halloween (even YEARS later!).  They talk about Sodapop and Johnny like they were old friends.  We finished that book a month and a half ago, but a few kids have already checked it out from the library because they can’t stay away.

Some English teachers love to teach writing.  Probably there’s one or two out there who love teaching grammar.  I love finding the right book for the right kid.  You know those old ladies who insist on telling the gay nephew, “Oh, sweetie, you just haven’t found the right girl yet!”?  That’s terrible; don’t get me wrong.  But I’m the same way with kids who hate reading.  I refuse to accept it.  I set them up on blind dates with Margaret Peterson Haddix and Sherman Alexie and Chris Crutcher until they finally cave and admit they love reading.  And then I quietly fade into the distance, like a bibliophilic Mary Poppins, to help another struggling reader.  Haha, just kidding.  Then I say, “What was that?  What?  We can’t hear you!” and make them say it louder while doing a victory dance around the classroom.  It’s what Laura Ingalls would have wanted.

The Sweet Spot

Finally, I think I’ve found it.  That point in the semester where teaching becomes infinitely easier.  When I stop losing sleep over our lack of progress in The House on Mango Street, when I realize that nope, they just won’t be ready for final exams.  That’s right.  I’ve given up.  And it’s beautiful.

We have two and a half weeks of school remaining.  Less, really, between the science fair and the end of semester dance and activities.  My third period is less than halfway through To Kill a Mockingbird, and as of Monday, I was reading as fast as I could and assigning twenty pages for homework to try to push them through it.  But now I’ve given up.  We’re not going to finish.  And those essays on Syrian refugees?  Also not happening.

I teach the same kids all year.  They’ll be a little dumber (and, somehow, a LOT taller) when they come back from winter break, but a day of review and we’ll pick it up where we left off.  Boo Radley will not sneak out of his house while we’re away.  The Logans won’t lose the farm.  Jordan’s not going to climb Everest while we’re not looking.  I had this epiphany yesterday, and I’m suddenly breathing easier. 

So are the kids.  When I stopped in the middle of a paragraph to discuss and ask some questions yesterday, I heard an audible sigh of relief.  No more racing through great books on an arbitrary timeline.  We’re slowing it down.  We’re going to actually enjoy it.  (Or at least I will.  And, like, five of the kids will.  And that’s good enough for me.)  Their final will be a text dependent essay on the first half of the book, which probably meets some standards or something, right?  For the next two weeks, we’re going to take breaks and discuss and tell stories and watch the occasional YouTube video.  Will it be related to the book?  Possibly.  I bet there’s something out there involving Harper Lee reenacted by kittens.

The Meeting

Our kids took a new standardized test last year, theoretically based on Common Core standards.  (Actually based on Standards of Excellence, which are literally - in my subject at least - the Common Core with one word changed.)  The test itself is arguably better than the old one, because the kids have to actually write some of their answers rather than simply bubbling multiple choice answers.  There’s even an essay, which is a great leap forward in my opinion.  However, it’s a new test, and it’s not a particularly well-written test.  Their scores were terrible.

So yesterday before handing out scores, my administration gathered three hundred sixth through eighth graders in the cafeteria and proceeded to tell them how bad their scores were.  They said things like, “Other schools might tell you a two is passing.  A two is not passing.  If you got a two, you failed.”  And “You’ve got to stop playing.  We don’t have time to play here.”  And my personal favorite, “You all just need to work harder.”

I happen to know from firsthand experience just how soul crushing this is.  At a faculty meeting week before last, they told us about the kids’ scores and told us we had to try harder this year.  It’s funny…I actually try pretty hard every year.  It’s not like I had an epiphany: Oh, I have to try?  Sounds crazy, but I guess I’ll give it a shot next year.  No more coloring sheets for us!  The fact is, my kids are, for the most part, trying their damnedest.  And they’re still struggling.  Because they come in with huge deficits.  Because the test is poorly written.  Because we had no way to prepare them without knowing what to expect from the test.  Because they’re coming from traumatic home situations filled with abuse and uncertainty.  Because they still have trouble reading and writing English.  Very rarely is it because of a lack of effort.

My school, like all schools, is big on research-based strategies.  Anything we do with the kids, they want to see a study proving that it works.  And yet, like every school I’ve ever seen, they also try to use fear to motivate the kids to achieve on standardized tests…despite the fact that every bit of research I’ve seen tells us that’s pointless.  There are countless studies telling us that kids learn through play…so let’s tell them “playtime is over” and give them more testing drills!

I’m angry, in case you couldn’t tell.  The hallways were full of crying kids after we passed out scores.  Kids who now believe that there’s no point in trying, because they worked as hard as they possibly could and were still lectured about failure and told to “try harder.”  A couple of these crying kids had to be taken to the office during testing last year for panic attacks brought on by stress.  How much of that can they take before they give up entirely?

None of my kids were crying.  In fact, only a third of them got their scores yesterday.  That’s because I sat down with every kid to go over scores in every subject.  Our conversation went something like this.  “Okay, you did get a two in math, and that’s not great.  But look, you also did better than 74% of the kids who took the test!  It looks like you had trouble with ratios, equations, and geometry. So I’ll tell you what.  This year, let’s focus on fractions.  I bet if you get really great at fractions - don’t even worry about the rest of it - it’ll make all the other stuff easy enough that you’ll get at least a three.  So that’s the one thing I want you to put a little extra work into this year in math.  Ooh, look, a four in social studies!  Yay!”

Over the next few days, I’ll be meeting with every seventh grader at the school to discuss scores.  Every kid will have an action plan of three or fewer things to improve on.  Every kid will know the areas in which he or she did better than the state or the system average.  Every kid will have some cause for pride.  But I’ll be doing all this behind closed doors, because apparently the only message I’m supposed to give the kids is “You’re failing.  Try harder.”