I'm practicing acceptance. I question how one knows what to accept and what to fight about.
I fought about going to a department meeting. It wasn't my department. The meeting was about things that didn't pertain to me. I came out of the meeting each time with a headache and a desire for a different job. I didn't contribute, and I didn't learn anything useful. I fought because only one person (out of the 6 that I asked about it) really wanted me to go, and she could not articulate a reason for me being there.
I accepted a different (less frequent) meeting instead. While that meeting is not generally useful, does not usually pertain to me, and often doesn't teach me anything, I just show up to the meeting to keep the peace.
The meeting is once every 6 weeks. It's a district lead teacher training session. The last meeting was supposed to be about how to teach research writing to our students. The instructor decided to give us a demonstration of his own research- all about mantis shrimps. For an hour and a half. Mantis shrimps. I wanted to raise my hand and ask him if I could leave since I'd already seen this episode of Octonauts.
The meeting before that was about how to grade state-mandated English test essays. He did point out at the beginning of the meeting that teachers don't actually grade these essays, but we should know how to grade them- you know, just in case.
It is day 5 of 7 of state testing. Sgh. I accept there is nothing I can do about how dreadful it is.
I will describe a scene.
I'm sitting in another teacher's room. The walls are white cinderblock. There are no decorations on the walls, save a few paper sombreros taped to a cabinet. The fluorescent lights are split- with three rows on and two rows off. There is a lamp with a bare bulb shining behind the teacher's desk in the corner. There aren't any windows. The desks and students are arranged in tight, straight, rigid rows. The room is off-putting. I don't know what her room usually looks like, but for testing, everything has to be just so.
The teacher seems to be a little older than I am. I imagine she is ready to retire. She speaks with the slightest Spanish accent. Her hair is too black, her lashes too long, and her lips are too red. She's beautiful. She's firm, but kind. She welcomes each student at the door. She tells them in Spanish, "Tu escritorio es el número..." and she points to it in case they didn't understand. They all understand that at this school, we are on the "wrong" side of town. The correlation between bilingualism and poverty is a topic for another day. Later, she confirms that each student is still at the right desk by asking "cómo te llamas?" They all whisper their names like it is a great secret to be kept among so many strangers. One student says he doesn't understand. He doesn't fit into the hoodie horde- with his cowboy hat, box toe boots, western shirt, and crisp jeans.
Senora: "Cómo te llamas?"
Student: "I don't understand."
Senora: "Andy, I know you understand. You learned that when you had class with me last year."
Andy: "Yes, ma'am."
Senora: "Cómo te llamas?"
Andy: "Andy."
Senora: "Muy bien."
The instructions are read-and now the moment of truth. To each student, she says,
"Please turn in your phones. You can have them back when the test is finished."
One by one, the phones are collected into a pile of technology, ego, identity, and compulsion.
Little Red Riding Hood says, "I don't have a phone."
Senora says, "I know you do, I saw you using it before the bell."
Red: "I don't have one."
Senora: "Put it in this box before I call in the assistant principal."
Red: "I don't have one."
The assistant principal calls Red into the hallway and says, "You need to hand in your phone during testing. It is a state regulation."
Red: "I don't have one."
AP: "Okay, if I have security search you, they won't find a phone, right?"
Red: "Yeah"
AP: "Let's go."
A few minutes later, they both come back, and the AP hands me her phone. Red sits down at her assigned seat and puts her head down on her computer. It seems that the interaction had drained her.
Andy works dutifully, like a good cowboy should. He and a few others plod along quietly answering questions which so little relate to their own experiences or futures. The rest of them are tired of this perceived exercise in futility. They lay down their heads like Red.
Every five to ten minutes, I walk around and tell them to wake up and keep going on the test. Everyone needs to finish the test. This is only a test. Passing this test is one of the five magical keys to finishing high school and living your adult life.
I have woken Sleepy Purple 8 times in the past hour.
I say, "You need to wake up and finish your test."
Sleepy Purple says, "I'm not asleep."
Me: "Your head is down and your eyes were closed."
Sleepy Purple: "My eyes weren't closed."
As if I can't see. Here we are playing who's the idiot. It's not me.
Me: "You drooled on your desk."
She looked me in the eye, grabbed the corner of her fuzzy purple blanket, wiped up the drool and said, "No, I didn't."
This is why there's a teacher shortage.
This classroom is visually unappealing. Maybe she took down her decor for the test. Maybe she can't be bothered to put up any decor. When I moved into my classroom, I left up the posters and fabric coverings on the corkboards which the last teacher had left behind. I put up some student work and moved some shelves around. I have put little effort into my classroom compared to other teachers whose rooms look like they have robbed a teacher supply store, or the ones who make their classrooms look so much like living rooms.
During the testing I have nothing better to do but look and wonder. My job today is to look at students pushing buttons, or perhaps not pushing buttons. Sometimes I wake them up and tell them to push buttons. I'm not allowed to look at their screens- that is a state secret between the testing students and the Texas Education Agency. I do, however, have to make sure they have answered all the questions and that they submit the test correctly, but without looking at the test at all. It's a complex situation.
Every time the air conditioner comes on, I feel relieved. This room is so hot. No wonder they are all so sleepy in this dimmed, windowless, humid, warm room. I also feel a bit of unspecified nervousness. The vents in my room are positioned differently. They sound different here. It sounds as if there are 10,000 bees in the vent bearing down on this room. They buzz and hum indignantly, coming to a crescendo before the air slowly loses pressure and they get sleepy and lie down. They, too, are worn out from each interaction.
Red is tired of my ministry of wakefulness and pulls herself upright. She proceeds to pull out a mirror and a tube of mascara. "Darling," I want to tell her, "Nobody cares about your eyelashes right now." But I let her continue on with her morning ritual. Sleepy Purple has also decided it is time to tap some buttons. Andy just keeps plodding along, he will finish this chore eventually.
Sleepy Purple is ready for another nap. She raises her hand so that we can confirm that she has submitted her test in record time (last one to start, first one to finish.) She lies back down and covers her head with her fuzzy blanket. Random button tapping has worn her out.
Here come the cooling bees again, as angry as before. I understand angry little bees.
Some things we just need to accept.
