Ahoy:
My brother has said that since I got to Baltimore my blog has become depressing, and I would have to agree with him. Really, who wants to read about the fact that two middle school teachers got punched by students this week - one in the face, and that a couple of fifth graders drew blood in a fight in the cafeteria. Right, no one wants to read that. So I won't write about it.

Musicality:
There are 2192 songs on my iTunes. I'm currently listening to them in alphabetical order, skipping over the audiobook genre. My songs are currently being brought to me by the letter A. Right now I'm on Bernstein's America from West Side Story. Just switched over to American Idiot by Green Day. The alphabetical order provides organized randomness that I appreciate.

Shakira, Shakira:
According to my small girl group who fancy themselves the up and coming Dreamgirls - I look like Shakira. Who knew? This girl group also tried to guess my age - with guesses ranging as high as 40 and low as 14.

Puppies!
I saw an Irish Wolfhound in person the other day. Now I'm a loyal schnauzer fan, but those wolfhounds are beautfiul and I want one, because they are bigger than a Shetland pony. But since I don't have room, or money, don't expect an animal acquisition anytime soon. However, I would like to write a children's book featuring an Irish Wolfhound and a schnauzer - their names are Seamus and Schnitzel.

Speaking of Germany:
The Lives of Others, the little German film that took home an Oscar is amazing and you should stop reading this mindless blog entry and go see it now! Seriously, now! Why are you still here?

Lunch Bunch:
On Thursdays and Fridays, students that have been well behaved the entire week get to come eat lunch with me in the classroom. It seems a small thing, but it's a big deal for them as more often then not the lunch room is a riot waiting to happen, and many days they must have silent lunch - as in no talking, at all. And it's become my favorite time of the week. In the small conversations I get to know the kids a little better. We also read aloud during these times. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School to another. The kids get really into it, and I think they're starting to see why reading can be fun.

I think I'm going to bake some cookies today. And I'm also going to be checking my blog for comments, because gentle reader, they have been sorely lacking of late. I attribute this to the depressing nature of the blog lately, though I don't think this stream of consciousness business is much better. Still, post a comment or else! I mean that, or I'll bank yo' face. I ain't playing, either.

You tell me:

There are a lot of fights in my school. The spark can be something as little as bumping into someone accidentally, or staring at someone to the bigger ones of calling someone's mother a bitch.

I've said it all year, but my kids came to me with zero coping skills. There was no stopping point between, "I'm mildly annoyed,"and "I'm going to rip your face off." And I can't claim to have made great progress in this area.

Because here's the deal: when you have parents - who present or not, competent or not - remain their kids' greatest influencers telling their children to hit back when someone hits them, and to hit harder, then it's an uphill battle for a teacher.

Everytime I hear a parent tell a child this, or tell me that they have told their child this, it makes me viscerally angry. As I explained to one parent today, after I asked her to recondsider her position (this conference was after her son's suspension for fighting - what else), saying that not only did that place her son in danger, but it placed other children in danger as well and made the school an unsafe place. Furthermore it doesn't give the child skills to fix things with words or compromise. Which is why two of my brightest girls and sweetest girls felt it neccesary after tiffing today to say "Well I'm going have on the ground, you better watch it."

I believe these parents set this kids up for failure, and though I have heard the argument that sometimes in Baltimore the children need to know how to protect themselves, I still think it undermines the student for the parent to instruct the child this way.

The parents of course want it both ways - for the child to "protect" (more often prove) his or herself, but also for the child not to face the consequence. The above mentioned parent told her son to "hit back and [she] would take the consequences". I also encouraged her to reconsider this, reminding her that it was her son who would serve the suspension, and upon whose record the suspension would go, not hers. How much more assine could you possibly be than to say you were going to take the consequences for someone else's actions.

It just depresses me. If you want to know whether we're still going to be fighting wars 20 years from now, all you need to do is ask these parents if they're going to tell the children to hit 'em back and hit 'em harder.

If it's not one thing, it's another - and in the end it's the kids with the swollen eyes, and the missed school, and the daily fear of being hurt, who suffer the disruption of violence and who have to spend more time worrying about who put their hands on whom who suffer. Not the parents, not even the weariest, most discouraged teachers. The kids who are grabbing with hands, unclenched for the briefest of moments the world we are handing them.

Live Wire:

It's been another week in Baltimore. The first week of our standardized testing and yet another week that was hardly quiet. The most notably dramatic thing was a parent assaulting a child (not hers, but someone else's) by repeatedly slamming the girl's face into the side of a car.
After this incident my principal asked if the show "The Wire," would send her money for story ideas, or would want to come film at our school.

The latest season of "The Wire" focuses on Baltimore's school system, and most people that work agree that it's an accurate representation. Even though my school is not the worst in Baltimore, there's still a lot of violence, anger and strife. But in the fourth grade there are moments of grace.

On Thursdays and Fridays, the children who have been well behaved all week come and eat lunch with me in the classroom. We eat and typically read aloud, or sometimes play a game. I'm reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to one class, and Sideways Stories from Wayside School. These kids, some of whom were not at all sold on the idea of reading, are slowing hearing the stories come alive and are beginning to comprehend them on their own without a lot of prodding from me. This is very much true from the Sideways group, who pointed out that when the book said a dozen apples it meant 12 and that in order to reverse a magic spell the teacher said it backwards. Well done kiddos.

This week we continue on with the testing, finishing the math portion this week. The fourth graders are making progress, and as the year draws to a close I am beginning to really see that the work is making a difference.

And as though keeping my promise weren't enough to keep me in Baltimore...

The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra will be performing, not just one, but all nine of Beethoven's symphonies during the next season. This is important for two reasons:

1. Beethoven is hardcore, like Led Zepplin, and other rock bands.

2. Every day for months until just recently I listened to the last movement of the Beethoven's ninth. The Freedom Concert recording, Bernstein directing the Berlin Orchestra when the wall came down. It reminds me of what I am doing here, working so that we can all be free here in America. I like to play it really loud. Incidentally, loud German singing induces weird stares from children and co-workers alike. That music has pulled me through much of my time here, so I intend to be there to hear the BSO play it.

It snowed most of the day today, then it switched to drizzle. It might turn to freezing rain.
My brain feels snowy tonight too. I'm waiting for fish to thaw to cook a dinner I'm not particularly hungry for, but which I feel compelled to consume.
I'm going home to Texas this summer. I thought about sticking around Baltimore, but like I told a friend of mine today: if I am to make it through a second year teaching in this city, I feel going back to Texas is a must.
I've been casually perusing the summer job market back in Dallas. I found a rather perfect internship organizing an international mission trip as well as collecting, writing and editing the devotional guide to be given to participants. Alas, the job requires that I be in college. There's so much opportunity just in general, particularly in non-profit communications.
Occasionally here in Baltimore, I've glanced at other jobs, and I guess that's where my brain feels fuzzy tonight.
At the end of the day, I'm a short timer here in this city. I won't always be in a classroom with a broken window, no books and a sink labled "for handwashing only." Yet, I work everyday next to people who are anything but shortimers. People with 15, 25, 30 years in the system. It's a hard line to walk, as it's bad form to mention that teaching is not what I consider my career.
I can't imagine looking down 30 years in this system, or in this city.
It's hard to know how to reconcile that - about a year and a half left. And then on to what I'm sure many of my colleagues would consider "bigger and better" things.
I don't know if they'll be bigger and better. Different. And not here. For now I'll take both.
Teaching's a tougher gig than people realize, it ain't rocket science, but it ain't a cakewalk either.

Dinner time.

In which serendipity takes a hand

I got an e-mail Thursday night from a friend of mine:
"Sara, do you want to go the Vagina Monolouges"

Egdy, political and empowering - yeah, I'm there. Went all through college, haven't been since Columbia. Also enjoy having a social life that doesn't involve immediately closing the achievement gap.

"I'm so there."

An Ethiopian dinner and running a few minutes late later, we realize that while we know it's on Johns Hopkins' campus, we actually have no idea where. So we start asking strangers, who don't know, tell us it's on the medical campus and direct us to the nearest theater.

For some reason we stop into a building where there are two white haired ladies. They look like they are waiting. I go to examine a bulletin board while Kyle determines if they are also looking for the theater. They are. Neither Kyle or I mention the Vagina Monolouges, figuring that we're all on the same page or that there's another production going on. After a discussion of whether it - either the monologues or the unknown production - is taking place, Kyle volunteers to brave the cold. He looks back as if expecting me to follow him into the icy wilderness, and I say to the old ladies that while he can venture out in the cold I'm more than happy to wait indoors.

We chat amiably. I complement the lady who I come to know as Rose's hat. She says that she got in Scotland and does not intend to give it up to me. It comes out that Rose and Elizabeth worked in Baltimore County schools as a nurse and secretary respectively. They are small and whitehaired, they are anxious to find the theater. "It's that, or just sit at home and rot," says Rose.

Kyle returns, bearing brochures. He has found the theater, Rose and Elizabeth are excited. A glance at the program bids me know he has not found the monolouges, but rather the two person play, Talley's Folly that Rose and Elizabeth were headed to. We walk out in the cold together. I offer my arm to steady Elizabeth across the dark, somewhat icy pavement, and Kyle promptly presents his to Rose. And arm in arm we go, steadying one another in the dark.

We come to the theater, Kyle and I have exchanged a few glances as if to say, "This is not quite what we planned." But we go in nonetheless, delivering our charges, and then buying tickets to the show, because what else would we do? We are easily among the youngest people there. Rose and Elizabeth are senior ushers, and tear our tickets before we are even in line.

So we watch the play, two people set down in 1944 Lebanon, Missouri. It is a little cheesy, slightly dated and completely delightful, particulary for the unexpectedness of it all.

After the show, Kyle and I go to bid goodnight to Rose and Elizabeth, names are finally exchanged. Elizabeth pulls me forward after I grasp her hand and kisses me on the cheek. Kyle and I have made her night she says. What a blessing to hear, I say, she has certainly made mine, I say. Rose gives me her last name if I ever wish to look it up. She lives in the county.

We walk out. Having met two more parts of this puzzling city. Having come upon something unexpected, yet very pleasant, having shared warmth with other folks on such a terribly cold night.

It could not have been better if we planned it.

So here's to serendipty and school secretaries. Here's to ticket takers, and social planners and listening to stories and offering a steady arm as you ask a question. And here's to letting your feet go where they will. I'll remember it all much longer than I would have the monologues.

So sits the moon over us all. Over Kyle and I in our different city blocks, over Rose and Elizabeth in from the county, over all these people and their stories, so sits the moon over us all.

YES!!!!
Snow Day! Snow Day! Snow Day!

For those of you keeping track at home:
There is a snow advisory in effect till 7 am. Now faithful readers will know that for the past two months most blog posts have dealt with the possibility of a snow day. But if ever there were a day for a snow day, tomorrow would be it. I'm recovering from strep throat, and would like nothing better than an extra day of recovery on the city's payroll.
So put your pajamas on inside out. Dream sweet dreams of snow and hope that there will be a delicious snow day tomorrow.

And my insanity reaches new levels:
Faithful readers will also now that I am the embodiment of the maxim "First year teachers are sick all the time." Since August I've been completely well for approximately 3 weeks. And now I have strep throat. However, prior to this ailment, I enjoyed several days of health. I attribute this to showering twice a day. I've never felt more gross than I do after spending a day with about 40 ten year olds. And as there is no ventilation in my room, because my window is broken, I just end up simmering in germy kid soup.
I also have come to believe that eating at restaurants, sitting in cold rooms, and/ or touching anything makes me sick.

85 Days

I went out with some folks last night, friends from Teach for America. It came out that there are 85 days left in the school year.
The looks on our faces, and spirit of our hearts seemed to say "Thank God there comes an end."

We laughed and sparred and spoke. And with 85 days left in the first year of a most difficult work, inevitably someone asked if there were any regret of the choice. To a person we answered No.

I used to the think that the absence of regret rendered the presence of joy or contentment or mirth. Not so. The absence of regret is simply that lack of sorrow over an event. That I could have been much happier elsewhere I have no doubt, still that does not beget regret of choice.

For that I have no good explanation.

In the mornings, I drive by the St. Alphonus Catholic Church and I hear the bells ringing the people to seven o’clock mass. It is the best sound in the city, the bells. Underneath the steeple in the pale blue gray light, the people cross the street, mount the steps and rush through the doors to morning prayer. Old nuns, and young laborers mounting the steps to prayer beneath the bells.

The bells call my heart to prayer as well, as I drive by the steps on my way to my school.

A couple of weeks ago I was making my daily journey, and I heard the ringing of the bells, bells, bells. Goosebumps came up on my arms and neck as I realized that Edgar Allan Poe walked these Baltimore streets. Never mind the fact that Baltimore is merely the bookends to his life and much of his work was done in Virginia. It is in Baltimore that his roots lie and where he lays now in his grave under the bells of the city.

My heart continues to smile at the tintinnabulations of St. Alphonsus bells, my heart still moves to prayer, but not before my mouth murmurs a few words of Poe’s, “ah the bells, bells, bells.”

And...
No snow day. Not even a delayed opening. Damn.
Oh well, to work as usual. Hopefully, it'll be an alright day.
Chance of snow this Thursday or Friday - keep fingers crossed. And yes. I actually prayed for there to be a snow day today.

Update:
It's still snowing. I'm still lesson planning. But there is a winter weather advisory, and the snow is expected to continue through the night, possibly turning into freezing rain.
Keep fingers crossed.

Snow date:
It is currently snowing in Baltimore - wee, tiny delicate flakes. It will require a lot more for a snow day. But still, it's totally snowing!

I sit here looking out over this city. Over the sports’ stadiums. Past the dark that I know is the harbor. At the familiar face of the Bromo Seltzer Clock Tower. I look out on this dark city that now is only lights twinkling.
It was so quiet this morning. It was snow quiet this morning. There is a particular quiet that surrounds a snow, and it was here this morning. I love that quiet, when everything is still and near and you are afraid to breath to loudly for fear of shattering the quiet.
I imagine the water is cold in the harbor, and I believe it’s cold out on the street corners. Believe it is cold now on the steps of St. Paul’s where the homeless sleep. Seeing homeless people sleep on church steps makes me feel ashamed – if I had my way, all churches would open their doors as true sanctuaries.
Wish you could see this city from my apartment windows. Dark, twinkly and insular. I’ve been here almost five months, nearly half a year and it’s been a more foreign place in many ways than anywhere I’ve traveled. In more ways that I care to enumerate in the snow quiet dark night.
I pick up my words to think, and to bridge the gaps between us. That is the best words can do – bridge gaps, give meaning, connect. I pick up my words as an amulet, a sword and a binding rope.
The job I do isn’t easy. It’s hardly fun, and not intensely rewarding. But seeing my students reap the benefit of their effort and work makes it something. I wish you could have seen the smile on his face today when he got a “Star Student” certificate to take home. He earned every bit of it too. His smile in front of his classmates was beautiful.

Morning Muse

They tell you that first year teachers are sick all the time, but this is ridiculous. I woke up with a lot of congestion and sneezing. I would say the only time I have been completely healthy since starting to teach was the week I was home in Texas.

I can fight illness or I can fight the achievement gap, but I'm pretty sure that I can't do both at the same time.

What's a would be teacher to do?

I saw a drug deal the other day.

I saw a drug deal on a corner near my school the other day.

This is what happened:
On a corner in front of a liquor store with a plyboard sign a stooped shoulder man, who looked old but was probably not more than 40, stood with his hand slightly inside his tan jacket. I believe he had a mustache. He wore a baseball cap. He stood facing the street, not exactly at the corner, and not as one who was looking to cross. He stood stiffly in an awkward place on the corner. Across the street came a young man, probably not more than 20, who walked purposefully and did not look nervous. I saw the old man draw a wad of bills from inside his jacket, just barely saw it, before his hand concealed it again.

As the young man got closer, the old man seemed to grow more anxious. It seemed like his muscles tensed up, that he grew more intent in the way he stood. The young man did not go directly to him, but to the side as if he did not see the old man at all, and then he stepped behind him and said something. The old man kept facing forward, and only inclined his head a little to the young man. I saw him draw out his hand, I saw the young man step slightly in front of him, so that whatever was to happen was shielded by their bodies.

Then the traffic light changed to green. I drove forward and did not see the end of the deal. Did not watch the young man return to his post, probably across the street, did not watch the old man walk off with his purchase. All of that happened in the cycle of a traffic light, and it was completely mundane. Business as usual, another day in Baltimore.

There’s a thousand and one (that’s a precise number) things I should be doing. The vast majority are things for school, a smaller portion are assignments for certification courses and the smallest bit is things like laundry and cleaning.

But right now it seems important to write. Simply.

***

The old woman’s short hair white gray stood up from her head. Her face was close to the bone, as old people’s are and her lips thin as old people’s are and she looked as though she was shrinking as old people do. These were not unpleasant things. She simply looked as a woman looks who is old, and so light that she might float out of her chair were it not for the burdensome winter clothes she wore.
She smiled through the concert. Her thin lips pulled up, and her eyes twinkly. She brought her hands together as the small child claps, hands meeting as mirror images of one another. She was joy as the chorus sang, moved, clapped, shouted as the orchestra zinged, bowed, plucked, as the winds blew, growled, barked. She was joy when the man sang that every valley shall be exalted, and joy when unto her the child was born and joy when her redeemer liveth and joy when we all jived through the hallelujahs.
She beamed that joy around her, and she clapped like a child. In the music we were all holy for a moment here in Baltimore.

***

I’m counting the days till I’m GTT. It stands at 12 and a wake up.

Overheard...
Earlier this week, at a class all of us TFA folk have to take, one of our corps members said something that I think sums up what many of us are feeling...

"I'm not going to quit, but everyday I don't want to be here."

It may sound whiny, and it is certainly easy to criticize. But it's an unwitting place to be, made more strange by sharing it with other corps members slogging through their first year of teaching.

Everyday. Everyday. But we go in.

Even if we're praying for snow days.

Come on snow, come on.

And the moon’s hanging low in the sky.

I drove into the city this morning watching a yellow moon float above it all. An early morning, a sleeping city, a bright moon and me heading away from some one I love. Again.

I hope it’s a pattern that changes soon.

I drove home after dark, watching a bright moon again hang over this city. I didn’t think, but I sang. Sometimes it’s the same thing.

B-more with Blythe
She came in. After one letter full of stories, Blythe was here.
-Late night Italian food.
-Streets filled with drunken Santas
-One aquarium, one simple anemone.
-One jaunt to Mr. Poe’s tomb.
-One afternoon of made up songs and stories.
- A big moon this morning.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends."