Thursday, September 8, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Thanks? Irene.
School was supposed to start on Monday, but the hurricane knocked out the power and we haven't been able to go in for the last three days. So, tomorrow is officially my first day.
So nervous!
So nervous!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
It Begins Again.
After a fun and relaxing summer back in California, I am back in Baltimore.
Already the anxiety and nervousness has returned. But, I'm at a new school, with new kids. I get my own classroom, and the opportunity to really make this year what I want. That being said, my classroom is still a mess, I'm racing to get long-term plans ready, and counting down the days and hours before it all starts.
Whoo boy.
Also, since I screwed up my class sequence at Hopkins last year, I will be taking FOUR classes this semester... which makes me a full-time student again! I believe this makes me eligible for the good student discount, though.
11 days and counting. Here we go.
Already the anxiety and nervousness has returned. But, I'm at a new school, with new kids. I get my own classroom, and the opportunity to really make this year what I want. That being said, my classroom is still a mess, I'm racing to get long-term plans ready, and counting down the days and hours before it all starts.
Whoo boy.
Also, since I screwed up my class sequence at Hopkins last year, I will be taking FOUR classes this semester... which makes me a full-time student again! I believe this makes me eligible for the good student discount, though.
11 days and counting. Here we go.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
"What I Learned at School" by Marie Myung-Ok Lee.
Link to the original article on NYTimes.com.
I emailed this to myself a long time ago, but never actually sat down to read it until today. Thought it was nice.
-------------------------------
THE tumult over state budgets and collective bargaining rights for public employees has spilled over into resentment toward public school teachers, who are increasingly derided as “glorified baby sitters” whose pay exceeds the value of the work they do.
But how exactly do we measure the value of a teacher?
As a writer, I often receive feedback from readers I have never met. But the other day, I received a most unexpected message in response to one of my essays:
“I am so proud of you and all you have accomplished. I shared your opinion from The L.A. Times with my family and reminisced about you as my student at Hibbing High School.”
It was signed Margaret Leibfried, who was my English teacher — a teacher who appeared at a critical juncture in my life and helped me believe that I could become a writer.
Thirty years ago, in Hibbing, a town in northern Minnesota that is home to the world’s largest open-pit iron mine, I entered high school as a bookish introvert made all the more shy because I was the school’s only nonwhite student. I always felt in danger of being swept away by a sea of statuesque blond athletes.
By 10th grade, I’d developed a Quasimodo-like posture and crabwise walk, hoping to escape being teased as a “brain” or a “chink,” and then finding being ignored almost equally painful. I spent a lot of time alone, reading and scribbling stories.
Ms. Leibfried taught American literature and composition grammar, which involved the usual — memorizing vocabulary and diagramming sentences — but also, thrillingly, reading novels.
Thrilling to me, that is. Many of my classmates expressed disdain for novels because they were “not real.” For once, I didn’t care what they thought. Ms. Leibfried seemed to notice my interest in both reading and writing, and she took the time to draw me out; she even offered reading suggestions, like one of her favorite novels, “The Bell Jar.”
That year’s big project was a book report, to be read aloud to the class. However, Ms. Leibfried took me aside and suggested I do something “a little different.” Instead of a report, I was to pick a passage from a book, memorize it and recite it in front of the class.
While I longed for the safety and routine of the report, I was curious how this new assignment might work out. By then obsessed with “The Bell Jar,” I chose a passage that I thought showed off the protagonist’s growing depression as well as Sylvia Plath’s sly humor.
The morning of the presentations, I remember my palms sweating so badly as I walked to the front of the class that I held my hands cupped in prayer formation, so I wouldn’t wipe them on my shirt.
Ms. Leibfried was followed the next year by Mrs. Borman, quiet, elderly and almost as shy as I was. She surprised everyone when she excused me from her grammar class, saying my time would be spent more productively writing in the library. I took the work seriously, and on a whim submitted an essay I’d come up with to Seventeen Magazine. When they published it, it was big news for the high school — it was even announced on the P.A. system. Mrs. Borman wasn’t mentioned, nor did she ever take any credit; in her mind she was just doing her job.
I can now appreciate how much courage it must have taken for those teachers to let me deviate so broadly from the lesson plan. With today’s pressure on teachers to “teach to the test,” I wonder if any would or could take the time to coax out the potential in a single, shy student.
If we want to understand how much teachers are worth, we should remember how much we were formed by our own schooldays. Good teaching helps make productive and fully realized adults — a result that won’t show up in each semester’s test scores and statistics.
That’s easy to forget, as budget battles rage and teacher performance is viewed through the cold metrics of the balance sheet. While the love of literature and confidence I gained from Ms. Leibfried’s class shaped my career and my life, after only four short years at Hibbing High School, she was laid off because of budget cuts, and never taught again.
Marie Myung-Ok Lee, the author of the novel “Somebody’s Daughter,” teaches writing at Brown.
I emailed this to myself a long time ago, but never actually sat down to read it until today. Thought it was nice.
-------------------------------
THE tumult over state budgets and collective bargaining rights for public employees has spilled over into resentment toward public school teachers, who are increasingly derided as “glorified baby sitters” whose pay exceeds the value of the work they do.
But how exactly do we measure the value of a teacher?
As a writer, I often receive feedback from readers I have never met. But the other day, I received a most unexpected message in response to one of my essays:
“I am so proud of you and all you have accomplished. I shared your opinion from The L.A. Times with my family and reminisced about you as my student at Hibbing High School.”
It was signed Margaret Leibfried, who was my English teacher — a teacher who appeared at a critical juncture in my life and helped me believe that I could become a writer.
Thirty years ago, in Hibbing, a town in northern Minnesota that is home to the world’s largest open-pit iron mine, I entered high school as a bookish introvert made all the more shy because I was the school’s only nonwhite student. I always felt in danger of being swept away by a sea of statuesque blond athletes.
By 10th grade, I’d developed a Quasimodo-like posture and crabwise walk, hoping to escape being teased as a “brain” or a “chink,” and then finding being ignored almost equally painful. I spent a lot of time alone, reading and scribbling stories.
Ms. Leibfried taught American literature and composition grammar, which involved the usual — memorizing vocabulary and diagramming sentences — but also, thrillingly, reading novels.
Thrilling to me, that is. Many of my classmates expressed disdain for novels because they were “not real.” For once, I didn’t care what they thought. Ms. Leibfried seemed to notice my interest in both reading and writing, and she took the time to draw me out; she even offered reading suggestions, like one of her favorite novels, “The Bell Jar.”
That year’s big project was a book report, to be read aloud to the class. However, Ms. Leibfried took me aside and suggested I do something “a little different.” Instead of a report, I was to pick a passage from a book, memorize it and recite it in front of the class.
While I longed for the safety and routine of the report, I was curious how this new assignment might work out. By then obsessed with “The Bell Jar,” I chose a passage that I thought showed off the protagonist’s growing depression as well as Sylvia Plath’s sly humor.
The morning of the presentations, I remember my palms sweating so badly as I walked to the front of the class that I held my hands cupped in prayer formation, so I wouldn’t wipe them on my shirt.
I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.
It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
Dr. Gordon twiddled a silver pencil. “Your mother tells me you are upset.”I finished and, to my surprise, the class broke out in applause. “As a writer and a good reader, Marie has picked out a particularly sensitive piece of prose and delivered it beautifully,” Ms. Leibfried said, beaming. I felt, maybe for the first time, confident.
Ms. Leibfried was followed the next year by Mrs. Borman, quiet, elderly and almost as shy as I was. She surprised everyone when she excused me from her grammar class, saying my time would be spent more productively writing in the library. I took the work seriously, and on a whim submitted an essay I’d come up with to Seventeen Magazine. When they published it, it was big news for the high school — it was even announced on the P.A. system. Mrs. Borman wasn’t mentioned, nor did she ever take any credit; in her mind she was just doing her job.
I can now appreciate how much courage it must have taken for those teachers to let me deviate so broadly from the lesson plan. With today’s pressure on teachers to “teach to the test,” I wonder if any would or could take the time to coax out the potential in a single, shy student.
If we want to understand how much teachers are worth, we should remember how much we were formed by our own schooldays. Good teaching helps make productive and fully realized adults — a result that won’t show up in each semester’s test scores and statistics.
That’s easy to forget, as budget battles rage and teacher performance is viewed through the cold metrics of the balance sheet. While the love of literature and confidence I gained from Ms. Leibfried’s class shaped my career and my life, after only four short years at Hibbing High School, she was laid off because of budget cuts, and never taught again.
Marie Myung-Ok Lee, the author of the novel “Somebody’s Daughter,” teaches writing at Brown.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Achievement Gap.
I was asked before I left Baltimore: What is the achievement gap and why does it persist in your school and community? I have a feeling that if someone asked me this at the beginning of the year, my definition of the achievement gap wouldn't be too different. It had been seeing it and hearing about it through the kids at camp that made me want to join TFA. As for the reasons, though, I might have said something like, "bad schools," or "ineffective teachers." After a year of teaching, my answer came out more like this:
The achievement gap is when you take two children of the same age from different economic backgrounds and put them next to each other. You look at them and they have the same smiles, same sense of childish wonder, same potential, and same dreams and desires. But despite this, the child growing up in poverty, through no fault of his own, cannot read or do math or have a conversation at the same level as the other child. The child growing up in poverty just never learned how to do those things.
I believe the achievement gap is a fundamental inequity in our society. To eliminate the achievement gap would be to make our society more equitable and more fair. When it comes to eliminating this gap, lot of people in big places say things like "all you need to do is..." and they fill in the blank with things like "accountability," "merit pay," "eliminate unions," and "better teachers." I'm now convinced that anyone who starts a sentence about education reform with "All you need is..." has never spent a day in an inner city public school, and does not know what he or she is talking about.
In our education classes, the emphasis is always placed on differentiation. We know that each student learns differently and at different speeds than any other student. The challenge is meeting every kid where he or she is, in a way that is best for that person. I mention this because eliminating the achievement gap would be to make an unfair situation fair. But as our education classes repeatedly remind us, fair is not everyone getting the same thing. Fair is everyone getting what he or she needs. You might need glasses to see and succeed, but I wouldn't give glasses to everyone just because you got them since it doesn't help them at all.
When I look back at my year, I believe that many of the students in my class and at our school were not getting a fair chance because they' were not getting what they needed. Unfortunately, their needs are just so great compared to kids from more affluent areas. Students at my school weren't getting the food they needed, they weren't getting the medicine they needed, they weren't getting the clothing they needed. They weren't getting the help, time, or the attention they needed. They weren't getting the respect, role models, security, stability, patience, or confidence they needed. For too many of the kids, they weren't getting the love and compassion they needed.
At the end of a rocky, but ultimately successful and rewarding year, I can still look at all these problems and undoubtedly say that I believe education is the key to upward mobility in this country. But, when I wonder why I'm killing myself staying after school, buying food, planning all hours of the day, and putting up with some of the extremely disrespectful and awful things that are said in class, I think about everything these kids need from me, their teacher. This problem is so big, and as a society we need to address those difficult underlying issues like health and poverty. Until then, though, education has to offer an open door for our kids, and when no one else is giving these students what they need, for six hours a day the teacher should. It's only fair.
The achievement gap is when you take two children of the same age from different economic backgrounds and put them next to each other. You look at them and they have the same smiles, same sense of childish wonder, same potential, and same dreams and desires. But despite this, the child growing up in poverty, through no fault of his own, cannot read or do math or have a conversation at the same level as the other child. The child growing up in poverty just never learned how to do those things.
I believe the achievement gap is a fundamental inequity in our society. To eliminate the achievement gap would be to make our society more equitable and more fair. When it comes to eliminating this gap, lot of people in big places say things like "all you need to do is..." and they fill in the blank with things like "accountability," "merit pay," "eliminate unions," and "better teachers." I'm now convinced that anyone who starts a sentence about education reform with "All you need is..." has never spent a day in an inner city public school, and does not know what he or she is talking about.
In our education classes, the emphasis is always placed on differentiation. We know that each student learns differently and at different speeds than any other student. The challenge is meeting every kid where he or she is, in a way that is best for that person. I mention this because eliminating the achievement gap would be to make an unfair situation fair. But as our education classes repeatedly remind us, fair is not everyone getting the same thing. Fair is everyone getting what he or she needs. You might need glasses to see and succeed, but I wouldn't give glasses to everyone just because you got them since it doesn't help them at all.
When I look back at my year, I believe that many of the students in my class and at our school were not getting a fair chance because they' were not getting what they needed. Unfortunately, their needs are just so great compared to kids from more affluent areas. Students at my school weren't getting the food they needed, they weren't getting the medicine they needed, they weren't getting the clothing they needed. They weren't getting the help, time, or the attention they needed. They weren't getting the respect, role models, security, stability, patience, or confidence they needed. For too many of the kids, they weren't getting the love and compassion they needed.
At the end of a rocky, but ultimately successful and rewarding year, I can still look at all these problems and undoubtedly say that I believe education is the key to upward mobility in this country. But, when I wonder why I'm killing myself staying after school, buying food, planning all hours of the day, and putting up with some of the extremely disrespectful and awful things that are said in class, I think about everything these kids need from me, their teacher. This problem is so big, and as a society we need to address those difficult underlying issues like health and poverty. Until then, though, education has to offer an open door for our kids, and when no one else is giving these students what they need, for six hours a day the teacher should. It's only fair.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Me and TFA.
It's a little strange to say this, but during the year it's very easy to forget that I'm part of Teach for America, and that I came to do my part in bringing about educational equity. My experience in school has painted "education reform" in a thousand shades of gray instead of the old black and white. Similarly, this year has modified my understanding of TFA's and my role in "education reform."
I came in to TFA because I wanted to do more for the kids that I fell in love with at camp. I knew that I didn't want to teach forever, and that I wanted to do something positive while I figured out my next steps. A lot of people believe this is exactly what's wrong with TFA and people like myself. Teaching is difficult, and it takes one or two years just to get good at it. Then, once you actually start figuring it out, you leave the kids and waste the system's time and resources.
There is nothing I can argue with in the first part of that argument. Teaching is extremely difficult. I wonder if I'll ever get good at it... to say nothing of "getting good" two years. But I don't think TFA was meant to create a generation of excellent teachers. I've come to understand its underlying goal as exposing as many different people from different backgrounds to the inequity that permeates our society's public education system.
I'm going to leave my two-year commitment with a very different understanding of the issues. I'm going to leave with the lessons I learned, the relationships I've built with the kids and their families, and the experience burned in my memory. No matter what I do after this, there is no way that I could ever truly leave the school by cutting myself off from caring or working toward a more equitable educational system.
Teach for America does not want, I don't think, for everyone to stay in the classroom. If all the people who saw the problems stayed in the classroom, no one would listen to the teachers complain. But when thousands of people from all across the nation, from all walks of life have been exposed to and understand that there is a problem, then the case for reform is much stronger. There are many of my friends in TFA who want to stay in the classroom, and I admire them so much for their dedication. I don't think I can do that; it's not my role. But, I can take my experience and let it color whatever I do in the future. Perhaps I will also be able to share the experience so others can see the problems too.
I came in to TFA because I wanted to do more for the kids that I fell in love with at camp. I knew that I didn't want to teach forever, and that I wanted to do something positive while I figured out my next steps. A lot of people believe this is exactly what's wrong with TFA and people like myself. Teaching is difficult, and it takes one or two years just to get good at it. Then, once you actually start figuring it out, you leave the kids and waste the system's time and resources.
There is nothing I can argue with in the first part of that argument. Teaching is extremely difficult. I wonder if I'll ever get good at it... to say nothing of "getting good" two years. But I don't think TFA was meant to create a generation of excellent teachers. I've come to understand its underlying goal as exposing as many different people from different backgrounds to the inequity that permeates our society's public education system.
I'm going to leave my two-year commitment with a very different understanding of the issues. I'm going to leave with the lessons I learned, the relationships I've built with the kids and their families, and the experience burned in my memory. No matter what I do after this, there is no way that I could ever truly leave the school by cutting myself off from caring or working toward a more equitable educational system.
Teach for America does not want, I don't think, for everyone to stay in the classroom. If all the people who saw the problems stayed in the classroom, no one would listen to the teachers complain. But when thousands of people from all across the nation, from all walks of life have been exposed to and understand that there is a problem, then the case for reform is much stronger. There are many of my friends in TFA who want to stay in the classroom, and I admire them so much for their dedication. I don't think I can do that; it's not my role. But, I can take my experience and let it color whatever I do in the future. Perhaps I will also be able to share the experience so others can see the problems too.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Looking Back.
The year is over, and I've been able to take some time to unwind and think about the last 180 school days. It was a ridiculous roller coaster of emotions, it destroyed every bit of confidence I came to Baltimore with, and there were many times when my belief in the reason I came to teach was rocked to the core. Before the end of the year, TFA had us write letters about our experience to donors. Here is what I wrote:
The year is almost over. I am caught in the strange position where I need to keep my focus forward on the next month, but cannot help but keep looking backwards at all that has happened over the last nine. At least, they tell me it was nine months. I cannot decide if it felt like nine years or nine days.
I wonder if I would recognize myself from the beginning of the year. It might be difficult – there would be no bags under the eyes, no messy facial hair, and the weight would be made up much more of muscle than whatever this is around my stomach now. I might laugh at my past self. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, I would think.
When I signed up for Teach for America, it was because I had spent four years at UCLA working with and watching the kids of Los Angeles at their best. They were fun, they were bright, they were full of potential – they were kids. It hurt me so much to see kids that I cared so much about tell me about how they knew they were getting the short end of the stick with their education. I decided that I would dedicate two years of my life help close the achievement gap for these kids and others like them.
I came into the year hoping that I would be a successful teacher. There was, of course, the quantitative goal that TFA drills into our head from day one – significant gains. For my students, and me, this meant 80% mastery of all learning goals for this year, and 100% of students scoring either proficient or advanced on the end-of-year state assessment. Without a doubt, I knew that I needed to push my students to leave my class ready for anything that would come their way the next year.
In my mind, though, being a successful teacher meant so much more. It meant they would leave as proud members of The LXS – The Legion of Extraordinary Scholars. As I told them, the LXS is a super-secret international organization of incredible learners. This group of students always does their best, never gives up, believes in themselves and others, does not fear failure, and loves to learn because they always ask “Why?” about the world around them. I believed then, and still do, that creating great students meant instilling this curious mindset in each child.
When I look at my class of 26 rambunctious, often-frustrating students, I realize that we have truly come a long way since the beginning of the year. Sure, we are on track to just make 80% mastery as a class. In a couple of months I’ll find out how the students did on the MSA. Still, in the torrent of numbers, percentages, and frustration, I see that this year is going to be defined by the stories of success that I’ve had the joy of witnessing. It will be defined by stories like…
… hearing a chorus of voices sing the multiplication pop songs that I rewrote, and having Trey remind me, “Mr. Lyu, you really, really don’t have a good voice.”
… taking Ian to the public library after school, and seeing his smile after we sign up for his first library card ever.
... giving a small bag of Skittles to Dajah, and hearing (without asking), “Mr. Lyu! 5/12 of these are red!”
… walking through the halls with Cory, a student who has a learning disability, celebrating that he just scored his third 100% in a row on a weekly quiz, softly singing and dancing to the “Genius Song” that he made up for himself.
… watching Charlotte act out the subtraction story as she regroups numbers using dolls and unit cubes.
… internally laughing when during a particularly difficult class period, Dean yells out, “Why can’t you all be quiet and listen? I want to learn something!”
... these and countless other little moments of happiness.
Around the classroom, I hear “please” and “thank you.” When people bump into each other, they apologize first and ask if the other is all right. They help each other, teach each other, and encourage each other. They clamor for math time. They remind me when it’s time to work on science projects. Maybe I’m delusional, but I keep telling myself that they are talkative all the time because they’re actually excited and awake during class.
They always say that you won’t know the impact you made on a child that year, the next year, or ever. I look back on this year and there are times when all I can think about are the countless late nights, anxiety, constant self-doubt, and thoughts of quitting. I think about driving students home after school, teaching them over the phone because they were out sick, and going into their homes to review a lesson that they missed – and sometimes I wonder whether it was all worth it.
There is no doubt in my mind that I was not a perfect teacher. I don’t even know if I would qualify as a good teacher. What I do know, though, is that I gave every ounce of myself to these students this year, and I was the best teacher I could possibly be. I am proud that we will all leave this year as members of the inaugural class of The Legion of Extraordinary Scholars.I will be writing more about the past year later. I need to take a nap for now.
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