Live every week like it's shark week!

No matter how excellent the teacher, how many years of experience, how much success has come before, once a student utters “new” in front of a teacher’s name, particularly in an urban school, blood pours into the water. A feeding frenzy ensues. The teacher laments, “But I’ve done my time! I’ve had my teacher hazing! I’m an x year teacher! I’m not fresh! I’m old! My wounds are solidly congealed!” It doesn’t matter. They bite anyway.

Like that lucky seal in the shark infested waters off the Cape, I want to be the one that makes it through, who runs the gauntlet and arrives cleanly. I want to avoid the blood, the frenzy, the nipped fins. Is it possible? Am I being naive by even hoping for the possibility?

For the last two weeks, I’ve reviewed my discipline policies like the slow action camera used in Planet Earth. “If I take this route, then this occurs.” “This one may be cleaner.” “That procedure worked pretty well.”

I’m tempted to throw the blood out there myself. To openly declare, “I know what you can do to me. You can make my life hell. You have the power and the choice. However, by making my life hell you also destroy yours. You let the achievement gap widen. You help further the racial disparities in this country. You hurt your own chances for personal happiness and success.” That only works, though, if they care; if they can see higher on Maslow’s Hierarchy; if they believe that the quest to create is more meaningful than the quest to destroy. We all watch a car crash with awe.

What if I am not a seal at all? What if I am a shark too? They question this, obviously. “Some white lady from Bakersfield?” They out number me 30 to 1. I must prove my authenticity right away. They must know my reasons for being there, for holding them to high standards, for their rewards and their punishments. And then I must bite back. I must hold them to all that I’ve declared I would.

The seal who asks politely for safe passage or the shark who bites back? Either way, I probably will not be able to avoid some thrashing.

I love the smell of syrup in the morning.

School without students is surreal.  Empty halls, stray papers, open lockers, books piled on tables.  The body without the soul.  

A firm believer in the impact of physical environments on behavioral outcomes, I journeyed into Room 228 a full two months before students would venture again through its graffitied door.  The stench of syrup poured over everything.  Coupled with the absence of air-conditioning on a 90 degree day, I quickly backed out of the room.  Overcoming my momentary nausea, I set out to find the root of what-must-have-been a Pancake Attack.  

After searching through discarded Sistah Souljah books, I came upon the problem - syrup packets squished between novels and shelves.  Starburst wrappers, Coke bottles, and other assorted convenience store contraband, dotted the landscape.  Somehow Room 228 had become a 7-11 garbage can!  

After getting over my disgust at what I could only hope was a last-day-of-school blow out party, I settled my anger firmly at my predecessor.  Who leaves a classroom this dirty?  Who has so little respect for his or her self, their students, and the poor people who have to clean up this disaster?  

Graffiti, gum, computer cords, upside-down tables, tree branches.  The list continued.  I sat for a good half hour just staring at it all - trying to take it in - while re-making it in my mind.  Tape measure in hand, I did what any good designer does when confronted with a design dilemma, I measured.  I measured and planned what it would look like when the trash was gone, the goo scrubbed clean, the graffiti washed away, and my Martha Stewart fiesta balls hung from the ceiling.  

Room 228 had a lot to tell me.  Neglected books with ripped off covers.  A dictionary completely ripped in two.  Student papers detailing "Goals for 2004" stuffed in drawers - "Learn to Drive," "Join a Dance Crew," "Finally Make the Honor Roll."  The "Burger Gang" of 2007 prominently remembered in red ink on the heater.  (Now that's a gang that I would consider joining!) "+700" written on several desks and walls.  Is "+700" some new gang code that I should know about?  Chemistry equations written on an old chalkboard in a corner.  Information and hope coupled with apathy and neglect.  

On the same heater where the Burger Gang left their mark, sporadically written in caps, in pencil, a student boldly proclaimed, "WE dont ListeN." 

After my first thought, which was, in English teacher fashion, "Where's your apostrophe?" I began to recreate the scene where this proclamation poured forth.  A classroom of students out of their seats, lounging on counters and desks.  Syrup packets thrown across the room.  A befuddled teacher at the front imploring them, "Sit down!  Stop talking!  Why won't you just listen!?" 

Pick Your Own Ending.  Was the student defiant, sitting on the heater, proclaiming "WE dont ListeN!" or plaintive, standing towards the back, out of the melee, quietly recording the moment and their own disgust with their peers? 

WE dont ListeN

I spent a day listening to Room 228.  By the end of it, shelves scrubbed clean, dictionaries repaired, I took a gnawed-on pencil, flipped it over and enthusiastically erased "WE dont ListeN."  After all, Room 228 is my classroom.  Listening demanded.  Syrup prohibited.