Each day, as I get the kids ready to leave in the afternoon, they all crowd around me thinking that if they bumrush the door they'll get to go home early. Every day, several times, I shout, "We'll all leave when you go back to your seats!" But they never go. Instead they crowd around me and tell me stupid shit. "Mr. Kudo, Mr. Kudo, listen to us, listen to us!" And then they'll sing a little song or something. Many of you are probably thinking, "Oh, how cute, little kids being kids." Yah, it's all fun and games until they do this all day, every day, in the middle of lessons, in line, before school, after school. I spend the vast majority of my day with 11-year-olds and it's starting to change me. Another teacher at my school, a second-year TFA member, told me today that I was becoming a loser. "I was just like you last year. Came in, thought all the things these teachers did in the classroom were corny, but I changed. You're changing too. Now I'll do anything. I'll tapdance for them if I thought it would teach them something." Great, I'm turning into a dork. Next thing you know I'll be in a school talent show. I think in the final analysis, that's the thing with teachers, that's why they seem so lame. Kids this age are not cool people. They're into lame things and they do stupid shit. When you try and relate to them, you end up being a big dork. But the kids sense this too, they understand that other people your age think you're lame and then they start to think you're lame. Granted, they may love you to death, but you're still lame. I'm becoming a school marm. Not so much Runyon as Dennis or Gaida. Argh.
So, anyway, today this girl Kathy gathered around me. Kathy is a nice kid but she told me the other day that she thinks about killing herself. On a side note, when these kids say this stuff, they may not know what it really means, but they know the jargon. Most of them have been through years and years of counseling and therapy for a barrage of problems. Kathy is convinced that she's just bad and can't control herself. She probably even knows the technical name for her diagnosis in the DSM-IV. Anyway, she comes up to me with this big smile on her face and says, "Mr. Kudo, my cousin is going to have a baby soon that I can help her take over." "Great I say, now go back to your seat." "Mr. Kudo, she's only 14 years old." "Jeesus, that's not good. Now go back to your seat." "Do you know how she got pregnant Mr. Kudo?" "Ummm...yes, I can imagine, but how did she get pregnant? And then, go back to your seat." "She was raped outside of my apartment." "Oh jeesus..."
"Mr. Kudo, my brother got mugged the last week too." "Oh, I'm sorry Jose, is he ok?" "Oh yah, he's ok, I'm going to visit him in the hospital later today."
When I first came to my school, this other TFA member Drew told me that the kids here love you if your a male teacher. I didn't really know what he meant until now. To give you an idea, there's a line in the movie "Lean on Me" where this girl yells out, "Mr. Clark is the only father some of us who don't have fathers know." It occurs to me that I am more to a teacher to many of my students. I am their first male teacher, and I am the first man who will be in their life for a consistent period of time. In general, with these kids, you bring your reality into theirs. You have to be consistent, and fair, and good, and perfect, but more than anything, it's enough that you just show up every day. That in itself is more than they've gotten from a lot of other people. That you care on top of all that, well that makes you the best teacher they've ever had. That you bring such a different perspective, well that's why you make a difference. I have become the father figure to a lot of them. It's strange to see, because these kids really idolize you. It's scary. This one kid Albert has a rough past. His father is in the Dominican Republic and I don't think he's ever really seen him. He has a history of sexual abuse and has been seeing counselors for some time. When I came into the class, he had real anger management issues. Even now, when he doesn't get his way he'll attempt to send his fist through the wall. And he's a big kid, so sooner or later he's going to succeed. Anyway, I don't know when, but at some point me and Albert made a connection and since then, I think I've really become a father figure to him. It's weird, he helps me run the class, he breaks up fights for me if I can't get there in time. It's weird. A lot of the kids are like that too which is scary. I'm not ready to be a father yet, I had no idea that's what this would entail. Most, not some, most of these kids don't have fathers though. It kind of changes everything. Now, when I talk to some of them, instead of saying shit like, "It's your choice, you can do this and face the consequence or you can get to work," I find myself saying, "Be a man, make a choice." I don't know, it's small stuff like that. This is a really important developmental time for them so I wonder what kind of impact I'm going to have. Am I the only one who will teach them self-discipline? Self-respect? Restraint? Maturity? Organization? Have you seen my room? This is becoming more responsibility than I wanted or am prepared to deal with.
Did I tell you guys about Brooke, by the way? Repeated first grade. Repeated second grade. Repeated third grade. Repeated fourth grade. And is now in my class.
"Class, I'm assigning these four problems for homework." "Awwww, Mr. Kudo, can't we have more?" "Are you serious?" "C'mon Mr. Kudo, give us more." "Alright, by a raise of hands, who wants more homework." Every hand goes up. "Alright, I'll give you one more, but only because you guys were really on task today." "Yaaaaaaaaaaay!"
I say, do you guys want to go to college? A few hands go up. I pick one. "Where do you want to go?" "Bronx Community College."
Another time, I say, "You guys do not want to end up in prison." The response: "What's wrong with prison?" "My brother is there." "My father is there." Many of them were born there.
The battle of wills continues. In Mr. Kudo's class, if you have a problem with where I've assigned you, fine, go to the corner of the room and stand. I'll give you a baby clipboard, some flashcards to write on and a golf pencil. Try me. Today the dean came in and told me that I couldn't do that. Apparently making them stand or sit on the floor is corporal punishment. So I say, "What about Drew (another teacher), he has all his kids sit on the floor at the beginning of school." "He has a rug, if you have a rug, it's ok." I'm thinking that an outdoor Welcome Mat counts as a rug.
Oh, and there was almost a hurricane here. I went to school with my trench coat expecting the end of the world. When I left at the end of the day it was 70 degrees and sunny with a slight off-shore breeze.
Needless to say, things are better. Well, not really, mostly it's just that I'm so disillusioned that I've become contented with the situation. At least I'm making a connection with the kids. Oh, and you can think about this as a real final thought. When I went into the cafeteria the other day, a bunch of the kids ran up to me as they often do (these bastards have no sense of personal space), and Kassandra says, "Mr. Kudo, Mr. Kudo, do you have any talents?" "Kassandra, two things. One, you only need to say my name once, two, what do you mean talents?" "Can you sing, dance, play an instrument? There's a student-teacher talent show and we want you to be in it." Oh....my....god....
Hope everything is going well with y'all.
Tim.
Got off the subway from work today at about 5 in the afternoon. I decided to take a leisurely walk home down some side streets since I figured the effervescent sunshine would soon be crowded out by the oncoming hurricane. I was listening to my music as I passed by a children's center that had just opened, thinking to myself how I would get my dry cleaning and then relax for a little bit.
This, of course, was all until I was grabbed from behind by the neck and thrown to the ground. It's a somewhat surreal experience, if you've never been there, to be torn down by your neck. You sit there for a minute thinking, "Huh?" And then, "What the fuck?" And then, "Oh fuck this isn't friendly." And then, "Oh fuck, I really hope this person doesn't kill me." Coming from behind to throw someone down into a choke hold is surprisingly effective. In the first case, any yell for help comes out like, "He..." and you're out of breath. The second reason is that the feeling of not being able to breath commands pretty much instant submission. Lastly, the person being choked never sees the attacker since they come from behind and when you run off with their $11, they're so busy gasping for air that they forget to get a good description.
So, as I lay on the ground with my throat closed in on itself, I very quickly pulled out my money as requested. However, when my money was hidden on the sidewalk under one of my credit cards, the attacker persuaded me to uncover it by squeezing harder. This is why I now have red marks on my neck and can barely swallow the water I'm drinking now, two hours later.
When it was all over, thankful for my life, I got up and began calmly walking home again. Two guys who were walking by were like, "Man, that was fucked up. I hate it when that shit happens in the neighborhood, you should call the cops." But I was like, "Nah, shit happens, and it was only $11." (Granted, this is the last $11 I had to get me through my dry cleaning, dinner, coffee in the morning, and various other expenses until I got my paycheck tomorrow.) Anyway, we figured that this kind of thing might happen to another person so after failing to hail a police car that was driving by, I called 911 and a car showed up within a minute. The two officers asked what happened and told me to get in the car. The assailant, I told them, was black, roughly 6'3" and muscular enough to choke me with maybe one arm, wore dark gray pants and a black shirt and maybe work boots. We drove the neighborhood hoping that we might spot him but were largely unsuccessful. Instead, three of us spent the time looking at hot women and discussing how fucked up the neighborhood was. "I hate to say this, but you're damn lucky you weren't stabbed or killed." So I ask, "Does this kind of stuff happen a lot in the neighborhood." To which, they simply started laughing.
When I got to the police station, I went to file a report so they put me in an interrogation room where I sat for 20 minutes alone. I got bored so I started leafing through their mugshot portfolios which basically consisted of hundreds, upon hundreds, upon hundreds of black faces. In fact, when I called 911 to report the robbery, the first thing they asked me was "Black or hispanic?" It is what it is I suppose. Anyway, I figured that I wouldn't be able to point anyone out so I asked to go without filing a report but they made me do a brief one anyway just to see if they could identify an MO of any kind. As I was walking out, I saw their "Wanted" bulletin board which consisted of poster after poster of, "Robbery," "Robbery," "Robbery," "Robbery," "Robbery," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Murder," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault," "Sexual Assault."
So yah, I don't live in a very good neighborhood.
In any respect, I didn't even get to the dry cleaners in time which means I have to iron the pants I wore yesterday. I think that is probably the worst thing about this. Well, that and the fact that I can't really swallow.
Anyway, I'm now safe and sound, so no worries and the only thing I have to really say about it is that it is what it is.
tim.
I feel like I just made an assault on Ft. Wagner.
Day one was hell. Day two was hell. Day three was only the second or third level of hell. Day four was near the bottom of hell. And day five was spent sitting on one of the several heads of Satan. Yah, that happened.
Let me give you some details as to the whole setup though now that I have a bit more time to reflect. My school is in one of the worst areas of the Bronx, like every TFA member's school. Surrounding it on nearly every side are projects and apparently, you'll probably get killed, mugged, raped, etc. if you ever go there at night. I don't plan on doing so. The school itself is pretty rundown and there's holes in the ceiling and roaches and very few things work. The staff however is amazing. I may have said this before but I'll say it again, I'm naming my first born after my assistant principal: Miss Harris Kudo. The fifth grade wing is set apart from the rest of the school so there's a pretty strong community among the teachers and support staff in that area. This is really good, especially since the hot blonde science teacher is a part of it. But I digress... In general, the school is pretty good about discipline but the achievement scores are in the gutter. Dead last. Horrible.
I teach 5th grade math to two classes a day for about 2.5 hours each. The classes are tracked such that 501 is the highest achievers, 502's scores are a little lower, etc. I teach 504 and 505. There are only 5 classes. My 505 class cannot tell time on a clock with hands. They cannot multiple large numbers. They cannot count high without using fingers. They do not know fractions. There was one problem on one of my diagnostic tests where all they had to do was count blocks and they did that wrong. 504 is a little better, but not much. So, they pretty much can't do most math, but there are a lot of things they can do, like:
1. Annoy the living shit out of me for 6 hours a day.
2. Make each other cry regularly.
3. Cuss at each other across the room in the middle of a lesson.
4. Fight.
5. Ignore absolutely everything I say no matter how loudly I say it.
Needless to say, this is not working. Oh, and if you read this and think, "Hmmm.... Maybe I should e-mail Tim some advice on how to do his job?" First, I want you to ask yourself, "Am I an inner-city school teacher?" If the answer is "No", refrain from sending anything. If you do decide to send something, and I read anything about what kids need or want or any other shit like that, your e-mail and many of your future e-mails will probably end up in my junk folder.
Needless to say, the inner-city and suburbs are entirely different. I remember that in 5th grade if I fought someone I would end up with a suspension. Insulting someone would get me time after school. Here, if you get into a fight and throw face-blows, you'll probably get a warning. If someone gets knocked cold then maybe we'll talk about suspension. While the kids don't fear me, they do fear my dean, Mr. Gil. The other day, I asked one of them why they were so afraid of him, and the child responded "Because if we mess with him, he'll send us to 'The House.'" I don't know what occurs in The House, but I really want to send someone there now.
I'll send more specific info on the kids later but basically, they all have the same problems as the kids in my summer school class. Some of them are in counseling, live with foster parents, come to school with bruises, are on medication, can't afford to buy basic school supplies, don't eat in the morning, have parents who are dying of some disease or another, have parents who are only a few years older than me, etc., etc.
The other day I met the Sandbrook of my school. If you don't know what that means, don't worry about it. Anyway, I asked him what he did before teaching small children. His response: "You know Frederick's of Hollywood? I used to be in the women's underwear business and Fredrick and I used to party together out in L.A." Hmmmm...
Bonus question: Using the sequence of numbers 987654321, please find two ways of inserting + signs so the sum equals 99. E.g. 9+8+7+6+5+43+2+1=81
On a side note, the students cuss at me in Spanish which I only hear about after one of the students near them tells me later. The only thing I really know about it is that they refer to me as "El Diablo." Excellent...
Ummm I guess that's it for now. I'm doing ok, it's just a bit harder than I thought it would be. I feel like one of those kids who got all A's in high school and then went to college and got Ds. But then I remember that it's not a sprint, it's a marathon and that these things take time. I may not be as patient in the classroom as I'd like to be, but I know that at least I have the patience to know that this will get better. Learning takes time and they'll learn how to stay quiet and get in line sooner or later. And then, maybe, just maybe, I can teach them a little math.
Yah, that's it I think. As people tend to be, I'm a little self-absorbed right now so don't feel bad if I don't respond to your e-mails or phone calls or things like that. I'll get around to it when I get this shit together some more. Yah, and I'm probably not going to send out any more of these until I feel a bit more inspired, I really just don't like how these are sounding anymore.
Oh, and Jon, what's Lindsay doing nowadays? And what happened with the secretary?
Tim
I don't know if I have anything inspirational or insightful to say right now but I figured I should at least drop some kind of word to those who have asked or who might be wondering how the first day went. Monday was the worst experience of my entire life. I don't really even want to talk about the details. Needless to say, the only thing I might say is that it's like being a lone riot cop trying to stop a mob. Needless to say, I can empathize with the cops who beat the shit out of suspects. It's sick, but it is what it is.
As soon as I got home, me and my roommates went to happy hour and then I passed out.
Day two was a little better. Instead of listening to 11-year-olds shout all day, they listened to me yell at them for 6 hours. I had them line up and walk from room to room for an hour straight until it happened quickly and quietly. This is what I do.
Today, I started the day with a brilliant lesson, and then the day went to shit. But I salvaged it at the end by making them line up and walk around for another 2 hours. It sounds sick and brutal doesn't it? It is--for everyone involved. It's not quite corporal punishment, but of course, it's a very fine line. It is however accepted and necessary.
Tomorrow, we will be lining up again. Over, and over and over again. Just like you did your times tables. Until they can do it quickly and quietly every time. And then we'll try and do it faster, and faster, and faster. Perhaps, in a couple weeks, I can begin teaching.
That is all.
tim.