Team Dalai Lama

How do you teach 6^th graders tenacity?

In Room 309 my students learn about tenacity by reading how the 14^th Dalai Lama has spent the last fifty years fighting non-violently for the freedom of his country, Tibet. They read and discuss the Five-Point Peace Plan the Dalai Lama presented to the US Congress. And then, after the discussion, I redirect their focus closer to home. I set my students in groups to devise their own peace plans – personal strategies to combat middle school bullying.

During the majority of the school day my students study a wide range of subjects. They study multiplication, they study the Roman Empire, they study the digestive system. Rarely in the state-mandated curriculum is there time to directly teach students values. Teamwork, respect, courage, pride, tenacity, leadership – values essential for success are often relegated to secondary and tertiary objectives.

But, in many ways, it is these values that my students need most to learn.

As a Citizen Schools teacher, one of my explicit obligations is to build my students’ character, not just their multiplication and division fluency. We do this by publicly recognizing and rewarding students who demonstrate our school's values. We do this by constructing lessons centered on understanding and recognizing these values in ourselves and our peers. And, we do this by choosing a famous man or woman – we call them a trailblazer – to act as a guide for what we ourselves can strive to become.

At our school there is Team Galileo, Team Bruce Lee, Team Juno Diaz, Team Eleanor Roosevelt, Team Sotomayor. In Room 309, we are known as Team Dalai Lama.

My students from East Boston might never travel halfway around the world and visit Tibet, or China, or Northern India (where the Tibetan Government in exile resides). But over the last six months I have watched how my students have come to embrace and in some cases emulate the Dalai Lama.

To teach teamwork we discussed how the Dalai Lama is himself a team player – how, he says, he has postponed reaching Nirvana himself so he can help others reach enlightenment as well. I challenge my students to do the same. “Maybe in math,” suggests one boy. “We can help each other with our flashcards even if we are already good at math.”

I divide my students into teams and set them to practicing a respectful formal debating style used by Tibetan monks. Facing each other in pairs, my students alternate arguments for and against a controversial topic (a school dress code or mandatory classes on Saturday); they listen, respond and punctuate each point with a dramatic ritual clap.

But perhaps most exciting is the initiative my students have shown in seeking out information about our trailblazer.

It can be hard for a 6^th grade teacher to inspire students to pursue education outside the classroom. Apart from the general challenge of engaging eleven and twelve year olds, there are specific hurdles. Many of my students lack internet access at home. Many of my students wake up at six am to prepare for the day and with our extended learning time model of instruction; they don’t arrive home again until after 5:30 pm, at which point they still have their homework to complete.

Despite these obstacles, my students surprise me with the extent to which they have embraced our trailblazer. In our class we have constructed a 45-piece puzzle map of Tibet entitled “The Roof of the World.” For each fact a student shares with our team we get to fill in another puzzle piece. When the puzzle is complete I have promised to make Tibetan dumplings for the class.

Recently during class, one of my girls beckoned me over to her desk. “Ms. Lander, I wanted to tell you. I started following the Dalai Lama on Twitter!”

Do my students suddenly work wonderfully as a team? Or consistently respect each other? Not quite. They are only eleven and twelve.

But I like to think that the Dalai Lama has become a role model for some of my students. In the cafeteria one afternoon, a student called me over. Over the weekend she had written a poem and wanted to share it with me.

He’s thoughtful and kind with a peaceful mind.
He is My leader, a trailblazer.
He is the one, the only, Dalai Lama
He got invaded by China, but he still is a wonderful man.
Over 600 years old. I would love to meet him.
I hope I do.
Also, that he reaches Nirvana when it’s his time.
From a girl in Boston that is very kind.
I write this poem to an awesome guy.
I love his tenacity and respect;
How he chose to stay and help us reach enlightenment
And to become who we are.
Nobody else, because we are who we are

What's in a name?

In the classroom I am known as Ms. Lander.

Sometimes just Ms.

Ms. Ms. Ms. for added emphasis. Occasionally, by mistake, my students call me other teachers' names – their focus on their question, or their story superseding all else.

My students’ names are much more varied, particularly the nicknames they construct for themselves and each other.

Ziggy, Zizi, Nini, Nay, Timye, Lelo.

Names come and go like fashion trends. Giggles for a girl who laughs often; Cricket for a boy’s childhood fascination with insects; JRbeats for an aspiring rapper.

They sign their assignments with these names. On their folders, they scratch out their real names and replace them with names like Skittles and Beba. Their folders grow ragged with morphing personalities. In class students reprimand me for not using this week’s nickname.

The girls in my class have recently taken to calling one of our boys Patrick. Patrick is not his name, nor does it have any relation to his name. They call him Patrick and can offer no explanation. “Patrick” himself seems not to mind.

Rarely in my life have I been addressed with the formality of Ms. Lander. And equally rare are the times I have called my own teachers by their last names. I went to small schools growing up where first names were the norm. I have yet to get accustomed to the change.

But, sometimes in the classroom I am not Ms. Lander, I am “a dude.” I’ve been called “hip.” “Yo, Ms. Lander’s cool, she’s my Bro.” Other times I am a “buzz-kill.”

A few weeks ago two of my students decided that I was in need of a nickname.

We were traveling on a bus, off to visit a Boston college. Teny they christened me – for tenacity, they explained. Teny. And, for the next two weeks, I was instructed to answer to no other name.

Duly noted

On their daily math tests, my students write me notes. Look I am doing better I think this one is easy. It is way easier! They draw me googly eyed smily faces. Some days, if they do poorly, there are cramped and dejected sad faces next to their scores.

At first, my students did not write notes. Notes started appearing a month or two into the term: small at first, but growing increasingly bold, increasingly long as fall slipped into winter.

Not so well today but it is okay!! It is still really easy and I’m glad you gave us [level] J!!

I improved a lot!! See I am doing better on this than I! I feel so much better!

Look!! Better than yesterday and I can’t wait!! Didn’t you say I am showing tenacity? Shouldn’t I get a tenacity star?

Look I am doing great! I’m very happy oh and happy holiday!

Sharing thoughts verbally does not suffice for my students. And they are not shy about sharing. Snack is often a chorus of “Ms. Lander,” “Ms. Lander,” “Ms. Lander.” They ask about the plan for the day. They ask if they can get water (“No, you know my rules: When we get upstairs.”) They call me over with fluttering hands to show me a science grade, or an English test. Sometimes they call me over with great urgency and when I weave my way between the tables, they respond with a big “Hi! That’s all I wanted to say.” Nor are they shy about sharing their thoughts in the classroom.

But, despite all these opportunities to talk, I continue to receive daily notes on my math tests. They have become conversations of a sort. Next to a 9/25: Boo! Me! Sorry I was tired, I walked to a field trip. FYI – far away.

The next day, after scoring 100%: I’ve been practicing!!! Other one-hundred percents elicit: Finally. Yes. Ow Yea. I go girl. And Level up. Yeah lets go. Yeah ow yea I beasting cuz I’m a boss.

One girl in particular draws the most unusual smilely faces on her math tests. One has raised eyebrows and a wiggling handle bar mustache. There are round cheek-ed Santas spouting “Merry Christmas” and “Ho ho ho.” Many have freckled cheeks. Some come adorned with pompomed hats and others with train-track smiles and speech bubbles: “Yaaa.” There has been one shrouded in a scribble beard and another wearing a top hat.

On off-days the writing is jagged, defiant: Horrible. I don’t care. Whatever. On good days there is a profusion of exclamation points. Look I am doing sooo much better. This is the highest I have gotten!! SO HAPPY!!!

I scrawl notes back – like a parent on the sidelines shouting encouragement. “Way to go,” “Keep it up!” “I’m so impressed.” Until recently I assumed few of my comments were actually read. Then last week I neglected to respond to one particularly avid note writer. “Ms. Lander! You didn’t respond!” the girl called out – her voice shocked and slightly hurt. That night I corrected the error – writing responses to both that day’s test and the one from the day before. The following afternoon I glanced in the girl’s direction. She was rifling through her folder – pulling down a page, pausing, pulling down another page. Finally she looked up, and rewarded me with an approving nod.

Tables of Contents

The tables in our middle school cafeteria are long, thick-wood constructions, so firmly rooted to the floor that they appear as bulwarks, or levies against the tide, which in a sense they are.

Despite the thoroughness of cleanings, these tabletops stubbornly cling to a layer of sticky residue left by years of middle schoolers. A conglomerate substance, which could baffle the best of chemists. In immeasurable concoction of countless spilled milks, apples juices, grape juices, orange juices, pretzel salt crystals, and the crumbs from what were once animal crackers.
But it is the tops themselves, not the sticky veneers, that I find particularly intriguing. For carved into, and written over the tabletops of the cafeteria are years’ worth of middle school thoughts.

Wow! Carved small, perhaps with a pen tip. Bit, BE, TEAM in jagged strokes. Every, blitz, killah, Shakira, beba, Rock, Ash, king, talk, Ha, Hoo Ha.

Students seem to prefer inscribing their thoughts and feelings in words. But occasionally there are pictures. Square-eyed smiley faces, X’s, stars, crude arrows pointing in opposing directions, muffins, packmen.

On investigation I have found that swears are commonplace too. A cursing dictionary inked and scored and penned on wood. Fuck, fud, suck, I love me bitches, hoes, bitches, bitches and hoe, fuck, fuck, fuck mission, fuck love.

Love is everywhere on the tables of the 6th, 7th and 8th grade. M+K = 4EVER, M+M encased in a heart. Pink hearts, black sharpie hearts, hearts with arrows, scratched and faded hearts below newer hearts. Middle school romances are brief. D+A love, J+L =Love, Love in big bold bubble letters. I love, love, lov, luv.

Scrawled on every table are declarations. Michael was here, Chris was here, kim waz hea, Fred waz hea, Emily waz hea, she waz hea. It’s a canonical tag, one found across the world carved into trees and benches, spray-painted on walls and columns. They are tags full of presence and they are tags in conversation.

But in middle school, identities are in constant flux and such statements take on added dimensions. The Emily that carved her name, perhaps with a mechanical pencil or a house key, is not the same Emily who might sit at the same table two weeks later. In two weeks she might have dyed her hair, got her nose pierced. She might have gotten a girlfriend or dumped a boyfriend. She might have reconsidered her dream job from an FBI agent to a Hollywood actress. She might have taken up rapping or stepping or neither. She might hate her teachers, or, she might love them.

Within the transient trends of middle school, such tabletop graffiti becomes a salient marker chronicling an evolving identity. Emily waz hea. Right now, at this middle school table, a girl named Emily wanted to be remembered.

Lead Zeppelin

My math class is full of musicians.

Class starts silently enough, or as silently as any 6th grade class can after pretzels and juice on a rainy New England Thursday afternoon when my students would all rather be whispering about the boy at the other table, or that video game their friend has, or the girl that so-and-so is now dating. Or about anything other than strategies for converting decimals into fractions and fractions back into decimals.

Class begins with the tuning of instruments - the sharpening of pencil nubs, the rummaging in backpacks, dragging of chairs across the creaky wood floor, the unnecessary shifting and lifting and setting down again of desks, because of course we are in the 6th grade.

Class begins with a quiz, and for a brief moment, stillness overtakes the room – sixteen pencil tips, honed to a point, hovering over sixteen desks, like bows above the string.

Class quickly progresses to decimals. “How many zeros do we need?” It is at approximately this measure in the lesson where talent emerges. Often it begins with just a subtle, discordant tap…tap…tap of a pencil on the beige plastic desktop. The sound is patternless, as if without intention, and, in many cases, there is indeed no intent, nor even realization. A minute or more will often pass before the boy or girl becomes aware of their music making. On more than one occasion I have surprised students with their own tapping. A raised eyebrow is all it takes to startle students into self-awareness and the looks of shock at finding one’s own hands beating lead drumsticks are some of the very best expressions of the day.

But, if I fail to catch the opening chords, the students in my class finally take notice of the pencil tapping. And if this happens, true music follows. Patterns develop. Short, short, long…short, short, long. The tapping becomes bolder. Short, long long, short, short...rap. And again. Louder, more complex. If I’m not careful, more instruments are imagined and join in. The acoustic #2, the techno click tops, the brassy metal-lined mechanicals. Sixteen beige, plastic drum kits. A crescendo of tapping that threatens to drown out all decimals and all fractions.

Teachers employ a variety of strategies to curb the pencil tappers of their classrooms, and each classroom has a quartet at least. I have five. Some teachers institute fines, five cents per tap. Ironically, the accumulated fees finance, among other school supplies, more pencils. I rely on looks and raised eyebrows. But no method is foolproof. As a teacher I can only negotiate. Tap on your leg, or your arm, or your hand, or your head, anything but the hard resounding plastic of the desk. Please. For my beatniks, I supply stress balls as substitutes, with limited success.

In my class, one boy in particular is a true artist. He practices at home, he practices in the lunchroom, and, yes, he practices in the classroom too. His rhythms are complex and nuanced. He is the type of artist who cannot be restrained, who on a weekly basis will bargain with me for moments of sanctioned tap-time. “I’ve been working on this pattern. Can I show you just once?” Or, “Ok, can I just get my tapping out? Thirty seconds. How about thirty seconds?” And on the few occasions when I give in, his gratitude is expressed in a morse code of taps, raps, and strikes of wood on plastic.

Recently one of my worst tapping offenders chose to write a school newspaper article on the subject. In it, he detailed, with precision, instructions for proper tapping etiquette, steps one through four. Bang your wrist on the desk, tip and tap the pencil. To whip the pencil sideways across the table only two fingers are required. For a “swizzbeat” slide the pencil tip back.

My students learned quickly that I was not a supporter of their pencil tapping. And, while they are unable to curb their musical outbursts, their apologetic looks are some comfort against the tangential accompaniments to math in room 309.

But I am not wholly opposed to tapping. My students do not know this yet.

For if I can forgo, for even a few minutes, the importance of tens places, hundredth places and lowest common denominators, I find that my class can be transformed into an orchestra of impromptu wood instruments.

What ingenuity of rhythms, what creativity of instruments, and what collaborations – as my students so naturally, and without cajoling, listen, respond, and elaborate on each other’s ideas in a conversation so simple and so complex as a tap.

And best of all, what excitement I find on their faces. What more can any teacher wish for?

Perhaps it is time to re-examine my dry-erase markers and my warped whiteboard – see them for what the truly are. I might have to practice at home occasionally, or in the office at lunch. If I can do this, if I can transform math into music, I believe I will have succeeded in capturing the excitement of my class.

A foreign land

A year and a half ago I flew halfway around the world to fashion a life in the Kingdom of Thailand. What followed was a year of motorbike trips to hillside temples, tear-inducing plates of somtum (Papaya salad), city-wide water fights, rock climbing competitions, fish spas, Thai karaoke parties, and countless other adventures – both absurd and meaningful.

A few months ago I returned to America. And, while May has somehow slipped into November, I have yet to fully re-assimilate into that place I once and again call home. I still sometimes respond in Thai, I still bow to people in salutation (much to their confusion) and my accent, especially when expressing shock or excitement, dips and rises in Thai tones. I find American staples lacking in flavor. Since returning, not once have I cried due to an overly generous seasoning of birds-eye chilies. And while my mouth has not caught fire in months, my extremities are slowly growing numb with the New England progressive cold, a persistent reminder that winter is coming.

Here are just a few observations from this strange land:

1) There are heaping bowls of fresh grated parmesan cheese and hearty baguettes on the table of the Italian restaurants.

2) People are generally taller and things are always bigger.

3) There are vast quantities of empty space everywhere. The sidewalks are wide and empty; the streets are wider and also emptier. The aisles of the local CVS are so roomy as to encourage dancing.

4) Restaurant portions are enormous. Back from Thailand less than a week I met my friends for Sunday brunch. I scanned the extensive menu (for the first time in a year, I could read an entire menu) and selected an omelet with goat cheese, caramelized onions and sundried tomatoes, figuring it would be the most filling and leave me only mildly hungry. Fifteen minutes later there appeared before me a four-egg omelet overflowing with cheese, onions, tomatoes, all placed beside a heaping pile of hash browns, all of this hiding under the largest slice of oatmeal bread I have ever seen. I can’t remember a single time in Thailand when I was so full. I was forced to leave food on my plate.

5) The roads in Boston are banal. There are no sinewy men on bikes, no Labradors balanced on Vespas, no orange robbed monks hanging out of sawng tows. Cars, here are contained: no limbs, or bodies, or over-bulging bags of twisting eggplants are visible. Traffic regulations are a disappointment. Traffic lights and lane markings are, for the most part, respected. Little serendipity remains on the roads.

While back in my native city, I have resumed writing for I find myself again in a foreign land: For the past three months I have found myself amongst sixth graders.

I am a teacher in the Boston Public School system employed through the nation-wide non-profit Citizen Schools. With my fellow Citizen School teachers, I come into an existing public school as a second shift to expand the school day by roughly 3 ½ hours per day. In the classroom my focus is a mix of academic support, primarily through daily math class (yes, you heard right, I’m now a math teacher), and college readiness classes that strive to excite our students about the possibilities of college and provide them with the tools and motivation to get there.

Over the next few months it is my hope to share some of joys, quirks and challenges of life in a sixth-grade classroom. For the confidentiality of my students, all names and identifying details will be altered in my posts. But the names don’t matter. Rather the real story is in my students’ creativity and in their energy (whether channeled into solving a math problem or into devising ways to take the longest time possible for a water break). And it is this that makes me so excited and so intrigued to go to school each day.