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North Carolina Teacher of the Year Cindi Rigsbee keeps a blog of her experience as an ELA teacher in a rural middle school. Read about her experiences navigating the choppy seas of standardized testing, unpredictable adolescents and their seemingly-innocent dances. Rigsbee offers a good mix of daily--and highly comic--classroom life and reflection on the broader context of the teaching profession. "Every student is someone's dream come true," she says in her first-day-of-school speech. Hence her nickname, "the dream teacher."

Rigsbee, C. (2007). The dream teacher [blog]. thedreamteacher.blogspot.com. Retrieved 6 June 2008.

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Members from the Teacher Leaders Network Forum take a new look at using bulletin boards in the classroom.

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Laura Reasoner Jones reflects on a year that brought big changes both personal and professional--a move from a Home Resources special-education pre-school teacher to a position on a project to bring technology to the community.  "Through this change, I have become a leader in my school system; I like
to think that I have stopped hiding in the preschool Block Corner and
have come out to play with others in the Dramatic Play area," she says.

Jones, L.R. (2004). Ms. Jones' wild ride. Teacher Leaders Network diaries. Retrieved from the Teacher Leaders Network 11 Apr 2008. Link: http://www.teacherleaders.org/old_site/diaries04_05/LJ45_04_05.html 

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Ms. Jones' Wild Ride

Well, it has been an eventful year in Northern Virginia. I look back over the year of diaries and see patterns and changes that I never might have noticed or remembered without them. And so I review and reflect:

When I began this school year, I was very frustrated in my professional life. I had been trying for a year and a half to get a new job in the technology area, to use what I had learned in my two years at the National Board. So, I killed time during the boring opening-of-school meetings by sending proposals for conference presentations at NECC, the National Educational Computing Conference. And both were accepted, much to my delight and my school system's surprise. The June conference was fantastic. I had great attendance at both of my sessions, and met and talked to many people who will be useful contacts.

I bought a new (used) car to replace the 1994 Ford Escort with 146,000 miles. I went looking for something fun, a "sunroof on wheels," as my wonderful husband described my desire to the salesman. I got the sunroof, but settled for something practical; I am determined to buy more fun next time. Old habits die hard.

I have started to develop incredible partnerships for my Girls in Math/Science efforts. We may be featured on NPR this fall, and we are working to make these kinds of clubs a national effort with the help of several large companies. I will be eternally grateful to Dr. Larry Summers for his opportune comments.

My daughters and wonderful husband are healthy and doing well, Christie in her big new job and Julie with her frequent melanoma biopsies. At home since December, Julie has found her career path, and has grown up immensely. When I speak to parents about encouraging their daughters to take as much math and science as possible, and discuss my GEMS club at conferences, I always dread the question that is almost always asked: "What is your daughter doing now—the one you started the club for?" I hesitate and equivocate by saying, "Well, now that's an interesting story. She was accepted into the Purdue School of Freshman Engineering, but we couldn't afford the out-of state tuition." They nod, and wait. Then I say, "She enrolled in a college that didn't have support for women engineering students and struggled with calculus. Then she thought she might want to be a teacher." They look a little less impressed. And then I say, "So, now, she has made her career choice, and is well on her way to success." Long pause. "She plans be an events manager at a hotel in the Caribbean."

Loud laughter, and probably a little bit of relief. We can't really control our children, no matter how hard we try. It seems to make me more believable, however, and I can get in the comments about how Julie can major in anything she wants, since she has six years of math and five years of science under her belt. It makes for suspenseful conferences, but I am glad she has found her direction.

I have spent many, many hours on my dead people, and have discovered that at least 10 of these ancestors were teachers. Two of them went on to become lawyers, but the others remained 'schoolmasters' or teachers throughout their whole lives. This was news to me and the rest of my family, and I am a little bit thrilled to have carried on the tradition.

The biggest thing that happened is that after I removed every reference to preschool from my resume, I did get a new job in technology, a job that seems to fit me very well. Although not without its struggles, this job has the kinds of challenges that I like, and am trying hard to meet. And I realize that after 30 years, I am really glad to be out of special education. The whole paperwork/tedious regulation part was getting to me more than I knew. The difference between the old job as a preschool special education teacher and my new job managing a technology initiative is like the difference between spinning around on the Mad Hatter's Tea Cups and riding in the front car on Space Mountain: I may die in the dark but at least I am going somewhere.

It has been a year of substantial growth and change. In the fall, as I started the diaries, I offhandedly predicted this painful process of growth and change. And that prediction has come true. I look back and see a great deal of pain mixed in with the pleasures. Health scares, fear of failure, humiliating meetings where my lack of knowledge is revealed to all (I had no idea that the acronym DEA stands for other things besides the Drug Enforcement Administration!) and giving the most technologically disastrous presentation ever happening to one person in one hour at a NBPTS conference. (The tech person helping in the room said at the end, "Are you aware that everything that could possibly have gone wrong went wrong?" Well, duh! I was giving the presentation, remember?) And my wonderful little town is imploding over the issue of new immigrants and expensive social services.

But I also look back and see that I am beginning to resemble a character in one of my frequently used preschool books, and I realize that I could write my own book called, Laura, the Late Bloomer. During the past six months, I have held my own in rapid-fire discussions with corporation presidents about just how poor the families are in my group of schools, invited myself to a reception given by the biggest computer company in the world so that I could discuss (beg for) laptops for our students, agreed to be interviewed on a national radio program about GEMS, called up the nation's second-largest wireless Internet company and begged for free passes, and developed curriculum for our country's most popular museum.

Through these diaries, I have been able to describe and articulate the joys and pressures of teaching a very special group of children and families, a group that is always ignored or overlooked by policymakers and politicians. I have shared my fears and joys about change and growth, and about the difficulties of changing jobs and leaving the classroom/home for an office job: the guilt, the feeling that I "have left undone those things which (I) ought to have done," and the problem of all of the "stuff" that went with my previous life.

And I have tried to remind people that teachers don't live in vacuums. We have families and personal lives and all of the normal distractions that non-teachers have. Finding a balance in life has always been a struggle for good teachers. Most really good teachers short-change their own families to meet the needs of their students; it is the nature of the beast. My new job has been a gift in that area—I spend far less of our family money and much less evening and weekend time on the phone, and I worry much less about individual children. The change has been good for all of us.

Through this change, I have become a leader in my school system; I like to think that I have stopped hiding in the preschool Block Corner and have come out to play with others in the Dramatic Play area. And I rarely "run with scissors" or "become upset when thwarted." But I still firmly believe that every person has something to contribute, and I intend to make the best contribution I can in the time I am given.

It has been Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, and I firmly intend to end up in a better place than he did.

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Abstract:

In her job on a project that brings technology into a community, Laura Reasoner Jones learns that there are expected hierarchies of communication. "Each person has something to contribute. No one is more equal than anyone else," she says.

Jones, L.R. (2004). I don't have any 'people.' Teacher Leaders Network diaries. Retrieved from the Teacher Leaders Network 11 Apr 2008. Link: http://www.teacherleaders.org/old_site/diaries04_05/LJ43_04_05.html

Full Text:

I Don't Have Any "People"

"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
George Orwell, Animal Farm

Recently, as I go to more and more meetings and meet more and more people in the upper levels of the school system, I have noticed that my new position puts me in a different place on the educational food chain.

I am definitely lower.

When I was teaching, and I won awards or presented at conferences on encouraging girls in math and science, I talked with certain people on an equal basis, or at least what I felt was equal. I had something to say that they came to hear, or they were there to honor me; we had friendly conversations that usually picked up where the previous award ceremony or conference had left off. Or we made contact to work on the issues at hand. It worked well.

Now that has all changed. It would be really humorous to watch, if it didn't privately enrage me at times. Now I have been politely and directly told that 'equals' talk to 'equals.' This doesn't happen in my office, thank goodness, but it is clear that when I am outside this office, I am not ever to directly contact people with titles; I am to go through their administrative help. It is "Have your people contact my people." Except—I don't have any "people."

Now you could say, "Who does she think she is, wanting to talk to high-ranking people about 'unimportant' things?" I guess I think I am still the same person I was six months ago, when I wanted to talk to the same high-ranking people and was able to.

Thrones speak to thrones. I could never live in Great Britain.

I guess this feeling of frustration is a Midwestern thing. Or maybe it comes from years of working in special education. But in my eyes, every person's life has value.  

This conundrum became more apparent to me before school let out as I stood in the back of the crowded old gym at the elementary school where I am housed. The students and parents of this school were honored by a visit from Paul Rusesabagina, the man who sheltered and saved more than 1200 Africans in Rwanda during the genocide in 1994. It's the story told in the movie Hotel Rwanda. He stood quietly in a large circle of seated children and talked about Rwanda and answered questions in his lilting South African accent.

The children had been well-prepared, spending two weeks learning about heroes and writing about their own personal heroes and histories. They asked him questions like "Were you scared?" and "Why do you think this happened?" And Mr. Rusesabagina said, "I was too busy to be scared; I was just doing my job" and "We never learn from history—it just repeats itself." And then at the end, with parents and teachers wiping tears away in the back of the gym, the choir sang "Let There Be Peace on Earth." It was a profound experience. This man's dedication to the value of single lives saved over 1200 of those lives. He is a man to emulate.

I am not drawing parallels between petty bureaucratic politics and genocide in Africa. But attitudes of superiority only create islands of frustration and unhappiness. And attitudes of equality foster teamwork and contentment.

I will never forget our former superintendent, a man whom I perceived as valuing each person equally. Once, at an after-school award meeting for NBCTs, I waited in the hallway for a friend as the superintendent walked in with another teacher. As they walked together down the long hallway toward the cafeteria where the meeting was to be held, the former superintendent asked the teacher where she worked, and she told him, talking animatedly about her assignment and her school.

As she spoke, he nodded to me and smiled, recognizing that we had met and talked several times in the weeks leading up to this meeting. As he passed me with the other teacher, I heard her say to him, the highest-ranking official in the 12th largest school system in the country, "And where do you teach?"

I can't help but smile at the memory of the other teacher's face when the superintendent politely gave her his name and his title. But he showed so clearly that he was a person, not an office, and he made her feel important, not embarrassed, saying that he was so pleased to be here to honor the new NBCTs. His humanness was remarkable.

Just as Mr. Rusesabagina felt that it was his job to shelter his countrymen and women, it is the job of each person in every school system to do the best she or he can for the children we teach. We are all trying to make a contribution and this effort should be recognized and valued. I don't like being made to feel inferior and I am too old to accept it without resenting it. It's a problem that eats at me a little every time I pick up the phone, and I have to work on it.

Meanwhile, I am thinking about getting some "people."

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Abstract:

Laura Reasoner Jones experiences some feelings of abandonment when she visits the families of pre-schoolers she worked with as a special-education teacher before taking a technology-in-the-schools job.

Jones, L.R. (2004). Preschool redux: Revisiting my families. Teacher Leaders Network diaries. Retrieved from the Teacher Leaders Network 11 Apr 2008. Link: http://www.teacherleaders.org/old_site/diaries04_05/LJ41_04_05.html

Full Text:

Preschool Redux:
I Revisit My Families

On every school night during the month of May, I have had the choice of two activities: doing interminable sets of abdominal crunches, pushups, sprints, and 3-mile runs as part of the Outdoor Conditioning Christmas "gift" given to me by my daughter, or keeping appointments at my former students' homes to review their digital portfolios.

Some choice.

I have loved almost every minute of these home visits, although I have had to put aside my ego a couple of times, and bite my tongue another couple of times. It has been both an interesting and infuriating month.

I start out with the easiest phone calls, the ones to the families who were not in the middle of some kind of transition when I left in January, and begin making the appointments. We plan for about a half hour meeting after school, before the witching "pre-dinner" hour for preschoolers, a time I remember as highly volatile with my own children.

My task is to show the digital portfolio on my laptop, explain how to use the CD I have made with the pictures, the PDF and PowerPoint files, and then have the parent and child fill out the self-perception forms that are the cornerstone of the Teacher Research project I am finishing to present at NECC. Last year I learned the hard way that not all families have programs like PowerPoint, and so I also make PDF files that most people can open and can email to family members.

Andy's house is my first stop. Things have settled down so well in this family. His mom has gotten through her medical crisis and everything is good. Andy's speech has improved to the point that he will be dismissed from Special Education in the next week, and his family is very pleased with his progress. One of my survey questions for the kids is "What are you really good at?" His answer is "Spreading peanut butter at school."

Next stop is Hank's house. Most of the family is there; Hank's three brothers and two sisters and his wonderful mother. And he is talking! He even talks in front of me, which is a big change. His new teacher has worked wonders with him.

His self-perception survey is interesting, though. Two of the questions go like this: "I like to talk with grownups" and "Everyone understands what I say." The kids choose a smiley face for "yes," a neutral face for "sort of" and a frowning face for "no." They are used to this, as we used these faces for determining if their homework was hard or easy. Last fall, Hank felt everything was easy-talking, being understood, you name it. This spring, he accurately colors in the "no" face in answer to the statement "Everyone understands what I say." He is right. They don't. But he is making a great deal of improvement.
When I come in, they show me the lemon cake that Hank has helped his mother make for this special occasion. I am honored. We all sit on the back porch and eat cake and drink lemonade, the school-age kids starving after their hard day. The whole family is glued to the portfolio, and Hank is able to talk about the fun we had together. His mother says several times, "We miss you." We make plans to meet at the swimming pool, where I can be an extra pair of eyes for her with the six kids, and we can talk. It is fun.

BJ's house is next. He is getting ready to go Kindergarten, having improved dramatically in speech, but still needs help in fine motor skills. I left his new teacher with a lot of testing to do—not the best thing to do to a friend. His self-perception has changed over the year also. Last fall, his only concern was that people sometimes didn't understand him, an accurate representation. This spring, he indicates that people usually understand him, but that he doesn't like school and does not like to cut, glue and draw. This is also very accurate, and very sad. He is going into Kindergarten with undeveloped fine motor skills, although both the home program and the private preschool worked intensely with him.

His mom and I chat after we all see the portfolio. She says that she and BJ still talk frequently about how much they miss me and my great toys. We confer on the plan for next year, but I am careful to support all the decisions they have made. I have to be very careful not to be his teacher any more. It is not hard here; his mother and his new teacher have done all the right things.

The next week brings a visit to Jose and his wonderful loving family. They have just returned from an extended visit to help Jose's grandmother in Venezuela. His sister has missed two months of school, and Jose has lost most of the English he has learned in the three years he has lived here. His mother and I know he will get it back, but it is painful to watch him struggle. He won't get any Special Education services in Kindergarten and no English as a Second Language services either. I can say nothing.

Jose's mother, his sisters and I all watch Jose watch the portfolio. He is enchanted by the pictures of himself, and laughs out loud at the picture of his mother in the reindeer sunglasses. I love this family. His mother is very computer-savvy, and runs a Spanish-language accounting firm out of her home. I show her how to change the words on the PowerPoint and we talk about using this portfolio as a tool to teach reading to Jose and his older sister. He will be fine, I say over and over.

When I call to make the appointment with Gabrielle's family, her mom invites me to come for dinner. I am taken aback at first, but quickly decide that of course I can go. I am not her teacher any more, and who cares? This will be fun.

I get to her house on a Thursday night, willingly forgoing Outdoor Conditioning again for a good meal that I did not have to cook. I sit and watch Gabrielle play very appropriately; she shows none of the anxiety she showed a year ago. We review the portfolio, and then I send Gabrielle's mom out of the room with her perception form to complete so that I can do Gabrielle's self-perception survey without the pressure of her mother hearing her daughter's answers. I learned this last year in this family and have employed this technique ever since with everyone—separate rooms and out of earshot. Kids learn early what the parents want them to say, and I want honesty.

Gabrielle is a very perceptive little girl. Last fall, she indicated that she did not like school, and was unsure of drawing, cutting and gluing, the very things she was in Special Education for. This spring, she moves her answers to the "sort of" (neutral) column for the questions about liking school and drawing/cutting/gluing. She gives an emphatic "Yes" answer to the comment "My friends like me." These responses are very gratifying for her mom, her school and me, after all the work we have put in to ease her social anxiety. We are getting there!

And then, who walks in? My best friend and replacement teacher, Mary! What a wonderful surprise, orchestrated by Gabrielle's mom. The three of us sit outside at the umbrella table on the patio and eat and chat while Gabrielle and her little brother play on the swing set. This family, which was approaching a dysfunctional level last year at this time, is normal. I love it.

I track down Emma's mother's new cell phone number—the family has had their phone disconnected. She is pleased to hear from me and we set up an after-school appointment. Again, most of the family is there: Emma, her two older sisters and her mother. We enjoy the portfolio, do the forms, and then I realize what all of the shared glances are about: they have a prepared a special Peruvian feast for me—afternoon tea with Peruvian pastries. This is such a treat, far from the South Beach Diet I try to stick to.

Emma's mother shares the location of the Peruvian bakery they patronize—only a few blocks from my new job location. We make plans to meet there for lunch. I hear about the Spanish immersion program that her sister Natalie is in, and that Emma is waiting to hear if she is accepted. They talk about the Peruvian dancing classes they take. I realize again that we "Born in the USA" people overlook and ignore the rich culture that our new families are bringing with them. I admire this family for not letting the American culture take over their children's lives. I leave this talented, smart, loving family carrying gifts of pastries and handmade pictures from the girls. What a joy it is to see them; I feel as if my work was really valued.

The next night (no Outdoor Conditioning again!), I head over to Leon's house. I am very curious to see how things are going here. When I last saw Leon, he was talking a bit at home, but not talking in the speech sessions or at school. But his new teacher made a radical move in her approach: doing all language work in the preschool classroom. His mother was not pleased about this, and the replacement teacher and I had several conversations about how to work with mom, but I think she did the right thing. And, it worked.

Leon is using short phrases with me, a virtual stranger. He "jabbers away," according to his parents, and they are very pleased. In fact, they are so pleased that they have pulled him out of the Home Resource Program against the wishes of his teacher. Hmm. I keep my mouth shut as they say, "He doesn't have to be perfect; he is doing OK."

In the short time I am with him as we look at his portfolio, I have to agree with his new teacher; I would not have dismissed him from Special Education services either. He is only using two-word phrases and they seem stilted and awkward. It is too easy for these kids to slip back, or to stop making progress, and getting back into the program for services is a bear. But it is also rather refreshing to have a parent say "He doesn't have to be perfect." I wonder how long that attitude will last in this pressure-filled county.

Leon is entranced by the portfolio pictures of him and his mother playing with my toys. When I pack up the computer to leave, he turns and stares at me, tears in his eyes. It is very clear what he is thinking: "Why are you leaving before we play with toys?" I am clearly a disappointment to him tonight.

It is very difficult to schedule the last two appointments. Kerri's mom is skittish as always. I push back a little, and she agrees to have an after-school appointment, with me promising that it will only take 15 minutes. It is tricky coming back into homes like this; I made sure that I told my former boss that I was doing this so there would be no problem on that end.

When I get to their beautiful house, I am welcomed with Kerri and her little sister running up to the door. Kerri says, "Hi, teacher!" This is the first time I have ever heard her put two words together! Her little sister is using full sentences, so the difference in development is becoming clearer every day.

We start to talk about Kerri's new placement in daily school-based preschool special education services, but all of a sudden, Kerri's aunt appears and her mom has to run out the door to an "appointment." OK, I get the picture. I can come, but she doesn't have to talk to me.

I really betrayed them, I feel. I didn't mean to, but I pushed them into testing and then into school-based services, ripping out the fragile support system I tried to build. They are alone now, and the school has taken over her education. I hate this. If I had stayed, the end result would have been the same, but I could have supported her through the change, and I could have made sure that the school gave her the support she needed. I hate myself for this.

And then I finally make the appointment with Byron and his family. These parents work two jobs each, and leave their kids in daycare for eleven hours a day. But they willingly make arrangements somehow for me to come after dinner one night, yet another missed Outdoor Conditioning. I lock all the doors on my car and brave their marginal neighborhood to see them one last time. I know this visit is going to be difficult. When I last saw Byron, I had managed to help his parents understand that he needed formal testing before Kindergarten. He has taught himself to read English fluently, but after four years in daycare, cannot even draw a circle. I am thinking 'Learning Disability.'

He was scheduled for testing the month after I left. I called and talked to the team of psychologists and social workers testing him. But I had no credibility; I was no longer his teacher and could not provide work samples, write a long report to go in his file, or attend the staffing and the eligibility meeting. And so now, as I sit down with his family, I am very apprehensive about what I am going to hear.

It is worse than I could imagine. The first thing they say, in broken English, is "We no happy with new teacher."

I don't know what to say. His dad goes on. "She does not, she is not, she does not like him. She say he is problem."

I can imagine. I know her, and I know Byron. He is one tough little kid with a real stubborn streak, but I like him very much. He has had to work hard to stay afloat in his daycare center with his significant learning problems; he is a survivor.

I start to say, "Here is the name of the boss," but then I stop and look at them. "It's too late." They nod. "I'm sorry." They nod again. We all sigh.

But then we open up the portfolio, and have a wonderful time. All of the family, Byron, his sisters and parents, are riveted to the screen as the pictures of him and my comments go by on the PowerPoint. I ask him to read my comments, and he sight-reads almost every word. And this is something I had written for adults, not for kids. He has such a strength here.

Then they run and get their new camera, an inexpensive digital camera with little 10-second movies of Byron playing soccer. We download these onto my computer, and we all watch them in the full screen and cheer as he makes a goal. It is great.

As I pack up, I think that I am leaving on a good note. I say, "He is going to get help in Kindergarten, right?" His mom nods and runs into the other room, bringing back the sheaf of eligibility papers familiar to any special education teacher. I scan them quickly and am dismayed to see that he was only given a label of Speech and Language Impaired, not the Learning Disability label I would have advocated for. I try to get out without showing my frustration and anger, but I don't think I was too successful.

I leave in a hurry, angry with the whole special education system. I betrayed this child too. If I had been there for him, I would have made sure the testers saw the whole picture: his strengths and his weaknesses—the discrepancy between ability and performance that is so crucial to the LD diagnosis. He needs more than this Speech label; he needs to get those Learning Disability services now, in Kindergarten. And he will miss out for two or three years of school, because now he will have to truly fail to get that LD label and those services.

In addition, because he is not a native English speaker, it will probably take even longer to get the help he needs. I could see that in his parents' eyes too; they know that things are not right, but they don't have the language skills or the knowledge to fight it. So they feel they have to trust the system. They trusted me to help Byron, and I didn't. I abandoned them.

I am not over this yet. I don't know when I will be. Maybe when I see them at the local Festival in a few years, or at the high school Homecoming parade, when his sister marches for her school, and they can assure me that things are OK. But I don't think that will ever happen. I will always worry about him, and be angry with myself for leaving and angry that the system failed him. I don't know.

My research presentation for NECC is called "Change Made Visible: Reflective Portfolios for Preschoolers and their Families." But I am the one doing the reflecting. And I don't like all that I see.

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