church

Today in the United States, “culture” is said to be divided into two warring religious and secular sects. Even as the concept of “family” becomes the crux of the divide, an increasingly large percentage of parents are raising their children without religion.

And as alien a concept as the Death of God might be to religious families, the labyrinth of religious ritual is becoming equally as foreign and repugnant to the new secular generations.

So, in the interest of bringing greater understanding to both sides, it seems necessary that secular thinkers ask the question: What do we lose when we lose religion?

Having grown up Catholic, though I am often skeptical of the Church, I am still grateful for the exposure to a faith tradition. By providing a certain ritualistic framework, my upbringing developed in me a mode of introspective thinking that is not always comfortable for those raised in a secular environment.

The Catholic ritual of reconciliation, or confession, in particular, encourages this mode. This ritual consists of a parishioner goes into a room where a priest sits and confesses to sins as mundane as nagging or teasing one’s sister (my childhood go-to) or as horrific as murder.

Most people are familiar with this practice through its depiction in movies, but movies universally leave out a step: The examination of conscious, which takes place before the confession and is more or less a moral checklist that the parishioner reflects upon.

Where I feel friction is with the content of the moral checklist; I find it difficult to swallow the dichotomous and arbitrary labeling of certain actions and thoughts as sin. But whether or not one agrees with the theology, it cannot be said that there is no value in learning to take concentrated, intentional time to examine one’s being in the world.

To this point, while on a JVC retreat this past January, I became familiar with the Jesuit prayer practice of Daily Examens. Though somewhat similar to the examination of conscious, the Jesuit concept differs slightly in that it is more an examination of consciousness.

It is not purely moralistic, and it does not prescribe proper actions. It merely invites one to go over the day and the habits, thoughts, feelings and interactions that surfaced and were. In its final step, it also prompts one to dwell on the next day, to prepare for the possibilities there.

Similar to this idea, the Bardo Thodal, or the Tibetan Book of the Dead, calls prayer smon-lam, which literally translates to ‘wish-path,’ and says this:

“It is not a request to an external deity, but a method of purifying and directing the mind. It acts as inspiration by arousing the mind’s inherent desire for good, which attracts the fulfillment of its aim.”

Though this and the Examens may be dismissed by some because of their religious language, how does one achieve goals other than by intentionally identifying one’s own desires? What could be more useful and practical than questioning oneself on a daily basis about one’s own progress towards those desires?

Of course, in a religious context, one’s own desires should be aligned with the desires of the Church. But this habit of reflection, sometimes known as prayer, might possibly be equally useful to the millions of secular people who desire to live in a right relationship with the environment, with the underprivileged, and with their own friends and families.

The learning curve of a teacher is steep and treacherous. Students are hyper-aware of every mistake, every inconsistency, and every sign of weakness.

They know a good teacher when they see one, and they know a green one. They have, after all, been observing teachers for years by the time they enter your classroom.

Students will give immediate and legitimate feedback —whether it be complaints or poor test-scores— and if a teacher cannot adjust, is either incapable of perceiving that feedback or adverse to then responding to it, they should not be in the classroom.

And honestly, after enough negative feedback, they won’t want to be.

Therefore, a new teacher’s job is to adjust every day, because inevitably, they are making many, many mistakes.

I happen to be a non-native Spanish speaker teaching native Spanish speakers how to produce and comprehend their own language, so my students are often able to call me out on pronunciation or vocab errors. They love this, and because I still have something to teach them about culture and history and literature and grammar, I don’t mind it either.

But the following mistakes impede learning of any kind. They fall into two categories: those that a new teacher can be taught to avoid ahead of time, and those that they will learn to respond to through experience.

Teachable

Backwards design
Make the test first, know exactly what you want them to know, establish the learning objective, and then teach it. My first unit was less than successful because neither I nor my students knew what I wanted them to know.

Procedural structure
It is ridiculous how much class time one can waste on small things like turning in assignments, starting class, and writing down homework. To my surprise, I was told that teachers actually plan these seemingly insignificant activities to minimize wasted time.

For example, for the first month, my class wasted 5 minutes asking questions about the homework, and I often answered the same question three times.

Now, I have their homework assignment on the projector when they walk in the door and give them 3 minutes to write it down in their planner. If they don’t finish in three minutes, they can ask me or a friend after class. This way, we start class immediately, they know what we’ll be learning about that day, and they ask fewer questions.

Not so teachable 

Pacing
There is no way to know how long an activity will take before actually bringing it before a class. Even then, each group of students will react to an activity in a different manner. Seemingly, mastery of pacing only comes with experience, and until then, have back-pocket activities, just in case.

Expectations
I came into this year having no understanding of what middle school boys are capable of. There’s a balance between expecting too much and expecting the best from students. Having just come off of college, I am still adjusting to this, but I’d rather expect too much than underestimate or bore my students. Besides, recent research is saying to scrap the textbook and go for more scholarly texts, anyway.

So, there are certainly qualities of good teaching that can and should be taught thoroughly, but also some that only come with time and real experience. The trick is to have both at the same time.

About a week ago, while paging through a Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel  —partially destroyed, thanks to the handling of a certain, spirited 6th grade journalism class— I realized that I know more about the local politics and needs of Milwaukee than I have ever known about my home town.

So, I decided to register to vote in the state of Wisconsin.

This late in the process, Wisconsin’s only avenue for same-day registration and voting is in person at the Municipal Clerk’s office. Of course, in order to find that out, I first went to the public library, where I was directed to City Hall, where I was then directed to the clerk’s office, where I then stood in the wrong line for ten minutes until I finally found myself in the right line with the right paperwork and the right identification.

In Oregon, I’ve always just mailed my ballot in. No lines, no waiting. Easy and convenient.

But as I stood in line, watching volunteers and voters pour in and out, being a part of this concerted effort to vote, I didn’t feel inconvenienced. Instead, there was electricity in the air and a sense of urgency and pride; a sense that what was being done there was important, that our vote —and even more than that, our effort— counted for something.

There is, I realized, a great deal of difference between filling out a ballot at your kitchen table, removed from any sort of community, and standing in line with fellow citizens, making a decision as a community, regardless of individual affiliations and beliefs.

During the American Revolution, in The American Crisis, Thomas Paine wrote that, “What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: ’tis dearness only that gives everything its value.”

It may seem trite to compare voting to war, but in a way, the analogy fits. Mail-in voting is easy and probably does encourage busy citizens to fill out a ballot, but a part of me also believes that something as important as voting should take some effort, if for no other reason than to remind us of that very importance.

Growing up, I never wanted to be a teacher. I thought it was out of the question for me, an impatient  introvert with questionable planning and time-management skills. Teachers are born, are they not? Some people are just naturals.

My senior year of college, I realized that, natural or not, I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted that environment of constant, intentional learning, and I wanted to share the ideas I loved with others.

Yet, I was also certain that were I to find that I was not a natural, I would look for another career. I’ve had enough teachers who shouldn’t have been in a classroom, and I have too much respect for education to be one of them.

My personal fears have been reinforced by the rhetoric surrounding education and the recent slew of teacher’s strikes, especially in Chicago. In an interesting ideological switch, liberal politicians and media have mostly villainized teacher’s unions, calling them reactionary and resistant to any critique that blames them for our educational woes.

Teachers, it seems, are the problem. For the sake of simplification, let’s say that this is so, that the blame lies only a little with overpopulated classrooms, lack of resources, and unstable family structures.* If that’s so, then teachers must also be the solution.

How, then, do you teach teachers how to teach? The message, from both liberals and conservatives, teachers and administrators, is decidedly mixed.

Recent research shows that teachers with MAs deliver no better results than those with a BA. This dovetails with what I’ve heard about education programs. Courses that teach teachers how to teach are, by and large, a complete waste of time. It’s about classroom experience more than anything else.

Yet, I’ve had teachers who had been in classrooms for 20 years, teaching next to nothing for all 20 of them. And unions are criticized precisely for protecting tenured teachers.

And then there are programs like Teach for America, frequently hand-picking smart, motivated college graduates with absolutely no experience, providing very little instruction, and throwing them into a classroom to sink or swim. There, the swimmers tend to produce higher than average results.

So, experience means nothing, but neither can good teaching be taught, supporting the idea that teachers are born, not made. That’s the rhetoric. And it’s a rhetoric that, after only a month of teaching at Nativity, I no longer believe.

But more on that later.

*If anything, simplification is the problem. Even the best, most natural teacher cannot fill the place a parent fills, cannot give individual attention to 40 students, cannot teach students how to succeed in a technology-driven world without computers. It’s easier to place the blame on the “other” than imagine a total cultural and systemic restructuring that would affect us all.

In history, literature, and myth, to know the true name of one’s opponent is to have some power over them.

In the German fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin, the heroine can only free herself from her promise to the magical being by discovering his name. In Mark 1:21-28, a possessed man calls Jesus “the holy one of God” not to acknowledge Jesus’ position, but to gain power over him. Even Frodo Baggins gains some power and influence over Gollum by happening upon his real name, Smeagol.

In the classroom, the same theory applies.

In Tattoos on the Heart (an excellent read, by the way, on the dynamics of gang culture), Greg Boyle remembers that on his first day in a low-income school, a veteran teacher told him that his first and most important job was to learn names.

This does two things. First, it gives you the power of the demerit. A kid who discovers that you don’t know his name also realizes that you won’t know who’s name to put on a detention slip. No name, no consequence.

But it does something much more important as well. We all like to hear our names spoken by people we love or trust because our name is the one thing that symbolizes our entire being and identity. Using a student’s name signals to that student that they are worth being known. That’s true power.

There are 80 students in my school, and the teachers here know every one of their names, and I’m getting there.

Of course, when there are three sets of twins in the 6th grade, this all gets a bit more complicated.

Every day, twice a day, I walk across a very long bridge on my way to my school. The bridge spans the highly industrialized Menomonee Valley, which splits the city into a north and a south side, a black side and a Latino side.

To me, the bridge is also a daily reminder than in 2010, Milwaukee was deemed the most segregated city in the United States by the Brookings Institution.

The north side, where I live in Merrill Park, is home to a predominately African American population. When I come home, the kids in our neighborhood are playing hoop on our basketball court, sometimes asking if the boys can come out and play. They usually respect our space, though they talk a lot of slang, and every so often, one of us has to lean out the window to ask them to clean it up.

The south side, where I work, is predominately Latino. In the past, it was home to poor, European, Catholic immigrants like the Irish and the Polish. A Jesuit friend told us that the joke used to be that the 27th Street Bridge was the longest in the world, because it linked Poland to Africa. But St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, with its old European stained glass windows, now hosts Spanish masses.

The white population, the descendants of those poor, European immigrants, has fled to the suburbs or built up a few gentrified centers in the downtown area.

Besides my bridge, I find myself running up against boundaries in other places as well. These are the intuitive and learned emotional and relational boundaries, rather than the physical.

One neighborhood girl in particular, “Missy,” has me questioning my understanding of what it means to live in solidarity with a low-income population. She’s seven and alarmingly sassy. As in, she knows too much about the world for a seven-year-old. But she also likes tumbling and playing house like any other seven-year-old.

Which was why it seemed perfectly natural to befriend “Missy” like I would a next door neighbor in my suburban hometown. But it isn’t exactly the same. The more I find out about her family life, the more I find myself wanting to “save” her. But there’s a boundary. It isn’t my job, or even in my power, to “save” her. I’m not her teacher or her mother. The most I can do is be a friend and role model.

On the other side of the bridge are my boys. My students. There too, I’m finding the boundaries to be shifty. With kids, I’m used to being the big sister or the babysitter, but in this case, I’m a teacher, not a friend. Friends are great, but only a teacher commands the respect necessary to maintain discipline, and discipline provides an atmosphere in which learning can happen.

It seems that establishing new roles among people and in situations one has never encountered before is a practice in defining and discovering boundaries. Most are there for a reason, but I still struggle with other boundaries that segregate or separate.

And while I hate to end another post with a question, how does one know where to draw the lines?

5th grade boys, when asked to read silently for 20 minutes will inevitably:

  • Get out of their chair to find “something” in their cubby. When asked what that            “something” is, they will suddenly and mysteriously forget.
  • Ask to use the bathroom. Twice. They will still be surprised the second time when they are told to wait.
  • Talk in what they think is a whisper but is actually clearly audible to everyone in the room, even teachers.
  • Forget their book at home and read a take-home handout 20 times rather than say anything.

5th grade boys, when asked to read silently for 20 minutes will also:

  • Teach you the difference between a toad and a frog (toads have less predators because they taste bitter, and frogs are less rough to the touch).
  • Be interested in your perspective on the relationship between Peter and his younger brother Fudge in Judy Blume’s Superfudge.
  • Tell you that they either want to be a marine biologist or a lawyer, but not a divorce lawyer because the divorce lawyer in the book they are reading doesn’t get to spend much time with his family.
  • Be gleeful to hear that carrots can really and truly turn your skin orange.

When they say “It’s the small things,” they mean 5th grade boys.

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