Why Field Trips Rock

Field trips are a pain in the ass.

I hate collecting permission slips and hearding students through the turnstiles of the 3 train.

I hate having to convince students to sign up without the promise of McDonald's.

I hate that too often I must beg them to leave the most dangerous neighborhood in New York City so that they can see something different.

But for the few students that do decide to go (yesterday it was only 5) it's beyond worth it.

Sometimes it's just the revelatory, revolutionary experience of walking in Times Square or Greenwich Village.

Sometimes, like yesterday, it's the experience of witnessing amazing theater from the vantage point of the front row.

Sometime's it's just the new act of eating at a restaurant that doesn't have pictures on the menu.

Whether it's to MOMA or the New Victory Theater or even John's Pizza, field trips bring me back to the roots of why I decided to embark on this special and challenging journey that is teaching.

They show that "getting out" is possible.

In the span of a 30 minute subway ride, my students are able to see the beauty and wonder of their city instead of the tragedy and hopelessness.

They're able to see, experience, a life outside of Rockaway Avenue.

They're able to be treated, if only for an afternoon, as citizens instead of statistics.


And that's worth it.

Even when they still ask if we can go to McDonald's.

Tagging Desks and Other Gripes

Not to say that this compares to say, being able to read and write, but why oh WHY do my students write all over the desks?

"GBABY" and other tags are scratched in pen on my classrooom tables semi-permantely. (Alas, Lysol wipes can only erase so much.)

Is it because they're bored and can't think of anything else to do?

Is it the semiconscious subversive act of defacing school property?

Is it just plain fun?

Is it because the tables are, well, there?

As I look at the candy and gum wrappers left on the chairs, tables, and floor from the day before, the faint tags become yet another irksome item to add to my list of "things that are out of my control."

Sure, I could ask them to stop doing it (which I have) or penalize them when I catch them in the act, but what actual good would that do?

In these days of triage teaching, where I'm trying to reach as many "out of reach" kids as possible, and cover such matters as ending punctuation and reading comprehension (not to mention how to THINK), a few pen "tags" are small potatoes.

And yet, they are extremely frustrating ones. Just like the .30 bags of potato chips my kids eat.

Pointless, cheap, and sadly, expected.

Each One, Teach One...

....so we're reading Macbeth in Shakespeare (they LOVE it) and I asked them to compile a list of the ways they experience tyranny and oppression in their lives so as to compare their experiences with those that the tyrant Macbeth is oppressing.

First responses were pretty expected:
Cops
Bad Influences, Friends
Drug Dealers
Schools
Liquor Stores
Gang Members
Stereotypes

And then...Ms. L said,

"Precious."
Me: "You mean the movie, based on Push?"

L: "Yeah, it made me feel like it was one of them. That I went to a school like Each One, Teach One."


To all those who've ever heard me say I wish I was Ms. Rain...

I guess I'm closer than I thought.

We Are From

From my Social Literature classes last Tuesday, our second day together.

(We each wrote our own I Am From poem, then contributed a line to make a collaborative one.)

We Are From

We are from Flatbush Brooklyn where the Crips call it Crooklyn

We are from the hood

We are from .50 sodas and quarter bags of chips

We are from everything spicy

We are from Aunt Adrienne's lasange at Thanksgiving.

We are from "If you don't pass your classes, don't ask for shit for Christmas."

We are from double-dutch and freeze tag

We are from staying out, getting right, to coming in late at night.

We are from mommies, our dreams, evergreens.

We are from roti and curry chicken.

We are from under my bed, "keep trying, never give up."

We are from the borough of Brooklyn where either you with us or against us.

*

We Are From

We are from summer afternoons of Mister Softy and strawberry ice cream.

We are from Blind Man's Bluff and freeze tag.

We are from where there is no winter.

We are from Big Meech and Hoover.

We are from the streets of broken bottles and "You can be whoever you want to be if you put your mind to it."

We are from big hearts and open arms.

We are from the hills of love and hope.

We are from Brooklyn: East New York, Crown Heights, Canarsie, Brownsville, Bed-Stuy, Flatbush, Fort Greene, Farragut, Coney Island.

We are from Polo tennis skirts, Gucci button downs, Burberry jackets, pants and t-shirts.

We are from Yankee fitteds to Pradas.

*

We Are From

We are from skelly in the park

spliffs after dark.

We are from backyard parties and Wet Fete to Labor Day and Reggae Summerfest.

We are from Tommy to Polo,

from talkin' to ridin' Dolo.

We are from where you're not.

We are from whippins' for crazy reasons like diggin in the pot.

We are from Mommy's Oxtail and rice and peas on Sundays.

We are from Veronica's Place in Flatbush where the kids come to play

We are from shootouts and gunfights

Ruff necks and dirt bikes milli.

We are from Martin Luther King to always fighting in the ring

We are from Madame CJ Walker and experiments for hair and

from my nagging Aunt screaming "don't you dare."

We are from my favorite Lenny's pizza shop where I eat chicken till I pass out.

We are from sitting in my room to playing hide and seek.

We are from playing Nintendo to listening to "knock yourself OUT."

We are from Brownsville, never ran never will.

Lenses, lenses everywhere!

So I'm not saying that the 80 grand I took out in loans was totally worth it, but I tried out some progressive "critical thinking" pedagogy in my Social Lit classes today it was pretty damn successful. And cool.

Racisim
Sexism
Classism
Feminism

We use the words. A lot. Everyday.

And it's only the 8th class.

For example, when asked how we could apply our lenses to poems we're studying, Q in 7th period said, "I can use the feminist lens in My Papa's Waltz because the line "mother's countenance could not unfrown itself" could mean that she can't stop the abuse because she's a woman."

I mean, REALLY?????

Granted, this was 7th period, which is strikingly collegiate like, but still.

Applying the feminist lens already???

I am a proud propagandist teacher, I am.

Next up: bitch and the feminist lens. Or why saying it every other sentence might not be the best idea.

Zombie

The week is halfway over and it feels like it should have been Friday two days ago.

Back to life, back to reality, back to Do Nows and poetry, back to "take your hat off" and "put your phone away," back to hidden brilliance and questions like "why is Jamie so dramatic?"

Back to 6:30 alarm clocks.

Zombie, oh zombie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBgewcFh-cg

Feminism

Social Literature

Shakespeare

Fantastic new classes and ideas to explore, and all I want to do right now is sleep.

Zombie, oh zombie.

The Memoir Experiment

Hiya Kids! I realize it's been almost two months since I last wrote, but, you know, it's summer. I've been doing awesome things like going to Italy and eating way too much pizza. But now that I'm sufficiently carb filled and rested (my days usually go like this: eat, read, eat, read, walk, repeat), it's time to get back on the writing wagon. And I thought I'd start things off with an excerpt from a recent project from my Memoir I Class I took at Gotham this spring.

The only context I think you need is to know that I'm sort of kinda thinking about writing a memoiresque book about my experiences as a teacher, and this something I've come up with so far.

Ciao!

PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 1)

Acting to Teach

My plan was to be a professional actor. And I was. For about five years.

In 2001, I received my B.A. in Theater from George Mason University (located in the suburbs of Washington DC) and immediately hit the pavement as a “working actor” in the nation’s capital. Armed with an arsenal of 2-minute monologues, 16-bar song selections, and a “God I hope I get it” attitude, I believed in my art and in the pursuit of it.

And then: I got tired of being a secretary. Or a personal assistant. Or a barista.

I got tired of working day jobs that turned my brain to goo and left me less than thrilled to schlep to auditions where everyone looked like wannabe Eponines from Les Miserables, including me.

I got tired of knowing that I could be so much more than an ensemble member in a yet unnamed modern dance/crime drama in a pseudo-professional production in Towson, Maryland.

I got tired of knowing that my days could be spent doing so many other worthwhile activities than preparing for the Merrily We Roll Along chorus auditions for the fifth time.

I got tired of feeling like a waste; that time was running out to do something with my life.

And so I went back to the only other thing I’ve always been really good at besides acting: bossing people around. Or, in other words, teaching.

Let me back up. From the time I was two years old and addressed a metal coca-cola truck as my pet dog “Bo Pat,” I’ve been excellent at two distinct things 1) pretending to be someone I’m not and 2) giving people orders.

Acting and Teaching. Done and done.

I “acted” with my parents, my aunts and uncles, my brother and cousins. I bossed around neighbors, grandparents, classmates and even strangers. Between the ages of 2 and 12, I lived in a multi-genre world of imagination. Tragedies, Comedies, Musicals, even Soap Operas, all received my “touch” as an actor/director/playwright/producer.

Here, for your pleasure, is a typical scene from one my early “ pertend” creations:

3-year-old Jamie: Mommy, let’s pertend that you stand here and say hello and then I say hello and then we both walk over here and pertend to eat breakfast.

Jamie’s silent, wisely obedient, sandy-haired, 5 foot Momma: Ok.

(Scene continues for a few more moments. And then the dénouement.)

Little Jamie: You pertend you’re eating Cherrios and I’ll pertend I’m eating Rice Krispies.

End Scene.

Chekhov I was not.

But I was prolific. And enduring.

I once spent two solid hours on the basement stairs “smoking” cigarettes made out of black Bic pens and pretending I was an alcoholic who was in danger of losing her kids. (My parents’ experiences as social workers in the child welfare system of West Virginia provided a particularly deep pool of inspiration.)

Alcoholic dramedies aside, my all-time favorite pertend production was school. It was my Cats, if you will. I played it in my room, in the backyard, at even, school. I most often played it, however, on my grandparents’ terrace.

***

PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 2)

Do and Pa’s Terrace

From between the ages of six to twelve, my younger brother Zack and I spent our Tuesdays and Thursdays at Do and Pa’s house while our mother worked part-time (Note: I invented the name Do and have no idea how or why I did so. The story is I got it from saying, “Do this and do that.” But I’m pretty sure that’s bogus. I think it was just an early indicator of my odd, yet delightful strangeness. My grandfather was always Pa. Just Pa.)

For most of our childhood, my brother and I shared very little in common (He was athletic, blonde, skinny, good at math whereas I was dramatic, brunette, pudgy, and lived in my own head). The one item we agreed on, however, was the awesomeness of afternoons at Do and Pa’s. Why? #1: The snacks. Junkwise, Do beat our Mom’s hands down: Doritos, Bugles, Cheetos. We didn’t have these treasures at our house. Even the leftover cookies from the days she volunteered at the local bloodmobile were gold. And she had these little wicker baskets we could keep our handfuls of Cool Ranch in. The woman even made portion control fun.

#2: location, location, location. Do and Pa’s house offered near limitless pertend opportunities. There was the front yard off to the right of the driveway where the mint grew – that, during ages nine and ten, was my choice location for playing “house.” There was the cabin, which was literally a cabin attached to the side of the house that my architect grandfather ingeniously constructed in the early 1960s, and where my grandparents made their bedroom. It was also where I made my imaginary hair studio. (Do was my only client.)

And finally, there was the terrace. The “terrace” was essentially a patio made of flat bricks that adjourned one of the only non-hill sections of the backyard. (This was West Virginia, the Mountain State, after all.) It ran the length of the kitchen and living room and was where we had all outdoor cookouts, birthday parties, etc. It was also the location of my first classroom as a teacher.

You see, in addition to the patio furniture I could arrange into desks and classroom formations, the terrace had an undisputable trump card: a blackboard. And this wasn’t some dinky chalkboard on an easel like the ones they had at Kmart or Toys R Us this was a blackboard affixed to a wall – just like the kind they had at school. And given that it attached to the siding directly below the kitchen window, it was also just my height. Genius.

So, from ages six to eleven, I played school most Tuesdays and Thursdays on the terrace (weather permitting). My actual lessons were usually mimics of that night’s homework (spelling lists, math problems) or simple grammar assignments. (Twenty years later, at NYU, I would learn that these direct moments of instruction are called “mini-lessons.”) My strength as an imaginary teacher was never in content. My focus then, as it is now, was in student relationships.

For hours on the terrace, I would call on my imaginary students to answer. To come up to the board. To sit down and be quiet. To share their responses with the class. Never mind that if you were my grandfather and happened to look out of the kitchen window all you would see was a slightly chubby, kinky haired eight year old Jamie wearing polka dot leggings and her favorite Jamz sweatshirt talking to herself. To me, my classroom was full and alive. Students working feverishly, all clamoring for attention from Mrs. Boileau. (I wonder what my eight year old self would think of my current students addressing me by first name? I doubt the younger me would approve; I was quite traditional in my pedagogy back then.)

The greatest evidence, however, of my attempts at building strong (imaginary) student relationships exists in my infamous “notes home.” After going over the day’s spelling list or fraction problem, my teaching day often culminated with one or two letters home that I would write on my grandfather’s note pads. The correspondence usually looked something like this:

Dear Mrs. Smith,

Your daughter Alicia was very bad in class today. I am worried about her behavior. I had to write her name on the blackboard twice.

Please come see me as soon as you can.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Boileau

My grandfather, Pa, whose imagination and sense of empathy was less forgiving than my grandmother’s, would find several of these notes in various locations throughout the house.

Looking back, it’s probably not that surprising that he thought I was a schizophrenic.

Fast-forward twenty years, and my classroom has moved from my grandparents’ terrace in Bluefield, West Virginia to a crumbling, public school building in Brownsville, Brooklyn.

The students have changed from imaginary white 3^rd graders to seventeen and eighteen year old African American, Dominican, Jamaican, and Haitian young men and women who desperately need a second chance.

I still act and I’m still bossy.

Pertend has become reality.