One of the best rewards of teaching in an urban school has been my realization that I am not intelligent but the product of an education based mainly on the zip code in which I was born (plus perhaps three other factors, namely my enrollment in preschool, my parents divorce that moved me from distracting suburb to pensive countryside, and my admittedly docile entry into sports, leading to a quasi-religious study of Sports Illustrated's every issue from 2000-2007).
I'm embarrassed to admit that it took me so long to realize all this, but certainly relieved that my mediocrity is now mine to cherish.
Over the break, I found myself comparing my family, home-street (it's not big enough to qualify as a hometown), and childhood experiences to those of my students. The contrasts can be glaring, but the similarities are surely amusing.
Language
On the final day before break, a mother came in to the school. J., the mother's son, had been regressing during the last few weeks, in my all-important teacher opinion. He had been cursing and acting a bit defiant and rude. I told his mom this, and she said something like, "That ball that you so love, I'll take that shit away. You won't be on no team if this shit continues."
For years, my family has loved retelling the story of how, as a young child, I called everybody a 'shithead'. Then, in Kindergarten, my parents were summoned to my school because I wouldn't stop saying 'fuck'. My parents were so horrified (although surely unsurprised–absolutely no offense at all, family, but I had to learn that shit somewhere), that they consulted my pediatrician, who gave tips for cleaning my dirty-ass mouth.
Now I think only three or so words are completely unutterable, the rest, dependent on the context, are ripe for the picking. The point isn't the 'bad' language but the fact that my parents went to a pediatrician whereas some of my students' parents likely do not have such easy access to a potty-mouth professional.
Getting to and from school
Every day on my bike ride through the polluted, dense streets of Hartford, I pass the same student walking to school. I experience bitter cold as I somehow avoid the snow packed into the bike lane. The student looks bundled up, but that's a long walk (at least a mile and a half) in sub-20° weather.
Back in my childhood, I lived 12.5 miles from school. A heated bus came and picked me up. It also picked up a friend of mine who lived a tenth of a mile from the school.
One of my basketball players has to walk to a nearby elementary school every day to pick up her little sister. I excuse her for being late, and sometimes after practice, the little tyke chases after basketballs that are one-third of her entire body.
In elementary school, my mom had a job that allowed her to pick me and my sister up from the bus stop, which was about a four-minute walk away from home.
Words
According to an article on NPR, children from low-income families hear around 30 MILLION FEWER WORDS (*update: forgot to add by the age of three) than children from more affluent families. And more recent research has found that as early as eighteen-months-old, toddlers from low-income families already trail their wealthier counterparts by months in terms of language development and processing.
I sat next to a man and a woman on my plane ride home. They took turns holding a two-month-old baby that was presumably their offspring. I wanted so bad to tell them about this research, that they should just sit by that little babe's cradle and read to him for hours on end, but not wanting to appear patronizing, quelled my urge. Still, how blindly lucky I was for getting those extra 30 million words (which surely included shithead and fuck) that many of my students missed out on.
Lunch
Throughout my schooling, my mom packed me a sack lunch, as I fondly remember calling it. My sack lunch almost always consisted of a samich, a yogurt, and a granola bar. I got so sick of samiches, yogurt, and granola bars, but I ate them because I had few other options as a broke, car-less child.
Meanwhile, every single student in the school I work at qualifies for a free lunch. And although public school food is improving with the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act, the new requirement of a half cup of fruit or vegetable to compliment sloppy joes probably isn't as nutritious as was my egg-salad samich plus mixed berry Yoplait® yogurt.
(Also, the above link is to a paper I wrote, which feels neat for me. You don't have to read it–actually I'd prefer if you didn't–but I wanted to link to it just to show off–an urge perhaps stemming from my fear that my Journalism education was all for naught as I now find myself in a different industry that doesn't use a wink of my expensive education–wait, this is all just temporary, I remind myself, no matter how painfully entrenched I feel.)
Fantasies of one day making it to the NBA
Back to J., the first student I wrote about. After our chat with his mother, J. came back into the classroom and enjoyed the rest of the movie (remember, this was the day before Christmas break). After the movie ended, J. raised his hand and asked to watch a highlight video of a high-school hoops phenom. Naturally I agreed, quieting the giddy girls who surely had their hands raised to request more One Direction.
Anyway, as the highlight video reeled, J. says, "BANG! Hello! I wanna be like that! I'm gonna make it to the NBA! I get up every morning at six to practice. It's like...my dream–the N...B...A.
When I was his age, every time I saw a clock signal it was 11:11, I would beg the universe, "Please, let me be in the NBA." I would repeat this as many times as possible for an entire minute–a long time when staring at nothing but a clock. I also made a goal to shoot hoops at least once a day, every day, between the ages of 12 and 16.
I didn't make it to the NBA. J. might make it to the NBA, or he might not. But at the age of 12, he and I were/are simultaneously polar opposites and the same damn person.
Except I had better hair.
I'm embarrassed to admit that it took me so long to realize all this, but certainly relieved that my mediocrity is now mine to cherish.
Over the break, I found myself comparing my family, home-street (it's not big enough to qualify as a hometown), and childhood experiences to those of my students. The contrasts can be glaring, but the similarities are surely amusing.
Language
On the final day before break, a mother came in to the school. J., the mother's son, had been regressing during the last few weeks, in my all-important teacher opinion. He had been cursing and acting a bit defiant and rude. I told his mom this, and she said something like, "That ball that you so love, I'll take that shit away. You won't be on no team if this shit continues."
For years, my family has loved retelling the story of how, as a young child, I called everybody a 'shithead'. Then, in Kindergarten, my parents were summoned to my school because I wouldn't stop saying 'fuck'. My parents were so horrified (although surely unsurprised–absolutely no offense at all, family, but I had to learn that shit somewhere), that they consulted my pediatrician, who gave tips for cleaning my dirty-ass mouth.
Now I think only three or so words are completely unutterable, the rest, dependent on the context, are ripe for the picking. The point isn't the 'bad' language but the fact that my parents went to a pediatrician whereas some of my students' parents likely do not have such easy access to a potty-mouth professional.
Getting to and from school
Every day on my bike ride through the polluted, dense streets of Hartford, I pass the same student walking to school. I experience bitter cold as I somehow avoid the snow packed into the bike lane. The student looks bundled up, but that's a long walk (at least a mile and a half) in sub-20° weather.
Back in my childhood, I lived 12.5 miles from school. A heated bus came and picked me up. It also picked up a friend of mine who lived a tenth of a mile from the school.
One of my basketball players has to walk to a nearby elementary school every day to pick up her little sister. I excuse her for being late, and sometimes after practice, the little tyke chases after basketballs that are one-third of her entire body.
In elementary school, my mom had a job that allowed her to pick me and my sister up from the bus stop, which was about a four-minute walk away from home.
Words
According to an article on NPR, children from low-income families hear around 30 MILLION FEWER WORDS (*update: forgot to add by the age of three) than children from more affluent families. And more recent research has found that as early as eighteen-months-old, toddlers from low-income families already trail their wealthier counterparts by months in terms of language development and processing.
I sat next to a man and a woman on my plane ride home. They took turns holding a two-month-old baby that was presumably their offspring. I wanted so bad to tell them about this research, that they should just sit by that little babe's cradle and read to him for hours on end, but not wanting to appear patronizing, quelled my urge. Still, how blindly lucky I was for getting those extra 30 million words (which surely included shithead and fuck) that many of my students missed out on.
Lunch
Throughout my schooling, my mom packed me a sack lunch, as I fondly remember calling it. My sack lunch almost always consisted of a samich, a yogurt, and a granola bar. I got so sick of samiches, yogurt, and granola bars, but I ate them because I had few other options as a broke, car-less child.
Meanwhile, every single student in the school I work at qualifies for a free lunch. And although public school food is improving with the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act, the new requirement of a half cup of fruit or vegetable to compliment sloppy joes probably isn't as nutritious as was my egg-salad samich plus mixed berry Yoplait® yogurt.
(Also, the above link is to a paper I wrote, which feels neat for me. You don't have to read it–actually I'd prefer if you didn't–but I wanted to link to it just to show off–an urge perhaps stemming from my fear that my Journalism education was all for naught as I now find myself in a different industry that doesn't use a wink of my expensive education–wait, this is all just temporary, I remind myself, no matter how painfully entrenched I feel.)
Fantasies of one day making it to the NBA
Back to J., the first student I wrote about. After our chat with his mother, J. came back into the classroom and enjoyed the rest of the movie (remember, this was the day before Christmas break). After the movie ended, J. raised his hand and asked to watch a highlight video of a high-school hoops phenom. Naturally I agreed, quieting the giddy girls who surely had their hands raised to request more One Direction.
Anyway, as the highlight video reeled, J. says, "BANG! Hello! I wanna be like that! I'm gonna make it to the NBA! I get up every morning at six to practice. It's like...my dream–the N...B...A.
When I was his age, every time I saw a clock signal it was 11:11, I would beg the universe, "Please, let me be in the NBA." I would repeat this as many times as possible for an entire minute–a long time when staring at nothing but a clock. I also made a goal to shoot hoops at least once a day, every day, between the ages of 12 and 16.
I didn't make it to the NBA. J. might make it to the NBA, or he might not. But at the age of 12, he and I were/are simultaneously polar opposites and the same damn person.
Except I had better hair.