Mar 6, 2013 Teaching and Learning

Teaching, not Categorizing
©By Vijaya Sundaram
March 5, 2013

Today, having filled them out carefully over the weekend, the teachers in the Eighth Grade passed out the “High School Course Selection / Recommendation Forms” to our students.

This is always a big deal.

There are sighs of relief, fanning the air around the faces of some students: 

I made it, after all!

Oh, thank goodness. I won’t have to face my (WASP, or Irish-American, or Italian-American, or Russian, or Chinese, or Japanese, or Indian, or Pakistani, or Bagladesi, or Iranian, or French, or German) mother / father / grandmother / grandfather!

Thank goodness I won’t have to tell my [Harvard-educated, MIT-mentored, Stanford-schooled, Yale-feted, Berkeley-breathed (not the cartoonist!), Columbia-crested, Wellesley-weaned, Brown-begotten, Princeton-pampered] parents that I didn’t make it.

Thank goodness, I won’t have to tell my (Boston-Brahmin establishment-upholding, endowment-elevating, charity-donating, old-money-possessing) family members that I am in a middle or lower-level class.

Then, there are doubts in the form of winged question marks fluttering like moths around the heads of other students:

Am I no good then? Does she hate me, after all the time I spent, nodding and smiling, answering and participating, working hard, stressing out, sleeping less? Does she? What was the point of all this?

Am I no good then? Do I lack the brains? Do I not read and write well enough for her? Does she think I can only do this much, and no more?

Am I no good then? Does she think I cannot read John Steinbeck, because I didn’t understand the language in The Pearl? (That book is so hard! How can she expect me to understand it? And it was a book I didn’t like anyway!)

Then, there are always tears held in check in the case of some students. Sometimes, the dam breaks. The floodgates are opened. One could drown in their sadness.  (This hasn’t happened this year, but it could!):

I knew it. I’m no good, really. She’s just confirmed it for me. I am a dunce. I always was. I wonder what my I.Q. is! It must be in the low 80s. I’m sure of it!

I knew it. My mother / father / sister / brother / other teachers all told me that I didn’t really have it in me to do this, and I don’t. I’m never going to be good at anything. I might as well give up.

I knew it! I should just stick to skateboarding or hanging out downtown with my friends. It’s much easier. Doesn’t really demand work. I’m not good at thinking, anyway. When I’m sixteen, I’ll quit school!

There are the jubilant ones.
There are the doubtful ones.
There are the resigned and defeated ones.
There are the belligerent ones (Not any so far, this year).
There are the indifferent ones.
There are the realistic ones.

And through all of this, I feel terrible.

I never believed in levels for my subject– not at this grade, anyway! They’re only children, I say to myself. Give them the work, yes, but give them a break! Their brains are growing. Their tastes are changing. Their maturity is slowly unfurling its wings.

They’re only just beginning to understand that critical thinking isn’t about criticism.

In their book, up until now, or at least for several of them, inferring was the same as implying.

In their book, up until now (and probably still), to talk things over between themselves is the same as talking things over among themselves, because after all, all teenagers know that two is the same as more than two. Right?

In their book, to be beside themselves because they are roundly defeated in an argument is the same as the fact that an irrelevant factoid might be besides the point in a rational discussion, which fact pointed out by someone might make them cry. What’s the difference?  they might argue. They lost! That’s the point!  (This is the juncture where the chance to down a couple of aspirin is not to be passed up).

To be teenagers of thirteen and fourteen is to love a person, a subject, a teacher, a friend, a movie, a book, a celebrity, a cupcake, a dress, a hairstyle, a pet, a T.V. show, pasta, pizza, burgers, soccer, dance, music, musicians, actors, actresses, passionately, devotedly, equally … until they hate some of those same things equally.

They can indulge in rational thought, sure, just as they can call upon logic to prove points and impress grownups. They can don sensible behavior, like a school uniform, only to quickly lapse into absolute irrationality, stripping their minds of any sense, and donning foolishness, like those skimpy clothes that girls keep in their lockers (away from the eyes of parents) in order to change into them in the Girls’ Bathroom, and walk down the hallways in scandalous attire, only to be caught and made to change back into sensible clothes by the Assistant Principals or the School Nurse. 

Keeping all this in mind, I can (knowing that it will probably not register) use logic, trusting to their put-on rationality, and they will nod miserably and agree with what I’m saying, and then go home, cry to their mothers and say, “I hate her!  She hates me! She put me in the __________ level!”  Their mothers will say, “She doesn’t hate you, but you can put on your best behavior and be sure to make all your work pretty.  I’ll hire you a tutor, and you can bring your grades up.  Then, we can appeal her recommendation!”

How can I explain to them that these recommendations aren’t personal? That I spent hours looking over their grades, their essays, their tests and their quizzes, and mentally reviewing their class participation and accuracy of responses to thought-provoking questions? That I worry that I may have not been fair to someone, and thus go over my recommendations even more carefully?  That I might be condemning someone to feel like she or he is a failure, because she or he hasn’t been recommended for the __________ level?

So, the day passes. However, so far, no tears this year. Tomorrow, the day after, and all of the next few weeks, there will be a flood of emails, requests, pleas to change my recommendation. In some cases, the recommendation will change, if they improve between now and May.

Until then, we labor on, mightily. We hope the children won’t hate us. We don’t hate them. We love them. We want them to feel successful. Unfortunately, hidden in all these recommendations is the underlying feeling of unworthiness for students.

If the levels didn’t carry with them a number (credits in the High School) and a social stigma (idle chatter at suburban cocktail parties, status-related boasting, worry about college admissions, you-name-it), it would be wonderful. It would simply mean that people go where they can grow.

We teachers do all this in good faith.

The system, however, is ranged against good faith. The system needs numbers. Numbers are helpful. They can be used to impress, justify, silence. They can be manipulated to show a slanted viewpoint. They can be used to frighten and convince. Sometimes they tell the truth.

And sometimes, they are the enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End of My Rant~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: #Learning, Being teenagers, Course Selections, Rant, Recommendation for High School, Regret, Social Status, teachers, Teaching teenagers