Under Pressure

Tomorrow the weight will lift and life at my school will return to "normal." I use normal lightly because, really, the last 7 months of test craze has become normal for most of our kids. However, though the testing window closes, the anxious waiting sets in and nerves beget paranoia and paranoia begets hyperventilating and hyperventilating begets oh-my-god-the-world-is-going-to-end-and-it's-all-my-fault, etcetera etcetera and so on and so forth.

But why this doomsday attitude over a little bit of testing you ask?  Well, let me unleash the inner nerd to break it down for you, policy style.

A little background info, first, shall we?

So there's this little thing called No Child Left Behind. As part of this, every child in the U.S. must meet/pass individual states' standardized assessments by the year 2014. Each state has interpreted this law and set forth a plan to reach this goal. For the state I am in, each year since 2002 the requirement of students passing reading and math assessments has increased incrementally by 10% every two years. This percentage of growth year-to-year is called Adequate Yearly Progress, affectionately nick-named AYP. 

Now, when I say passing, I mean the state looks at several areas and each area must meet the percentage of students passing each assessment. They look at attendance first, then participation (we must have at least 95% of students take each assessment), and finally cut scores (what meets and does not meet). Within each school, they look at many different groups and each group must meet these percentages. They look at each school as a whole, and then break it down into subgroups. Under NCLB, subgroups include major racial/ethnic groups, Limited English Proficient, economically disadvantaged, and students with disabilities. 

Many of my students are what we call a "trifecta" student, meaning they fall into our major ethnic group, LEP, and SPED subgroups. This means their score doesn't just affect one subgroup, it affects all the subgroups they are in. So, when a school does not meet the percentage laid out by the state, either as a whole or in one subgroup for one subject area, they are penalized (I should clarify, only Title I schools, which are schools that receive money from the federal government for assistance due to having a certain percentage of economically disadvantaged families, are penalized, while every school statewide is monitored). 

If a school does not meet the yearly percentage, they are placed onto a watch list. At the end of the second year on the watch list, if they still have not met the expected percentage in all subgroups, they are placed into sanctions, which increase in severity for each year the percentage passing is not met. 

My school is currently in year four sanctions. During year three, we received extra funding from the state to implement programs to support our subgroups that did not meet (which were SPED and LEP), as well as state and district staff coming in to support administrators and teachers. Because of this support (and the teachers busting their asses), we met AYP for that year (HAPPY HAPPY DAY!!!). However, schools in sanctions must meet AYP two years in a row to pull out of sanctions. 

So, this year the pressure was on. I had to get 70% of my students taking the reading and math assessments to pass, or at least a specific percentage of growth known as Safe Harbor. Last year, my percents in the SPED subgroup, as determined through a very complicated formula that no one seems to really know, were 72% passing reading and 67% passing math (which, due to Safe Harbor, meant we passed that area). 

But alas, this year the pressure seamed to be too much for my totally awesome kids. We busted our butts (and our brains) to get them over that bar they set so high last year. A majority of those who passed last year did so again, thankfully. Sadly, though, many of my students did not pass, and for a slew of reasons, with the main one remaining at they are students with learning disabilities. 

While we improved in math, the area I was most concerned about, we slid backwards in reading significantly. My predicted percentages are reading- 48% and math-68%. So, it is with a heavy heart that I must admit, short of a miracle in mathematical formulas that only the state has, we will not be passing year four AYP, thus remaining in sanctions. Of course, news of whether we actually meet AYP will not come until mid-August. But until then, I'll put on a good face for my kids, while really, deep down inside I am heart broken that I couldn't have done more for them. 

On that note, let's start planning for next year!

If you are interested in learning more about AYP, check out this site and look at the AYP Key Points, unless of course policy is your thing, then you should check out the technical manual.

Outdoor School

This last week I was honored to spend three days and two nights with 33 sixth graders at an outdoor science school on the coast. I won't go into an essay explaining every detail, but instead, here are some pictures of my favorite moments (sans kid faces).

A quiet kid I bonded with sitting in the sun the first day next to the beautiful lake.

One of the two kitties roaming the camp.

Recreation time. You'd think they had never been to the beach before.

End of the first day.

Good morning, coast!

Animal field study included digging for mole crabs. 

Crabs found= 0. 

Shoes soaked= 66. 

Pure joy of learning= Priceless.

Squid dissection. Every kid touched one, even the squirmiest girls.

Salix and Aquifer. 

Part one of the steepest, muddiest hike ever.

The reward for finishing part two of the steepest, muddiest hike ever. 

The last morning at camp was glorious. This was my favorite spot- The Arc of Silence.

Witches Hair lichen covered tree in the morning sun.

Headed out to the beach for Earth Field Study. 

A map of our state. I still haven't figured out what landmark the giant stick is...

We were supervised by two sunning squirrels.

Oh hi there, Mr. Donkey.

I just liked this picture of this creepy guy. Coincidentally, it looked just like one of the camp staff.

Being sung out by the staff and counselors.

A fun ride home where we all faked sleeping.  

Conk

I have many unnecessary talents- super fantastic shower singer, nail biter extraordinaire, touching my elbows behind my back, etc. None, however, is as awesomely useless as my aptitude for hurting myself. Some examples include tripping over invisible gremlins, mysterious bruises from unseen paranormal entities, and numerous quantities of cuts, scrapes, and gouges from the extremely pointy to the frighteningly dull. I dare say, no one is as talented as I.

In case you doubt me, let me share this gem. The irony is, I was just telling my students how I was doing so well at not harming myself at school. I should know better by now, I should've knocked on wood.

The afternoon began as normally as can be expected from four sixth graders recovering from Spring Break. We took our regular break at the end of the day to play tag on our playground, just us five. While they were squealing around and dodging grasps from eager hands, I was sidestepping swipes and yelling commands of my own. With one minute left, the rain advanced across the field. They took little notice but I decided to hide under the the taller portion of the play structure.

Smart move, I figured. Avoid the rain and hide from the tagger- I shall be the master after all! That is, until I popped up to see where my opponents were... A resounding thunk and everything flashed black. Tears instantly streamed down my cheeks, completely involuntarily. There may have even been a couple words muttered that were not "school appropriate." I choked back my pain and stepped out, calling the rascals back to the den so I could nurse my wounds.

I managed to dismiss the kiddos and make it through several meetings, thinking nothing of my wounded pride or battered skull. It wasn't until I was moving around the school, blazing through the to-do list, that I realized, huh, the world was spinning just a bit, and, gee, there were parts of my field of vision that were a little fuzzy. So I called urgent care, and surprise, surprise, they wanted me to drive to the most distant and notoriously busy urgent care to be checked for a concussion.

After two and a half hours of waiting and a five minute chat with the doctor, he diagnosed a mild concussion and cautioned me to avoid large, looming metal beasts such as playgrounds and robots. Thanks, doc.

Playground- 1. Me- 0.

Weight a Tick

I have recently taken on all the sixth graders who come to my room for reading so we can dive into the book, A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L'Engle. All of sixth grade has read the book, less our five kiddos, and we really wanted them to be included. It's safe to say that most have never done a novel study before, so it has been an adventure.

As part of this little project, we have added a new student to my original group of four. His name is Giggles, and, as his name describes, he does little else but giggle. It is down-right infectious (sometimes) and at the same time, counterproductive. His giggles are partly due to his ADD, which takes his mind anywhere and everywhere but the place I intend it to go. So, it is with great pleasure that I share one of the most random thoughts we have stumbled upon while discussing liverwurst sandwiches (a popular topic in the first few chapters of the book).

A lull in the conversation followed by:
Giggles: Mrs. Teach?
Me: Yes?
Giggles: You are skinny. Like, really skinny.
Me: Ummm... okay. Shrug back towards the other kids to return to conversation.
Giggles: No, I mean, you are, like, the skinniest person I have ever seen. It's not bad. It's just really weird. Your arms are just so skinny. It's, like, you know, scary.
Me: Silence and a blank stare.
Other kids: Silence with gaping mouths.
Giggles: What? Looking around at other kids.
Other kids and Me: Crazy laughter.

At this point I am thinking, this boy means me no harm with his words, he is just being honest... but, I should give him some advice so he doesn't comment on any other woman's weight so bluntly; possibly save him a future beat-down by an angry girlfriend. So, it went a little something like this:

Me: Giggles, my friend, I appreciate your observation. You are correct. I am, indeed, very skinny. But, let me give you (and you other three boys) some advice, woman to future men. 
Boys: A round of giggles.
Purple Girl: Expectant eyes on me.
Me: Never comment on a woman's weight. Ever. No matter how small or large they may be, most women do not want to hear what you have to say about their weight unless they ask, and even then, it's a trap. Do you know what I mean when I say that?
Boys: Silent understanding.
Purple Girl: Frantic nodding.
Me: This is just a general guideline to keep you out of trouble until you understand women more, but until then, just avoid that subject. Trust me.
Purple Girl: One final, confident nod at the boys, and a knowing smile shot my way.
Boys: Panic-sticken looks to each other and a muttered, "Yes, Mrs. Teach..."

Walls

The busiest time of the year has fallen upon us teachers and, thus, the blog falls by the wayside. I will try to fill in the holes with some of my great adventures soon but I will start with the one that weighs most heavily on my mind for tonight.

Bipolar disorder is a nasty thing for adults to live with. Even worse for children diagnosed with the disorder. Hiccup, one of my favorites who oddly resembles the "How to Train Your Dragon" character, is one who manages to survive... barely.

He came to us in fourth grade and is now a sixth grader. Him and I have had our fair share of "adventures," if you will, from racial slurs yelled at students/teachers and the multiple tall tales/stories/exaggerations/flat-out-lies, to the manic mood swings of euphoric highs and abyss-like lows that can change within seconds. My staff and I have witnessed changes in meds, family life, counselors, homes, teachers, and friends. I have counseled him on how to start a paper and held his hand as he told me he didn't want to live, that the world would be better off without him. I have lost many hours of sleep worrying if this kid would make it to my door after a long break and how far down the path of depression I would have to go to find him.

Last week was one of those weeks where everyone hits a wall. And for Hiccup, he hits it silently, like a fledgling bird against a window, left flapping in the bush, hoping someone will notice. I always do. Maybe I notice because my sibling is very much like Hiccup and I know the silence and quiet withdrawal. But this time I was more stirred by his retreat into himself. One of his classic lines is, "I don't care about this school." Lie. I know he does. He just wants me to argue. So I do. Until he says, "You don't care about me."

"Excuse me? What did you just say?" I mutter with a slight hint of venom. He repeats, avoiding my eyes. He has never once called into question my loyalty to him. So I tell him just what I think of that comment, in the firmest, look-me-in-the-eyes-or-so-help-me-Zeus voice that I can muster, "Mr. Hiccup, don't you ever accuse me of not caring. I have stood by you when few others would. I have called your parents and held conferences and defended you when no one else would. I set up guitar lessons with my husband, worked with Mrs. P to get you a guitar, and check in daily with you on your progress. Mrs. P and I chose to give up a Saturday morning to go to one of your lacrosse games and have you barely acknowledge us, but did we mind? No, because we got to see this great kid play his heart out and be happy- we were happy to support you. I don't just do all that for kids I don't care about. So don't you tell me how I feel- that I don't care."

We sit in silence and then I notice that tears are creeping down his face and my tone changes. I ask slowly, after an eternity-length pause, "Is it weird to know someone cares about you so much?" He nods. "You put up walls so you don't have to think about how other people feel about you, don't you?" Again, he nods. "I will always care, walls or not," I say. To which he replies, "I know." We talk more about what is really bothering him (his peers) before his mom pulls up and he saunters off without so much as a good-bye, which is customary in our relationship. We never again speak of the talk we had but he lingers just the littlest bit longer when I see him and smiles just a little bit softer when I say I am glad to see him today, as always.

I will not cure his depression or even be able to scale the walls of it, but maybe one day he will realize there is someone who cares, nonjudgemental and supportive, waiting on the other side.