One of the things I will miss about my classes this summer are the crazy misunderstandings that come from our attempts at conversation (they always seem amplified when the conversation involves a child's perspective).
Example #1 comes from a homework question answered by a student who, although paying some attention in class, had obviously not read the assignment.
Homework Question: What was one practice of the Catholic Church that the Reformers objected to in the 15th and 16th Centuries?
Real Answer: "The selling of indulgences as a means of salvation."
Student's Answer: "The selling of old Jesuses to get to heaven."
I had to think of that one for a few minutes and read it out loud before I figured out that indulgence and old-Jesus really do kind of sound the same.
Example #2 is even better. It comes from a conversation I had with a student in class. I'll call her Alex.
Alex: "Ms Trim, do you like chocolate?"
Me: "Yes I do . . . but then, when you think about it, do you know very many women who don't like chocolate?!"
Alex: Ms Hill doesn't like chocolate.
Me: That's true. But Ms Hill only eats healthy things.
Alex: Some of the stuff she eats is DISGUSTING!!! Did you know she eats toads?!?!
Me: (thinking - she's a vegetarian) Toads? I don't think so. What do you mean?
Alex: Yeah she does! It's called toad . . . toad . . . toad-foo, I think.
Me: Not toad-foo, Alex. Tofu.
25 May 2010
16 March 2010
The fluorescent lights flickered on, a few seconds late as usual. They were on a motion sensor, and every morning for the past five months, the delay was just sufficient to make her wonder whether they would come on this morning, or whether she had unconsciously flipped the switch off on her way out the door the previous afternoon.
Five months. It didn’t seem possible, but yes, it really had been that long. Five months since she entered the stark classroom on a grey Monday morning, armed with nothing but a nearly empty binder, a tiny Bible and two glossy high-definition satellite image maps: one of the United States and one of the world.
She remembered hanging the maps on the painted brick wall above the sink, feeling foolish for thinking that two pictures could make much difference in the dirty, dingy room. She longed for bright posters, for vibrant landscape photographs, for illustrated graphs and timelines. But her substitute salary could hardly afford such decorations. The other teacher had left little decoration in the room, besides the school-mandated “seven habits of highly effective people” written with magic markers in lovely penmanship on squares of white poster board. How she would have loved to trade the trite sayings (sharpen the saw, begin with the end in mind) for familiar proverbs and comforting promises from Scripture. But of course, in this public school classroom, that was even more impossible than the landscapes and posters.
In the end, the maps had helped. At least they hid some of the larger stains on the bare wall. At least they provided two familiar things in this strangely foreign world. They had been purchased, once upon a time, by a mother anxious to have her children familiar with world geography. It was good, in the weeks that followed to have that visual reminder that education could be something besides chaos. She clung to that even as she learned to let go of her dream of an enthusiastic, well-ordered group of shining faces eagerly discussing the impact of, say, the feudal system on modern political and social ideals.
Like a homesteader in the pioneer days she had stood in shock that first day at the impossible task before her. As the pioneer may have felt upon discovering that his claim was covered in rocks or a swamp, she was dismayed by the almost physical resistance of her students, by the chaos and despair that had built up in the weeks leading up to the first teachers breakdown. Why had she accepted this job in the first place? What had made her think that she, with plenty of education but almost no training, could reach a group of students who seemed to need discipline far more than they needed math or history? And yet, like that homesteader here she was, with little choice but to accomplish the impossible. Those maps on the back wall became her claim staked on the room and, in a sense, on the children.
It wasn’t much but it was something, and in the weeks and months to come more somethings would follow. Little drawings and notes written by students were hung on the walls and cabinets around her desk. The students desks were arranged in a more approachable order, and the students made to keep them in that order, or at least put them in order before they left the classroom. She had taken a rag and a bottle of windex to the desks, bleaching out marks left by months of pencils and even a few pens and then had taught the children to keep their desk clean if they didn’t want to clean them during recess or lunch. More recently she had begun to use the same bottle of bleach to attack the miniblinds and the book shelves, slowly cutting through years of dirt that had been neglected in favor of more pressing matters, but which, for some reason, seemed almost essential to eradicate.
During the quiet time while students were testing, she had enlisted those who finished early to cut out paper tulips and her paste them against blue construction paper on the windows. There were still no posters or landscapes, but she had finally ventured to hang one verse on the wall, a Proverb, one which was not ostensibly religious but was clearly relevant “Do you see a man who excels in his work? He will stand before kings, he will not be an unknown man.” She left it reference-less. It was no attempt at evangelism, just sound, age-old advice. Surely no one could complain about that.
Today, as she sat behind her desk for a few moments of quiet before the start of the day she took a deep breath. Somewhere in the last five months, this little room had become her own – and it no longer frightened her. The physical changes were reflections of other, less tangible advances, progress so slow and subtle that it was easy to miss on days when she was tired and frustrated or when the noise level was just a bit too much. But it was progress. And she was, at least in this moment, content.
Five months. It didn’t seem possible, but yes, it really had been that long. Five months since she entered the stark classroom on a grey Monday morning, armed with nothing but a nearly empty binder, a tiny Bible and two glossy high-definition satellite image maps: one of the United States and one of the world.
She remembered hanging the maps on the painted brick wall above the sink, feeling foolish for thinking that two pictures could make much difference in the dirty, dingy room. She longed for bright posters, for vibrant landscape photographs, for illustrated graphs and timelines. But her substitute salary could hardly afford such decorations. The other teacher had left little decoration in the room, besides the school-mandated “seven habits of highly effective people” written with magic markers in lovely penmanship on squares of white poster board. How she would have loved to trade the trite sayings (sharpen the saw, begin with the end in mind) for familiar proverbs and comforting promises from Scripture. But of course, in this public school classroom, that was even more impossible than the landscapes and posters.
In the end, the maps had helped. At least they hid some of the larger stains on the bare wall. At least they provided two familiar things in this strangely foreign world. They had been purchased, once upon a time, by a mother anxious to have her children familiar with world geography. It was good, in the weeks that followed to have that visual reminder that education could be something besides chaos. She clung to that even as she learned to let go of her dream of an enthusiastic, well-ordered group of shining faces eagerly discussing the impact of, say, the feudal system on modern political and social ideals.
Like a homesteader in the pioneer days she had stood in shock that first day at the impossible task before her. As the pioneer may have felt upon discovering that his claim was covered in rocks or a swamp, she was dismayed by the almost physical resistance of her students, by the chaos and despair that had built up in the weeks leading up to the first teachers breakdown. Why had she accepted this job in the first place? What had made her think that she, with plenty of education but almost no training, could reach a group of students who seemed to need discipline far more than they needed math or history? And yet, like that homesteader here she was, with little choice but to accomplish the impossible. Those maps on the back wall became her claim staked on the room and, in a sense, on the children.
It wasn’t much but it was something, and in the weeks and months to come more somethings would follow. Little drawings and notes written by students were hung on the walls and cabinets around her desk. The students desks were arranged in a more approachable order, and the students made to keep them in that order, or at least put them in order before they left the classroom. She had taken a rag and a bottle of windex to the desks, bleaching out marks left by months of pencils and even a few pens and then had taught the children to keep their desk clean if they didn’t want to clean them during recess or lunch. More recently she had begun to use the same bottle of bleach to attack the miniblinds and the book shelves, slowly cutting through years of dirt that had been neglected in favor of more pressing matters, but which, for some reason, seemed almost essential to eradicate.
During the quiet time while students were testing, she had enlisted those who finished early to cut out paper tulips and her paste them against blue construction paper on the windows. There were still no posters or landscapes, but she had finally ventured to hang one verse on the wall, a Proverb, one which was not ostensibly religious but was clearly relevant “Do you see a man who excels in his work? He will stand before kings, he will not be an unknown man.” She left it reference-less. It was no attempt at evangelism, just sound, age-old advice. Surely no one could complain about that.
Today, as she sat behind her desk for a few moments of quiet before the start of the day she took a deep breath. Somewhere in the last five months, this little room had become her own – and it no longer frightened her. The physical changes were reflections of other, less tangible advances, progress so slow and subtle that it was easy to miss on days when she was tired and frustrated or when the noise level was just a bit too much. But it was progress. And she was, at least in this moment, content.
19 February 2010
On Forgiveness
(remember me? yeah I didn't think so. Probably no one ever reads this anymore and if so I don't blame you. not that you'll ever know I don't blame you, since you don't read this . . . )
Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?”
Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.
Matthew 18:21-22
I never really thought of myself as a person who struggled with forgiveness. Not that I gave myself any great spiritual credit for that - it seemed a personality thing. For one thing I have a short attention span - too short to really hold a grudge. For another, I simply hate pain of a broken relationship and am willing to do almost anything to "make everything okay."
But now! Now I am learning a whole new type of forgiveness. One that's not at all natural, or rewarding or . . . much of anything really. I'm teaching junior high. I have two hundred students. A solid quarter of these have no desire to listen, to obey, or even to have a mildly civil conversation. On the contrary, several try intently to do everything in their power to irritate and annoy me (this is not my imagination. They have boasted of it - to my face - proudly). So far I'm holding up okay - no screaming, no cursing, no crying. But my outward and inward responses are often two different things. Inside I'm frustrated - even angry. How dare a 13 year old boy think he can tell me to . . . well never mind! I won't repeat it! How dare a 12 year old girl defy me publicly in my ever delicately balanced classroom?!
Its one thing to forgive a sibling or parent. I can forgive a heartbreak or embrace a roommate or friend whom I dearly love. But to forgive someone who has never shown himself lovable, to smile every morning at someone who has promised herself to hate you - no matter what. That's a different story. Its easy to forgive where you love. Its a lot harder to forgive and then try to love.
But once in a while I have small victories. A conversation with that boy who told me to do that thing I wouldn't repeat earlier, helps me see him - not as someone sent to ruin my life, but as a real person, a real child with pain and sin and all the baggage. I realize that, in this context, its not enough to want things to be okay. I have to see myself the way I see him; as a person unlovable, undeserving, and yet - miraculously - forgiven. I haven't got it yet - but I think I'm learning!
Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?”
Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.
Matthew 18:21-22
I never really thought of myself as a person who struggled with forgiveness. Not that I gave myself any great spiritual credit for that - it seemed a personality thing. For one thing I have a short attention span - too short to really hold a grudge. For another, I simply hate pain of a broken relationship and am willing to do almost anything to "make everything okay."
But now! Now I am learning a whole new type of forgiveness. One that's not at all natural, or rewarding or . . . much of anything really. I'm teaching junior high. I have two hundred students. A solid quarter of these have no desire to listen, to obey, or even to have a mildly civil conversation. On the contrary, several try intently to do everything in their power to irritate and annoy me (this is not my imagination. They have boasted of it - to my face - proudly). So far I'm holding up okay - no screaming, no cursing, no crying. But my outward and inward responses are often two different things. Inside I'm frustrated - even angry. How dare a 13 year old boy think he can tell me to . . . well never mind! I won't repeat it! How dare a 12 year old girl defy me publicly in my ever delicately balanced classroom?!
Its one thing to forgive a sibling or parent. I can forgive a heartbreak or embrace a roommate or friend whom I dearly love. But to forgive someone who has never shown himself lovable, to smile every morning at someone who has promised herself to hate you - no matter what. That's a different story. Its easy to forgive where you love. Its a lot harder to forgive and then try to love.
But once in a while I have small victories. A conversation with that boy who told me to do that thing I wouldn't repeat earlier, helps me see him - not as someone sent to ruin my life, but as a real person, a real child with pain and sin and all the baggage. I realize that, in this context, its not enough to want things to be okay. I have to see myself the way I see him; as a person unlovable, undeserving, and yet - miraculously - forgiven. I haven't got it yet - but I think I'm learning!