The Greatest Job in the World

I was not in a good place last spring. Professionally, I was not being treated well. My co-workers and I went on strike for a week to address some major safety concerns and workers' rights issues, and we were condescended back into our jobs for a few months before we all left, got let go, or were bullied by supervisors into quitting. It really sucked. (Side note: that's the first time I've been able to talk about that situation in such a succinct way, instead of rambling on for hours about all the details of how the cards intentionally got stacked against us. I think that's progress.)

The summer was a time of relaxation and low finances. I stayed with SEA part-time, keeping an ear open for any alternative classrooms looking for Instructors.

I went in to interview with SEA's partner site at South Seattle Community College, wearing new slacks, a button up shirt, and my hair in "teacher mode", pulled back and held up in a clip, hoping to be taken seriously and look older than 15. The directors explained their program to me, I handed over a template for how I tutor math and a storytelling lesson I designed. They said they'd let me know, and did I have any questions for them. "How are the dynamics of the entire staff?" I asked, trying to sound as casual as I could.

The directors started explaining how they don't want people to sit alone in their office, the whole team really likes to know what everyone is going through and help each other. "In fact," said one director. "We don't actually want you dealing with any discipline issues. You're the teacher, your job is to teach. We're the directors, we want to handle any discipline issues you're facing." I almost started crying at the idea of a boss being so supportive, but held back and reminded myself I was in an interview and to be professional.

The second director chimed in and told me I wouldn't have many discipline problems anyway, the students were really great and really serious about their education.

I got offered the job, and I've been teaching Junior English and Pre-Algebra for several quarters. And that director is right, these are the greatest students in the world. There's hardly any apathy in the classroom, each student is incredibly engaged. I assign a persuasive essay, and I get emails asking if they can design a poster and present their essay to the class, it's an important topic that they want to share with their peers. I walk by the group of students known as the talkers sitting in the back of math, and see them explaining to each other how to divide decimals, jumping over one another to figure out these problems.

I hand out an evaluation and ask them how they feel about math. "Bittersweet," writes one student. That's one of the more positive remarks. "I don't have a problem with math," writes another student. "Math don't like me." Despite their anxiety and negative history with math, they put in 11 weeks of diligent note-taking and studying and piles of homework, and by the end they are multiplying improper fractions, then breaking them into number bonds to convert them to mixed numbers for final answers.

English is a little easier to goof off in, it's not going to help you figure out how to pay off your student loans someday. But still, the discussions students have after reading novels and plays are enthralling. My favorite question to ask them is, "How is our society different from this book?" followed by, "How is it similar?" Slowly they started to draw some similarities to The Giver, "We're told we can do what we want, but we're kind of set on certain paths in our education that lead us toward specific jobs." After we read A Raisin in the Sun, the comparisons flowed a lot faster. "People will still try to tell you where you can and can't live." The students hated Walter Lee at first, all he did was whine while the women in his family worked so hard. Then came the scene when he was finally going to invest the money, and he scooped Travis up and told him how things were going to be different. They paused. A few of them are parents themselves. "He wants his kid to be proud of him." Connections developed. Empathy was enhanced.

Their final assignment was to do a text response in class. They could write an essay on how the time period, author, genre, impacted the work. They could write a scene that wasn't in the play (What was it like when Walter borrowed his friend's car and drove and drove and drove? What was it like when Mama went around looking at houses? What happens when they move, and Bennie doesn't have money to finish school, and Mama can finally grow a whole garden, but the neighbors are threatening?). They could write a poem from the perspective of the main character. They could draw a scene that represented an important theme in the text.

One student had written his persuasive essay on climate change and greenhouse gases, which he had learned about in History that quarter. His text response was a picture of Chicago in the 1950s. The sun radiated dreams for the Younger family: school, investments, a house, a garden, a new baby, an office, travel. Then the greenhouse gases of bigotry and prejudice trapped their dreams, until they dried up like a raisin in the sun.

I pace around the classroom for hours, feeling like a hummingbird jumping to each student with a question. I run to grab lunch and pick up the copies before class starts. I stay late to get the student who missed class caught up, then finish my lesson plan and order my supplies for the next day. And I still leave more energized than when I came, feeling content and smiling to myself about something a student said.

I'm sorry to sound so sappy, but I have the greatest job in the world, and I'm so grateful to have found it.

RISK Learning Center

After a month of job searching, trying to cook, learning a few yoga poses, journaling, walking around Fremont, and going out to eat grilled cheese for lunch, Polly (my mentor from SEA) helped me learn about a job opening at Peace for the Streets by Kids from the Streets (PSKS).

PSKS is a partner site of SEA, and they share similar values.  PSKS has been around Seattle for 18 years, working with homeless and at risk youth and young adults.  There are lots of different programs, community building activities, outreach, case management, the list goes on for a while.  The idea for almost every program at PSKS came from the Core, a self-governing group of active and involved PSKS members who meet once a month to discuss the fulfillment of the mission and vision of PSKS.

My program, the RISK Learning Center, is a GED program for 16-25 year olds.  RISK stands for Re-Inventing Steps to Knowledge.  It's a low barrier program, students are expected to meet a minimum 2 day a week (6 hours) attendance requirements.  The school day is planned in a student centered way, and is intentionally left flexible to meet diverse student needs.

I love all the students I've been blessed to work with already.  They are all incredible, intelligent young people who have some story of being told "no" by society in one way or another.  One of the first questions I get when people hear about my job is, what are the students like when they walk in your door?  Do they carry anger, agression, behavior problems because of the way they have been treated?  While the students definitely carry baggage, they come to RISK dedicated to learning.  I am impressed by the hard work and commitment I have seen.  So many students come to me at the end of the day and ask for homework.  One of my volunteer tutors describes homework as a chance for the student to see how much they can do without the teacher present.  The students are eager to prove their progress and accomplishments are their own.

One of my favorite times of the week is the days when Cadence shows up early so we can listen to the lastest song he's created.  He uses some free software online to mix different beats and lines.  I ask one day what the difference between electronica and techno are.  After Cadence explains, I respond, "Ok, so electronica is more melodic, and techno is all about the rhythm and tempo."  Cadence raises his eyebrows a bit, "I guess."  His reaction cracks me up.  I explain that I'm classically trained in music, but I'm intrigued by Cadence's musical creations.  This is a classic example of my relationship with these students.  I don't try to pretend I'm anyone else but who I am, but I hope I make it clear that I'm open and supportive of whoever they are or what they're interested in.

The balance of my program is perfect for someone with my teaching style.  When Olivia, the previous teacher, trained me, she set me up for success.  She left me with a structured school day full of meaningful activities.  I also get a lot of flexibility in my teaching.  One of my tutors called me a hummingbird, flying around the room and hovering with each student for as long as needed, only to be called somewhere else at a moment's notice.  She sees how helpful this can be for the students, to be able to adapt to each of their individual needs, which is important in a GED program where someone is writing essays, someone is working on fractions, and three more students are learning algebra.

I can switch up the schedule when needed or desired.  We have art on Fridays with a volunteer, and on December 21 my co-worker David told myths about the end of the world, then taught some students how to make their own planets with spray paint art.

I enjoy being open to all the different student needs, but I can also tell I'm still treading water.  I need a little more time to get my feet under me and be the most creative teacher I know I can be.  When I have more planning time (next summer?), I hope to create a few lessons that highlight the key concepts of the 5 GED tests.  One of my tutors is wearing a "Punctuation kills: Let's eat Grandma" T-shirt on Tuesday, so I'm going to use this opportunity to try structure the day with a group grammar lesson!  Let me know if any teachers reading this have some good punctuation games or activities.

Jerri

When I first moved to Seattle two years ago, my grandfather, a retired American Baptist pastor, told me two of his and my grandmother’s friends from college were here, Jim Rowland, and Jerri Bottomly.  When I started looking for a church community and found Seattle First Baptist online, I had a feeling this was the place where my grandparents’ friends would be.  My parents confirmed my suspicions, and told me how my grandfather still had multiple copies of dozens of sermons by Rod Romney that Jerri had sent my grandmother over the years.

I first met Jerri in Fellowship Hall while she was busy serving coffee.  As soon as she learned who I was, she exclaimed, “You’re Donna Beth’s granddaughter, I want to know all about you!”  The feeling was very mutual.

Despite the generation gap, Jerri treated me like a friend.  She took me to lunch many times and asked me all about my life and told me all about hers.  I immediately loved Jerri’s honest and open nature.  She told me the stories about my grandmother I hadn’t heard anywhere else.  Stories of living with my grandmother and other Round Robin friends, as they call themselves, in college.  She joked with me that she was one of the catalysts for my grandparents’ relationship, that she’s part of the reason I am here today.  We traded poems, stories, and other pieces of writings about my grandmother.

I told her I was thinking about joining the church.  “I’ll be your sponsor when you do!” she said.  It wasn’t a choice, but it didn’t need to be.

When I think of Jerri, I will think of bright and bold colors.  I will think of how loving and supportive she was.  I will think of a positive, beautiful spirit.  I’m so grateful for her friendship and the opportunity to have her in my life these past two years.

Sitting

I've had a few Sit Spots in my life.  While studying abroad in New Zealand, I visited a sit spot twice at Quaker Acres.  As I settled down next to the Peace Pond for the first time, I woke up too late to the fact that I was sitting by stagnant water at dusk.  Despite being eaten alive by the mosquitoes, I liked that spot to sit, and its serene and calm beauty in an obvious way.

Last year at IslandWood we had to do sit spots as a year long project for our Natural History and Ecology class.  We were told to sit for at least half an hour, so that our presence would stop being a disturbance to the natural flow of the ecosystem.  We were also told to visit our spots at different times of day, to see different patterns.  Dawn and dusk were my richest experiences sitting on the decomposing log off the first turn from the Treehouse Loop by the bog.

I want to go out to my sit spot during the evenings more, because on the 20th at three points a large bird, possibly an owl, swooped from one of the trees close to my log down to a tree on the other side of the spine trail.  Unfortunately, these bird sightings happened right as dusk was approaching, probably the worst time to actually see the birds.  What amazed me was how quiet the birds were.  Each time one flew near me, I had no idea it was there until I saw it, its wings made no noise during take-off or landing, which gives me the idea that this bird was hunting. ~Natural History Journal, 9/20/2009

The majority of my IW classmates became slackers when it came to this project, and I was no exception.  In about February I became invested and did five sit spots every other day, connecting my spots to another assignment we had and writing poems about my sits.  Overall though, my sits were sparse and scattered.

To prepare for my IW sits, my summer homework was to find a sit spot and sit two or three times.  This idea seemed ludicrous while running Camp Fraser, but I managed to work in two sits and even found the inspiration for my poem "Words in the Woods."  That spot was the campfire by the Deer cabin; I had a sick camper resting in the cabin, so my main sits felt more on edge than I thought the assignment was asking for from me.

My favorite sit spot assignment was at Earlham College for my class "American Literature and Ecology," taught by Scott Hess.  Scott has worked on pieces of writing calling for a localized concept of nature and wildness, instead of traveling to the ends of the earth and spending resources to find a sublime picture of the wilderness.  Our class focused on dissecting the dichotomy between natural and cultural areas, so perhaps it was fitting that my sit spot was my favorite hill on campus, which was really a drainage ditch.

The prompts Scott gave us for our sit spots were unlike any other way I had been asked to sit in nature.  He asked us to write reflections each week on our spot, sometimes asking us to look for patterns, imagine our spot 100 years ago, bring someone to our spot and reflect on that experience, write in a character voice about our spot, make a piece of fiction set in our spot, interact with our spot in some way.  Through Scott's class, I felt moved to see myself as an active member of the habitat of my sit spot; as a part of that place.  Instead of sitting quietly for half an hour and observing everything I could, I would roll down the hill, climb the tree, walk around my spot, bring friends with me and chat with them through my sitting.  I might not have seen as many birds or mammals this way, but I noticed the blades of grass, the dragonflies, and most importantly I recognized how I felt being a part of that space.

I breathe in the night air and feel my own memories seep in through my mouth.  Memories I scatter each time I come here.  I shake off a few moments of my life, and leave them in the soil.  They nourish the grass as it grows and get eaten by the bugs and fly through the air back to me and remind me of themselves when I least expect it.

Rolling down the hill is hard tonight.  I always give myself up to the hill, let my vulnerabilities down and then the hill takes them as I roll away and I think to myself, "And what?" and listen and hear the hill is speechless so I keep rolling.  Tonight I'm holding back for no apparent reason, and when I don't let the vulnerabilities go they're still inside me as I roll and punch around me with each rotation down the hill.  

That hill remained an important spot for me at Earlham.  Almost all my friends could tell you a time when we went to roll down it together some night.  It was a rare sledding spot during the Indiana snowstorms.  Despite being nestled by two buildings and a parking lot, there were some great views of the stars from lying on one's back at the bottom of the hill after finishing a good roll.

Photo by Emily Schankerman

At my house in Seattle, I got the inspiration from my friend Lily recently to go outside first thing in the morning, instead of turning on my computer and looking at a screen immediately after waking up for the day.  I make a cup of tea, sit in the sunniest spot I can find, and spend fifteen to twenty minutes listening and observing.  I've heard a robin's song, gotten smiles from some passersby, complete avoidance of eye contact of others, said "morning" to the neighbor as she drives off to work, seen the gray squirrels that crawl all over the roof at night, and breathed fresh air.  It's not as isolated from society as my previous sit spots, but after Scott's class, I prefer it this way.  The photo is by my roommate, as an example of some of the wildness one can see from our front porch.

As a lifelong learner, I'm glad to experience the value of this activity with no grade or judgment lingering in the future.  It's my new morning ritual; a way to set the day out on my terms with the world.