Afterschool

Today is the first time in two years that I've had an end-of-marking-period "afterschool," in which I stay after school (duh doi) with kids so that they can do work.  Traditionally during these things, I tell the kids I can stay until the custodians set the alarm.  In Federal Way, that was 10 p.m., though I never had a kid stay that late; I think the latest was around 8:30.  Here, the alarm is set at 6 p.m., so I'm staying two days in a row to make up for it: today and tomorrow.

Because afterschool always comes near the end of the marking period, it coincides with me being ridiculously stressed out.  I dread it a little bit the day before it happens.  After all, here I am, trying to figure out kids' grades, drowning in paperwork, unsure what I'm teaching the next day, and totally unable to get work done while kids are actually in the room, so why am I taking valuable time away from my life?  Don't I need this time for, you know, EVERYTHING?

(And it's not like I can use afterschool for doing any of this stuff.  "Why don't you just grade while we're in here?" a girl once asked, to which I responded, "Do you actually want me to grade your work when I'm this distracted?  Because I don't think you do.")

When afterschool is happening, though, I remember why I'm doing it.  The kids, normally so distracted and zooey during the school day, tend to be quiet and focused.  They're allowed to have their phones out and to listen to music.  They're allowed to eat.  They're allowed to sit where they want to sit, and if they start distracting each other, they don't protest if I move them (honestly, most of the time they move themselves).  They mostly don't need my help; they just need me to be there with them while they write, to approve a paragraph or direct them towards a task if they're not sure what to do.

They're here because they need a quiet, safe space, away from their families and jobs and the drama of their friends and frenemies and whatevers.  They're here because they're capable, they just need some unstructured time in which to sit and plug themselves in and get it done.

In Federal Way, afterschool always started the same way.  I would write a note on my board telling kids to get settled while I took a quick walk around the campus -- being in the same classroom all day is hard.  When I got back, there would usually be about twenty kids in there, some working quietly and some freaking out:

"What's my grade?  What do I need to do?  Ms. Crawford?"
"Do you have that Purple Hibiscus color marking?  I need a copy!"
"IneedalaptopIneedalaptopIneedalaptopIneedalaptooooopppp!"
"What do I need to do Ms. Crawwwwfooooooooooooord helllllllllllp."

This is all relatively easy to triage, so I'd set up stations, sign out some laptops, and have a seat with the kids who needed a little more direction.  Easy peasy.

Then I'd just... sit.  Sometimes I'd read, or clean.  (I know you will be shocked when I tell you that my classroom was occasionally slightly disorganized.)  It is impossible to focus with twenty teenagers in your classroom, so often I'd just watch them be ridiculous and hilarious with each other.  Girls who were aloof in class would let themselves be goofy when they were on their own time.  Boys would ask for help for the first time now that they weren't surrounded by their friends.

As it got later in the evening, the crowd would thin.  Some students would go out to get dinner from the convenience store, and even though I told them not to, they'd often bring me a snack.  Eventually there would just be a few lone students and I'd have opened the shades so that the classroom was clearly visible from the outside, the brilliant warmth of Classroom D1 spilling out into the dark Pacific Northwest night.

Usually, those students would talk to me as they finished their work.  They'd thank me for staying after and ask me questions:  Why did I become a teacher?  What was it like to live in France?  How do you know if you're in love?

I'd ask them questions in return:   Did they like Purple Hibiscus?   Was it easier for them to concentrate with or without music?  Why are girl fights so much more violent than boy fights?

Then I would say, "Aaah!  I'm distracting you!  I'm sorry!  Do your work!"

And they would say, "Oh, we don't mi-"

And I would say, "DO YOUR WORK DO YOUR WORK DO YOUR WORK!"

And they would laugh, and then do their work.

And later, when I'd let the last students out, step out into the dusky air, and trundle up to my car, I'd be exhausted but complete.  Most students would have changed their course grades during that afterschool:  from an F to a C, a C to a B, a B to an A.  More than that, I'd gotten to see them out of context.  Whether it's on a field trip, at a basketball game, or staying late in your classroom to do work, it's always illuminating to see your students out of context.

I forgot how much I loved this time until this afternoon.  Sure, things are different here:  my new school has shiny new MacBooks on carts, our hallways are inside like a normal school, and -- mostly -- I don't know the kids as well.

And so this felt like both a beginning and a continuation.  On the one hand, afterschool was gloriously the same:  the kids were quiet and focused -- until one of them started playing clips from Arrow on his phone and another one started giggling uncontrollably and another one couldn't get her phone to stop going off.  One student started knitting.  Another manifested an enormous metal rod ("Where did you get that?" "My bag!"  "How??...Never mind.  Put it away, please.").

It's difficult to be a new teacher at a school because you've left no mark there.  You're an enigma, but not an interesting one: a threat, rather, or a target.  Certainly not an equal.  And now slowly, gently, my students are letting me see them as people.  I'm becoming real to them as well:  a fallible human, not an adversary or a prop or a walking dictionary.

I forgot how exhilarating it is when this happens.

And too, I've learned.  I'm better.  I'm procrastinating less and planning more.  I'm not carrying a billion albatross-essays on my back at this end of the marking period: just 20 or so, because I graded 20 on Monday and 9 last night and 12 during the day today.  I know what I'm teaching tomorrow.

I'm not perfect.  I'm not even good.  I don't know if I'm scaffolding into my assessments enough and my differentiation could use more work and it takes me three minutes to get second period to quiet down on a good day and my desk -- which is really just half of a card table -- is a tragic disaster right now. 

But.  I'm growing.  I can see it and I can feel it.  And while I will never be enough for this job, that's enough for me.