Time to Shut Down?

I’m seriously thinking of taking off the badge that identifies me as part of WordPress’s “Post A Day” challenge. I feel as if I haven’t written anything of substance for days. (Today, I had wanted to write about the time I spent in the ESOL classroom yesterday, but a video chat with my sister on the West Coast ran too long.) With my new full-time job, I barely have the time and energy to write the one-liners I post, usually about being exhausted or having too much dessert. Worse, I’m afraid that on paper—I mean, in digital ink—my life doesn’t come across as very exciting or frankly very interesting. Thus, while twiddling my thumbs at work today during one of the slowest moments in the store, the thought crossed my mind of shutting down or at least putting on hiatus The Rumination Refinery. I honestly don’t know what to do.

You Can’t Stop Progress

When my dad dropped me off at school yesterday, he wondered aloud whether or not I knew the number of days I have so far volunteered in the ESOL classroom. Why, yes, Dad, I do: Tuesday constituted my 15th visit. Consistent with the recent trend, yesterday was a lot of fun. For the most part, I felt productive, useful. I also noticed how certain lesson plans allow for more probable student learning improvements while others, I predict, will not. (For the record, I use Bill Heslop’s losing campaign slogan in Muriel’s Wedding, “You Can’t Stop Progress,” in a slight, ironic sense.)

The county’s (or is it the state’s?) curriculum for ESOL level 1 stipulates that the students know certain verbs in the present and past tenses by the end of the school year. With time running out this semester, the teacher instituted a new regime yesterday to quicken this learning process: every week, the students will learn ten verbs and take a quiz each Friday that gauges their comprehension of these verbs as well as all the ones that have come before in weeks prior. She prepared three different kinds of the same packet: one with French translations of the verbs, another with Spanish ones, and yet another with blank spaces for students whose native languages are neither French nor Spanish; she invited them to use a bilingual dictionary to fill in these spaces. Crucially, there is a column on their verb chart packet where they are meant to write a sentence using each verb in the past tense.

From what I could tell, the students hadn’t yet learned how to form the simple past tense let alone what it means. Instead of teaching this lesson, she quickly reviewed how the verb to be has two forms, was and were, depending on the subject. Then she instructed them to write sentences for the first ten entries on the alphabetical list. This lesson structure poses many challenges, I think. First, most of the verbs on the chart are irregular in the past tense, such as become (became), blow (blew), and catch (caught). Drawing on my own experiences learning a foreign language, I was surprised that she would teach them irregular verbs before even demonstrating how to conjugate regular verbs, like ask (asked), walk (walked), and watch (watched)—that is, by adding -ed to the stem. Second, working from an alphabetical list means that the students aren’t learning the words in context. As such, many students whose work I supervised and corrected didn’t understand how to use words like blew and caught. Since she hadn’t taught them, relying too heavily on direct translation, I’m hardly surprised many didn’t know what the words evensignify. It will be interesting to see how this new program unfolds in the coming weeks. Some students were quick to get it (one impressed me with her offering of The wind blew very hard yesterday), while others struggled to put a sentence together at all. I’m not sure they’ve ever been explicitly told what the different parts of speech are and how they relate to one another. Otherwise, I think they’d understand that they need only one verb per phrase/sentence (remember, they’re writing simply at level 1). For I corrected many who’d written something along the lines of My aunt was became an American citizen last year.

Toward the end of the period, we reviewed the names of places around town (bank, post office, and laundromat to name but a few) because there’s a new class project in the works: each student signed up to draw one of them on a letter-size piece of paper. We will then collect the drawings and lay them out on a street map strewn across the floor. I like this lesson plan because it is creative and will likely engage them in the upcoming unit’s material: asking for and giving directions around town. Plus, I like the idea of strengthening their visual and spatial reasoning skills.

Before I move on to talk about a new group I worked with during period 3’s basic reading class for ESOL students, I’d like to report that the level 1 teacher revealed a new rule she’s instituting after the class returns from winter break. Starting January 2, the students must drop 5 cents in a collection jar every time they are caught speaking in their native tongue rather than in English. Eventually, we will donate the money to an agreed-upon charity. The only exceptions are when a student explains a part of the lesson in their language to someone who doesn’t understand it in English. I look forward to seeing how well they adapt to the new law.

For a change of pace, I worked with a different reading group during period 3, one composed of the five weakest students in the class. I’d worked with two of them before, many weeks or months ago, and I was both surprised and delighted that I didn’t encounter any stubbornness from either one. In fact, all five of the students were engaged in the lesson, and they all worked very hard. We read the first chapter (or four illustrated pages) of a story about a Japanese boy who moves to New York with his family. Each sentence is accompanied by a demonstrative image. After reading it once as a big group, I checked for comprehension, asking them for the antonym (or “opposite”) of wide and explained that Jackson Heights, the protagonist’s new neighborhood is also difficult for him to pronounce, as evidenced in a scene that phonetically spells out the name in his Japanese accent. It’s a nice touch. The teacher was more concerned about the students’ understanding the content of the story rather than their proper use of grammar when answering a worksheet’s questions about the plot. This was a pretty effective lesson, I have to say. The students seemed to enjoy it, probably because it didn’t go way beyond their abilities. However, I could tell that one student was really struggling, and I have resolved to help him more tomorrow. At the teacher’s request, I’d paid more individualized attention to one of his classmates, the boy who in the past resented having to work with me because he couldn’t understand me and wanted me to speak to him in French. Incidentally, he is the worst student in ESOL level 1, and he most likely has a learning disability that has heretofore never been addressed. But he did well yesterday.

Switching gears, I mainly observed the reading class for special education students, but I interacted with a greater variety of pupils than I ever expected to. One, the friendliest of the bunch, talked my ear off almost the entire period. At one point, a classmate bluntly asked her why her voice is so high. Appalled at the other girl’s rudeness, the teacher reprimanded her and quickly explained that people are born with different pitches. Meanwhile, I whispered to my companion that she should just ignore the… um… bitch (I didn’t use that word, of course). Earlier, I’d successfully engaged the rude girl in an exchange about the social studies homework she was finishing up when I arrived. She even let me look at what she simply described as “Unit 3” when I asked what it was about. Ouch. I glanced at her paper, which was in fact about imperialism, and was perplexed as to why she wrote “national security” and “humanitarian [issues]” as reasons for imperialism. Her response to my question? “That’s what the teacher told us to put down.” I didn’t want to push it, believing that the rude girl wouldn’t listen to my lecture anyway, but I couldn’t help but think, Just what is her teacher teaching her?!

Unexpectedly, a fire alarm rang out for one of the school’s monthly tests. I’d been dreading such an occurrence since the beginning of my volunteership (they’re major time suckages), but if it was going to happen, I am glad it did during period 4, my least favorite hour. It managed to stem some of the awkwardness I routinely feel in that room. Have I told you that I have resolved not to return to it in the spring semester?

Finally, I stayed for tutoring during the open lunch period. The ESOL students slowly trickled into the room, either seeking to take missed or failed tests or to have one of the American students help them with their homework or review English language lessons. Just when I thought I wouldn’t have anyone to work with, I wound up helping two students. The first was preoccupied with some minor errors she thought that she had made on Friday’s test about clothing. Since the teacher hadn’t yet graded her exam, she allowed the student to look it over with me, telling me which changes she would make if she could (she couldn’t permanently make them). I scanned her entire test, assuring her that aside from those few small mistakes she’d learned that she’d made after the fact, she had an “A” test on her hands. She left happy, relieved, and grateful for my feedback. Then I turned my attention to the boy whom I’d had problems with in the past, the same one with whom I worked during period 3. At first he was impatient that I started working with the other student while he stepped out to buy an apple; his teacher suggested he work with someone else. But he refused. “You want to work with me?” I asked to clarify. “Yes.” I’m not sure if he could tell or not, but I was stunned, flattered, and absolutely fuckin’ chuffed!

The Sound and the Furious Tummy

I didn’t go to school today. I woke up around 2 am to a gargling stomach. Going to the bathroom to relieve the situation didn’t help any, as I was repeatedly called back to the toilet about every 1 to 2 hours until about 6 am (but I’ve returned to the room a lot since then). I didn’t get any sleep, and to make matters worse, the chorus of Andy Kim’s number 1 hit from 1974, “Rock Me Gently,” kept playing in my head. I’d heard it at work a few days ago, and while riding in the car Monday night, I discovered that Andy Kim—not Neil Diamond—is the singer/songwriter on the track. Look it up and listen for yourself. Tell me he doesn’t sound like Neil Diamond.

Anyway, the physical discomfort I was feeling was matched by the imaginary aural distress the song inflicted upon me. For the first time that I can recall, I wanted to bash my head against the wall. Worst of all, I couldn’t understand why it was so hard for me to get the wretched song out of my mind. Eventually, I did, though. I began hearing “Getting Away With It” by the 1990s supergroup Electronic; it’s one of my favorite songs of all time. And while it did calm me down, the more I thought about it, the more nervous I became that its association with my chronic diarrhea would forever spoil it for me. But now I realize that such a memory might only enhance its soothing powers.

I’ve been walking in the rain just to get wet on purpose…

Making Strides in the ESOL & Special Education Classrooms

Yesterday constituted my 11th day in the ESOL classroom at my old high school, and it was fun and surprising. Since the ESOL level 1 teacher is away, chaperoning advanced French language students on an enviable trip to France, a substitute teacher presided over the early morning double period. She knew ahead of time that I would join her, so there was never any awkwardness between us, no confusion about what our roles would be. When I introduced myself before the late bell rang, she told me that I looked familiar and asked if I had gone to the school. I answered affirmatively and then gave her the years I attended (at her request). She nodded, smiling because she felt her instincts were correct: she had been a substitute in at least one of my classes. Truth be told, at the moment, I didn’t recognize her at all.

She introduced me to the students, who all know me except for the two new girls (!), repeating what I told her (that I want to be an ESOL teacher). Loud—and almost in unison—Ohh!s rang out around the room, which somewhat befuddled me: I announced my professional goal on my very first day in class. How is this news? I suppose the students either forgot or didn’t understand all those weeks ago. Anyway, as she introduced me to them again, saying she’d taught me before, I stood a few feet behind her and locked eyes with one of the more communicative and intuitive students and playfully shrugged while mouthing, “I don’t remember her.” This produced a few giggles between us, but as the minutes marched on, I started to recall this substitute teacher. Gradually, I remembered that she was one of the few who knew how to control a classroom, who was capable of doing more than simply slipping a VHS into the machine to keep us occupied for the hour. Since she’s worked in this classroom before, with most of these kids (the roster changes every week), she’s really great at managing them. But as a result of her skills, what surprised me most was what we got done in that double period.

The students, in addition to learning prepositional phrases (like next to, across from, and around the corner from) and places around town (as in post office, laundromat, and hospital), were reviewing rooms and features of a house or apartment. On Monday, the substitute taught them strange words like satellite dish (which the students never spelled correctly—and I can’t blame them for it! It’s a difficult word!) and mailbox, but on this day we went over mice (as the irregular pluralization of mouse) and cockroaches. Both kinds of critters were depicted in the drawing of an apartment building in the students’ textbook, and we began the lesson by asking the students to write ten sentences using “There is” and “There are” to describe the scene in the picture. Now might be a good time to tell you that I practically never sat down through the course of the day (including while at my new paying job), and it began here, supervising the students as they worked independently. I was darting all around the classroom (as was the substitute), answering questions, correcting the content and grammar of the students’ sentences, translating words from the French and Spanish, spelling words (like satellite and cockroaches), and explaining why it’s mice and not mices. My running around continued all throughout their completing a series of worksheets. I didn’t mind; it was energizing work, and it felt so good to be needed. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard my name yelped so many times in such a short period. Any doubts I had previously that the students didn’t know my name—or worse, didn’t care to—are now gone. I know it’s stupid, but I feel tremendous pride that the students have learned to accept me as a resource for learning English. I’m no longer a strange presence to be tolerated. Then again, I observed this general sentiment last week once I returned after three weeks away. Now the students are eager for my help, and they seem to enjoy it as much as I love to provide it.

Yesterday’s basic reading class (for ESOL students at different lower levels) broke with tradition. Since there were many different activities on the agenda, I didn’t take my group of four advanced students to the dreaded teacher’s lounge. Instead, we corralled four student desks into an enclave in the hallway, where I proctored a reading comprehension quiz on The Odyssey, which we finished last time. I wasn’t surprised by the results: the girl who’d impressed me with how much she retained from the story received a perfect score while her classmates either barely or hardly passed. The girls finished the quiz first, and then continued working on a handout related to the book. Unfortunately, they didn’t finish this work, which I helped them brainstorm for, because their teacher pulled them out to start a general reading skills test on the computer in a classroom other than her own. (This is why we were in the hallway, so we could more easily move from place to place.) The boys worked on the same writing assignment with me in the meantime, with just ten minutes left of class. I spent more than half of fourth period, where I ordinarily volunteer in the special education reading class, discussing the quiz results and other pedagogical strategies with period 3’s basic reading teacher.

The same boy who has disrespected me by exaggerating his discomfort whenever we studied as a group in the teacher’s lounge proved predictably obnoxious yesterday, too. Why does it take so much time to go through your bookbag or binder to look for a piece of paper you were writing on last week? Seriously, I want to light a little fire under these kids’ asses to just make them move faster. It’s during moments like these that I become really impatient. Anyway, I sublimated the frustration that the obnoxious boy’s behavior instilled in me by giving him a dose of his own medicine. For instance, he continuously utters a ridiculous but innocuous phrase, which I mercilessly teased him about, requesting he pay me a nickel every time he says it. That shut him up! But if I think about it, the boy may have settled down more and paid attention to the lesson I was giving once his teacher reminded him that he’s lucky to have me here, working with him. Damn straight! I just need to get this through to him on my own.

As I previously mentioned, I missed most of the special education class. (Well, I didn’t really miss it, but you know what I mean.) But much to my surprise and delight, two students—one of whom never gave me the time of day before—warmly interacted with me. The boy who’d always been completely unresponsive to my attempts to work with him suddenly opened up to me, allowing me to ask questions about what he’s been reading and writing (which, I have to say, was pretty good!). Honestly, I’d never seen him work so quickly (relatively speaking), as he usually procrastinates, claiming to not understand each assignment’s instructions or objectives. I praised him with abandon, and that seemed to make him happy, maybe even proud. God, I hope we can keep up the good work (together).

Pre-Script

I’m sorry, today’s post just isn’t going to be written. I am far too tired (I got up early to go to school and then went to work in the afternoon) to commit to this now. Tomorrow, I will summarize my—at the risk of sounding corny—wonderful day in the ESOL and special education classrooms.

Talk About Livin’ the Dream

I’m eating dinner and waiting for Boardwalk Empire to start at 9 o’clock. At the moment, though, I have only two choices: The Next Karate Kid with Hilary Swank or Blank Check. I selected the latter (I was never much for martial arts flicks), which has got me thinking: what ever happened to the actor who played boy who duped criminals into giving him a million dollars and then squandered it all on toys? More to the point: where’s Tone Loc these days?

Twiddling My Thumbs—With Scissors

I’ve been so productive today, I don’t know what to do now. And I have to do something—I just got out of the shower, and I cannot go to bed yet. Oh! I have an idea: I’ll clip coupons for my great aunt and watch a movie. But I don’t know what to watch now. After all the reading I’ve done on Joe Wright‘s soon-to-be-in-theaters Anna Karenina, I have a craving for Hanna. But it’s not streamable on Netflix…

The Day I Was an Election Judge

I was so exhausted but also wired when I returned home from the polls last night around 11 pm that I misspoke on the phone with my sister. I said that Tuesday had felt like the longest day of my life. I quickly revised my statement, remembering that the day I journeyed home from my year-long academic sojourn in England in 2007 was much more arduous by virtue of the fact that on that day I was lugging around about 80 pounds of real, physical baggage from bus to train to plane, etc. I wound up in the emergency room, suffering muscle spasms, a day later. No, Election Day, clocking in at 22 hours long, was nowhere near as painful or stressful. But it was close.

Full disclosure: for about a week beforehand, I’d been dreading working the polls as a voting operations election judge. I felt totally unprepared; there are so many systems and procedures to follow, I panicked at the thought that I would never learn to master them in time. Specifically, I worried that I wouldn’t know how to operate the electronic pollbooks we use to check-in voters. Hands-on training was precisely one month ago. I also resented the hours: 6 am (to grant us an hour to set up the site before the polls opened at 7) to an indeterminate hour past the 8 pm closing time. (I wound up staying until just after 10.30 pm.) Everything that I pessimistically and anxiously expected to happen eventually did, and then some.

During the 6 o’clock hour, I proved so competent, organized, and efficient that the chief judges assigned me to the check-in table along with two others. To my surprise, I had almost instant recall of the machines’ functions despite not having touched an electronic pollbook in a month. My teammates insisted that I sit between them so they could learn from my actions. The funny thing is that, despite my knowledge and confidence, I was the one who made mistakes, like forgetting to sign some early Voter Authority Cards before sending checked-in voters on their way to the voting units. A line of voters started to form around 6.30 am and we were inundated with hundreds more until about 11.30 am. Sometimes, I could barely hear or understand what people were saying as they checked in. The noise in the room was loud and distracting, and the voters often mumbled and/or breathlessly spelled their unfamiliar last names. My incomprehension frustrated many. I totally understand: having to repeat your name three times takes its toll on your patience, especially when you are stopping in on your way to work. All this, combined with my embarrassing inability to easily transcribe words and names as they are spelled aloud for me, made for a rather stressful time; I was stationed at check-in for the first four hours. And this all happened as I just knew it would.

I was relieved to switch roles after taking my first of three breaks. Now I greeted checked-in voters waiting in line, escorting them to the voting booths and giving tips on how to use the touchscreen computer along the way. This part, which mainly encompassed ensuring that voters were ready to cast their ballots and alerting them to the machine’s built-in time-out if the screen isn’t touched for two minutes, felt just as scripted as asking for people’s names, month and day of birth, and addresses at the pollbooks. I spoke so much yesterday, whether fulfilling my official duties, organizing tasks with my co-workers, or just shooting the shit, that right now, my throat is sore from overuse, my lips chapped. In any case, I enjoyed this second role more than the first, though I sporadically returned to it throughout the day. It was a welcome change of pace for many reasons. Other than presenting a break from the noise and frustration produced or exhibited by voters waiting to check in, it also got me back on my feet again. I had made the mistake of wearing jeans that were slightly less forgiving around the waist that, when combined with my constant water-drinking to stem the tides of dehydration, made me have to pee all the time. Seriously, I’m not sure I’ve ever peed so much so often in one day.

I wish I could tell you more about working the polls, particularly the official processes we use to count ballots. But I’m pretty sure there’s a gag order on that front. Instead, I’ll overcompensate for this lack by telling you about my now well-honed party affiliation profiling skills (i.e. if you’re wearing a hunting jacket or a stetson, you’re definitely a Republican). And my perception that Republicans were less friendly, Democrats more excited to be there. Yes, in fact, one of the ways that I could differentiate voters by party affiliation—before learning it, of course—was in how they comported themselves. The Republicans seemed to me to be more sluggish, as if resentful that they had to come off their nearby historic farms and walk amongst civilization to vote against initiatives on the ballot, including, in addition to President Obama’s re-election, same-sex marriage and the extension of in-state tuition costs to undocumented immigrants who have lived here almost all their lives. (Of the ten precincts or polling places in my suburban town, I believe I was stationed at the one with the most “rural” population.) Democrats, on the other hand, were more upbeat, probably because, as progressives, they usually value or believe in the voting process more. For instance, the only people who ever gave me lip, either insisting I look at their photo IDs to confirm their identity or complaining that the state’s law not to require photo ID at the polls is unreasonable, were Republicans. Every time I encountered one of these conservatives, I thought to myself, This isn’t Ohio, Pennsylvania, or Florida. Additionally, from my understanding, recruiting Republicans to serve as election judges was itself a difficult task for the county’s board of elections.

By way of conclusion, I would like to attempt a description of what it was like to physically be there. As I now like to repeat, when I went in, it was dark out; when I went home, it was dark out. I couldn’t leave the polling place, not even to step outside for some fresh air, nor could I read, listen, or watch anything. I’ve already mentioned how uncomfortable it was to sit for long periods, but standing around when it got slow—and we only had a trickle of voters come in during the last two and a half hours (when we were anticipating hundreds!)—was just as unbearable. The worst part, however, was not being able to know what was happening across the county, state, or nation. I worried that I would be there so late that I would completely miss the news media’s live coverage of the returns as they came in. That’s always been how I’ve spent Election Night, watching the map of the United States light up as red and (preferably) blue. When the Democratic chief judge expressed concern that Romney was going to win (based on the turnout in our little precinct, it seemed), I thought, C’mon! I started the day believing in a positive outcome, and I didn’t want to hear any negativity. I was more anxious to hear whether or not my fellow Marylanders (and to a lesser extent, voters in Maine, Minnesota, and Washington) were voting to keep legalized same-sex marriage in the state. I cried when I later found out that they did.

So I played my part. Contrary to what I told you about my failings, I excelled at my job. I’ll be getting a check in the mail. But I don’t think I’ll be coming back in two or even four years’ time. I don’t regret choosing to have this experience. It was different, but it was also emotionally and physically draining. And unbelievably boring, especially once the polls closed and there were too many of us to get the small jobs done in their required sequence. But here’s an important lesson for you: voting appreciation. Previously just a voter, being an election judge has renewed my appreciation for the humble, honest folk who make our voting possible. Here’s an illustrated example of how people may take these volunteers for granted while others don’t: When, on their way out, we thanked people for voting, most said, “You’re welcome.” How oblivious, we thought. A few made our hearts soar, though, when they responded, “Thanks for being here.”

To Paraphrase Taylor Swift

I am never ever going to be a voting operations election judge again. (Just look at the list of categories attached to this post for an impressionist explanation.)

As I type this, word has come in that Obama has won the Presidency for a second term, as he has clinched 274 electoral votes. FUCK YEAH!

How Much Time Can I Waste Writing This?

I have been quite the productive procrastinator today. Instead of working on an application due Monday at noon, I have been busy doing other things, such as exercising while reading the newspaper, reviewing instructions on how to fulfill the duties of a voting operations judge (for Tuesday’s presidential election), clipping coupons for my charitable great aunt, sweeping my bedroom, showering, and doing the laundry. I also managed to fit in a film screening among all this: the comedy classic Turner & Hooch. Hell, I’m even writing on the blog earlier in the day than I usually do. How’s that for a start?

I wouldn’t characterize myself as a procrastinator through-and-through. Like most people, I only put off completing an important task when I am afraid to even try. Part of my sluggishness is the result of writer’s block. My current circumstances indicate that I don’t know how to write something original and profound about a subject really well trodden. Perhaps I am waiting for inspiration to fall down from the sky, possess my body, and dictate which buttons I press on the keyboard. I’ve even tried reading some news stories about the topic to help get the juices flowing. We’ll see what happens, as I only have tomorrow to work all day on it.

To make matters worse, once my dad came home from shul this afternoon, he announced that he wants to run all kinds of errands tonight, including trips to a bookstore, big box department store, and our favorite “unique” grocery store. To prepare for this busy jaunt, I gladly made lists. Thanks, Dad, for giving me another reason to put off doing what I need to be doing.