More

Total week from hell after Wednesday.  I'm home blasting out to Usher, "More" and pretending I'm an NBA player who can dunk--sliding across the court under a house of lights with Usher busting his groove in the background.  Like some kind of African warrior in a modern day gladiator arena.  Seven feet tall, huge, all adrenaline: "I'm a beast, I'm an animal, The headliner, finisher, I'm the closer, winner, best when under pressure, with seconds left I show up."

I'm about ready to chuck this Teach Like a Champion book out the window, and it's not its fault.  It's like a light bulb has gone on, and I realize the crux of all my management issues with students this year.  Okay, a lack of structure and school wide accountability has been toxic.  But here is the missing element I can control: I am a big softie and that ends up in a scenario with me as doormat, which turns into severe frustration that I generally turn inward onto myself.  As I'm staring the final month+ in the face, this is what I've learned from my students this year in one sentence:  When you are bad, I'm calling your parents.

Okay, and one more thing from my Latina teacher friend, Karla.  In Mexican culture, don't let the kids get a word in edgewise.  Shut down that backtalk immediately.  Forget freedom of expression when it comes to negativity.

I've been trained from my old school that if you called home the parents would beat their kids, not give a damn or act just like their kids, so I always dealt directly with the kid and worked things out.  We had a tight network of support between teachers and administration, and problems rarely escalated.  There was mutual respect and staff members were regarded highly.

Not so at this school.  Gotta call mommy or daddy if their 15 year-olds are talking back, being rude, spazzing out, remaining unfocused, trying their hardest to fail.  I've been busting my butt to improve my planning, hook 'em, engage 'em, let 'em speak and implementing many of these techniques.  I feel I can't really continue until I get a grasp on some things within myself.

This book will only go so far until I get in touch with my inner bitch.  I know it's bad to cuss, and I'm all for an expanded vocabulary usually.  But this word is an important one for me to sort out.  Being a bitch has this ring of terror for me on some level, as a symptom of the peoplepleasingitis disease that I've had most of my life.  The big lie?  Being a bitch is not always a bad thing.  Women who are bitches are powerful.  They are fighting the current of life, not being swallowed in their tears.  They are 5'1" and huge.  They are vocal, screaming: "If you're on the floor, bring out the fire.  And light it up, take it up higher.  Gonna push it to the limit, give it more."  Thanks, Usher.  That's freedom, people.  No wet dish rags.  No more little doll-girl.  No more punching bag for teens.  If you've never been in an inner city school, you'll think I'm crazy.  If you have, yep, you know.