east meets west

DEAR READERS: PLEASE CONTINUE READING MY BLOG POSTS AT NEW TERRAIN.

It was the last day of school. It was my last day of work. Proudly, all of my eighth graders had graduated from middle school. I had just spent 20 minutes tunneling out of the post-graduation crowd in the hallway, detouring every few seconds to hug and say good-bye to students. I was finally in my classroom again, cleaning up, printing out last-minute documents, and stuffing teaching books into boxes and bags. I had 55 minutes left in the school I had made my own for the past two years. I was crying. I was packing. I had things to do.

Suddenly, 13-year-old “Margaret” was in front of my desk with a slight smile on her face. I thought I had locked my door, but apparently not. I quickly finished blowing my nose and hastily wiped aside the tears still streaming down my face. When that didn’t help my composure, I flashed her a grin and shrugged. “Teachers cry too.”

Still she stood there, staring at me silently with that shy smile. Margaret had always been my sweetest student. Despite dealing with fetal alcohol effects, a perpetually runny nose, and constant ridicule from her classmates for being half African American, she managed to maintain her encouraging outlook on life. (I get misty once again as I write this faraway in Texas.)

I walk around my desk and put my arm around her shoulder, congratulating her again on graduating and asking if she was excited about high school. Still, she didn’t budge. Finally, she turned to me. “I’m scared.”

I smiled a little and sighed. Hugging her, I said, “Margaret, high school is an adventure.”

“Adventures can be scary and adventures can be fun. But the most important thing about adventures is that you learn from them and they change you as a person.”

“Margaret, make sure you step back and learn from your adventures in high school. Be smart, be brave and try your hardest. I’m so proud of you already.”

And with that, I would like to end On the Reservation. To all the readers, thank you for your time and incredible feedback. I too am about to begin a new adventure. Please continue reading my blogs at New Terrain.

Cry, cry, cry and cry

DEAR READERS: I WILL CONTINUE WRITING FOR "TEACHER MAGAZINE" UNDER A NEW BLOG STARTING IN JUNE. CHECK BACK FOR THE NEW LINK!

I thought by now I was tougher, cooler, or, at least more mentally prepared. But I wasn’t. And so I cried. And cried. And cried. I suppose it is only fitting that my time on the Navajo Nation ended much like the way it began.

But this time, it wasn’t me sobbing about all the work I had to do; rather it was me crying about all the work we had done. It wasn’t about children rolling around on the carpet making barnyard noises; it was about my 8th graders confidently explaining to high school transition specialists that they are ready for inclusion algebra because they have already mastered the skills taught in the fall. This time, I cried not because I was an outsider, but because I had become family. (However, I still needed to vacuum.)

I cried when one of my students voluntarily walked up to the podium during our special education banquet and explained to the audience that she struggled in 6th grade, but because the help from her mother, sister and teachers, she is going to be successful in high school. I cried when I was told that one of my students had no body odor (and therefore no nasty comments) for an entire week-long field trip, because he has now mastered using Depends. I cried when my kids grabbed crayons and scraps of paper to budget for their meal, including tax and tip, on our field trip to Cracker Barrel. (I also cried when the moving company kept canceling my scheduled pick-up.)

Much like the beginning, I cried. But this time I cried because I am blessed.

Blast from the Past

[Excerpted from my blog, On the Reservation]

As a middle school teacher, I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to recall life at 13.

Since I was suddenly launched into the role of teacher two years ago, I struggle to remember how my favorite educators set up their classroom routines, how they taught fractions and what color pens they used to mark errors. I desperately try to dredge up these memories, because those were the most thorough classroom observations I had ever conducted. Surely if I could repeat their teaching strategies, I could recreate their successes as well, right?

Right.

It's only been 10 years since I roamed the halls of Cabin John Middle School as a student, but I can barely remember what we learned in 6th grade Reading, let alone how it was taught. Did we learn to read through whole word or phonics? How did the teacher explain similes? How did I learn to write a complex sentence? I wrack my mind for the vaguest of memories that might guide me in teaching my own students.

But instead of remembering how the Social Studies teacher taught us through project-oriented units, I remember inane details that won't help me as a instructor. Such as how Elena and I made a deal in Spanish class to switch seats each day so we could take turns sitting beside the oh-so-cute Kevin. And how I skipped gym class to go to the library. And that Mrs. Dennis wore a wig.

For more, go to http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/jshyu

Snow dance

I love my job. I love my kids. I want to make significant gains.

So does it make me a bad person for crossing my everything for a snow day?!?!

Teaching is one of those gigs that you have to love to last in-- let alone do a good job. So I can't help but feel guilty to hope, plead and beg for a snow day. But let's face it-- a job is a job, and I'd rather stay in bed all day reading novels while getting paid!

My fellow teaching friend:

Friend: bad news

Friend: i just saw a snow plow go by my house.

Friend: twice.

dis/Ability

[Excerpted from my blog, On the Reservation]

I have a 13-year-old cowboy in my classroom who cannot add. He cannot remember the alphabet. And he most definitely cannot read.

But even with a disabled hand and a limp, “Elmer,” who has mental retardation, can cut bales of hay. He can tell you which direction the sun rises. He can feed the horses, figure out which sheep are missing and make dinner in the microwave. Sure, we have physical therapy and we have occupational therapy, but more importantly, we have water that needs hauling. And wire that needs cutting. And porches that need sweeping.

According to the therapist who evaluated Elmer earlier in the year, most children with his level of physical and mental disabilities would not be able to manage the range of motion, strength and skill that he has. Years of being a cowboy and helping the family survive has given him abilities that he probably would not have had if he had been sheltered, coddled and living in the urban confines of, say, Washington, D.C.

For more, go to http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/jshyu/

Women of My Clan

[Excerpted from my blog, On the Reservation]

In Navajo culture, your identity is shaped by your clans. When meeting new people, you introduce yourself by your clan and trace it all the way down to your maternal grandmother’s. This means you will almost always find same-clan relatives anywhere you go. Out here, you will never be alone.

When I moved to New Mexico, I left my clan. I left behind a rich network of women. My relationships with my mother, aunts and grandmother were intertwined with phone calls, shopping trips and breakfast at Einstein’s Bagels. Our clan was a warm support system that always offered too much food, too much advice and too much commentary on my hair.

As expected, I miss it everyday.

But what I did not expect was to find a new set of women in New Mexico. These women are the teachers, paraprofessionals and clerks at my school. They are not glamorous. They are not rich. They herd sheep in the morning before work and they drive an hour to attend classes at night.

They are also my mentors, guardian angels and, really, my surrogate clan mothers in a place where I have no family. And from them, I have learned many things.

For more, go to http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/jshyu/

SNOW DAY!!!

NO SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Were teachers always this happy when we had snow days?

I just know I've been furiously clicking at KOBTV's Web site since 5:30 this morning.

Dennis the Menace

[Excerpted from my blog, On the Reservation]

He used to hit me. And I used to bite him right back. As children, we fought about who got the bigger piece of candy, and as we grew older, we fought about who was ruining whose life more. This is my little brother. And at 20, he has only recently sort of become tolerable.

As I sat across from one of my students with emotional and behavioral disturbances today, I was swept back to the days when I would lecture and moan at my brother to behave and finish his homework so that Mom wouldn't get mad. He never listened. He was always in trouble anyway.

For more, go to http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/jshyu/ 

Election Night Nostalgia

It's election night. I'm at home. Writing progress reports.

Two years ago on election night, I was on the edge of my seat in front of my computer at USATODAY.com, a small part of the election night coverage media. I had only a small role, but I was part of the bigger deal. I witnessed the newsroom bustle, the exclamations and profanity as results rolled in. I remember being in the newsroom, high off the journalistic adrenaline, until 3 a.m. I was a college senior then and had class five hours later. But it didn't matter. I was there.

I called a former colleague up tonight to lament my nostalgia. She returned my phone call and put it in perspective. I quote her loosely: "One word. You're a crackhead. You're out there teaching and doing something that is meaningful, that is real for the kids. If you were back in the newsroom, you'd just be working on tonight's breaking news that will only be tomorrow's old news. You're a crackhead."

Nonetheless, I am at home tonight. I am frantically refreshing the news Web pages to get the latest results while grading papers. I am indeed far from home.

growing up (not out)

Hard to imagine, but it's been more than a year since my notorious crying and crying and crying. (Yes, I realize the last entry was about sobbing in the classroom. But at least it wasn't regarding school). It has been a long, but exciting year. Teaching is much like studying: The more you do it, the more you realize how much you still need to know. And, it's ultimately rewarding, but often painful in the process.

And so with that, I hope readers check out my new blog for Teacher Magazine called On the Reservation. I will be posting primarily on that blog, but occasionally adding excerpts and pictures on east meets west. Stay tuned.

when home meets work

I just said good-bye to my boyfriend, who is leaving for Ukraine for a year, and I'm definitely sobbing in my classroom. Thank goodness for prep periods and locks on classroom doors.

Edit: And thank goodness for colleagues who give me bear hugs and coach me to tell people that my red eyes and runny nose are from allergies.

Quotation marks

Students recognizing me in the hallway on the first day of my second year.

"Good morning, Dana."

"Hi Jessica."

"My name is Ms. Shyu."

"Have a good day, Jessica."

"What are you supposed to call me, Dana? It's Ms. Shyu."

"I missed you this summer, Jessica."

Three sixth-grade girls chatting with me about how I taught another student to play piano

"Can you teach me piano too?"

"Can you teach me some art?"

"I want you to teach me how to dance."

"You should teach us cheerleading. You should be our coach. You look like you're really flexible."

Musing of a third grader on the bigger, badder eighth grade girls.

"They're so big. Look at their legs. They have fat legs. And their fat feet go 'stomp' 'stomp' 'stomp.'"

Me, on being the only Asian American person in town.

"You're so Americanized."

"Yes, I've been here ever since the birth canal."

A note from a former eighth grader (the faux-Goth student).

HI,

What's up? All I want to say is "Good Bye!" Because I might never go up there again only when I ditch or get in trouble and maybe drop out of school. That's when I will see you. So LATER DUDE. I'm just mess. I will visit you in one lifetime!!

7 X 7

I was walking through the school lobby this morning, passing by a class of seventh graders lounging on the sofas, waiting for their teacher. As I walked briskly by, I heard a girl call out, "Hey, Ms. Shyu."

I turned back and smiled at "Naomi", a 13-year-old with a spiky punk hairstyle and neon green track jacket. She was wedged on the couch between her buddies, all uniformed in their full-black oufits. Naomi said, "Hey Ms. Shyu, what's 7 times 7?"

I looked at her puzzled. She repeated, "Remember? What's 7 times 7?"

Then it came back to me. Almost exactly a year ago, I was waiting around the meeting room with Naomi and her older brother. We were there for her brother's meeting to start. I entertained the teenagers by quizzing them on their multiplication facts. The one I forced them to memorize was 7 times 7, because I told them there was no way to remember it except to memorize it.

I hadn't seen Naomi again since that meeting until this week when school started. She had left last year to attend a different middle school. Before her question in the lobby, however, the only thing I remembered about that meeting was that she and her brother managed to break the conference room table within half an hour. They tore off the handle to one of the drawers and knocked out a couple screws. To this day, we still can't use that table drawer.

But that was a year ago. Now, as I stood in the hallway, I shot back at her, "No, Naomi, you tell me what's 7 times 7."

"49."

Books to Keep: Thank You

Last year, dozens of family, friends, family of friends, professors, former employers and strangers who happened to stumble across a forwarded e-mail, mailed over 300 books for my students. Thank you.

As a new school year starts, I am taking book donations once again. If anyone has children's books they are ready to give away, please consider sending them to my classroom. Books of all grades and genres are greatly appreciated. I have found that loving books is contagious. Kids from other classrooms have sneaked over to ask me when I'll be getting new books to lend them (and sometimes let them keep!). These are kids whom I hadn't seen prop open a textbook all year. The closest public library may be half an hour away and Barnes and Noble might not even register on the map, but those seem like such minor details when kids are begging to read...

Shipping and Contact

Please mail books to:

Jessica Shyu

PO Box 1715

Tohatchi, NM 87325

Please feel free to e-mail me at TeachForNM@gmail.com if you have any questions or concerns. Gift certificates or checks to go toward books are also much appreciated.

As a naive, first-year teacher last year, my big goal was for my students to read 2,490 books. Ha. That was before I realized that most of my students didn't know what vowels were, let alone what sounds they represented. But that was also before I realized just how critical having such an abundance of books in the classroom was. It was before I truly realized that having books, organizing books, treasuring books and having them right there at all times, was the first step to literacy. By the end of the year, my personal goal wasn't necessarily to have my students read 2,490 books or even to read at their grade level; rather, it was to love and respect reading. Thanks to all of those wonderful boxes of books, I think we reached it.

In fact, after our field trip in May to Waldenbooks in Gallup, I knew we made it. Everyone had an $8 budget to buy a book to keep. It was only mildly chaotic throughout the store and it was among the best chaos I've faced thus far. Because one kid knew what book series he liked, so he went straight to the Magic Tree House section. A group of students went directly to the "Beginning Reader" kiosks. They knew what types of books they were capable of reading. They knew where to find it. They knew what interested them. (Note: There can never be enough non-fiction books on natural disasters written at the primer level.)

Reading was the most difficult subject for me to teach last year. I didn't really teach them anything until January, I think. And there's so much I should have been able to do, but didn't know how to until later in the school year. But at least I've seemed to imparted one important concept to them: that independent reading can be fun.

But I can hardly take credit for it. To the person who donated that creased copy of Dragon Slayer’s Academy: Thank you. Thank you for engrossing my eighth grader for hours on end and for lighting up his imagination so much, he spent half an hour writing an extensive summary of the book after he completed it. Thank you for making me have to kick him out of my room because he was 10 minutes late to his Navajo Studies class. (We found a 4-pack of the Dragon Slayer's Academy books at the bookstore on our field trip!)

And to the person who sent the first Magic Tree House book: Bless your heart. Because that book helped me and my most disgruntled student connect for the first time. Even though anger constantly brewed within him for being so lousy in every other part of academia, when he read the Magic Tree House books, he was a good and engaged reader. He fell in love with the series the first day of our Independent Reading program; his enthusiasm led the other students to buy into the program. Thank you for forcing me to drive 60 miles to the book store on week nights to buy him the next book in the series so that he’d continue to love reading.

And to everyone who sent me Curious George books—thank you. Because the monkey is timeless, even to middle schoolers who now proudly read at the first grade level. Curious George Visits the Zoo was the first book my eighth grade student read independently in her life. We almost cried together. She read it out loud at a meeting with her teachers and mother. She now borrows books to bring him to read to her little brothers. She may have mental retardation, but has been enabled.

And to all the folks who sent me books that were beyond the fifth grade level—thank you. I wasn’t able to use them in my classroom since my students read far below grade level, but I set up a table outside of my classroom one day and just hawked those books off to the general education students. I had students sneaking out of class to go through the dozens and dozens of books. There were books with glossy covers fresh from the publishers sent by USATODAY.com, and there were classics that had been lovingly thumbed through by previous owners. In less than an hour, seventh and eighth graders who normally shunned learning had poured through the novels and eagerly took them home. I still have kids coming into my resource room asking if I have any more books to give out, because they had finished reading them all.

And to everyone who sent me books that were most definitely NOT for children, thank you. Where did all those horrors, thrillers and romance novels go? In a free-for-all box placed in the teacher's lounge. If we want to promote literacy among our students, naturally we need to start with ourselves, right? Even if it means the entire school now thinks I indulge in Harlequin romances in my spare time (and maybe I do!), at least we're all reading.

Thanks.

Live like you want to live, dance like Navajos are watching …

It has been several weeks, more than a month even, since my last post.

That is because I have been doing some very un-teacherly things.

Things like sleeping in until 11 a.m. and having peach schnapps with my salad at lunch. I'm leaving my bed at my parents' house in Maryland unmade. I've gone to the beach, traipsed through Europe and lounged by the pool with my boyfriend (who, for a few weeks, was not 2,000-plus miles away from me). For the first summer since I was 14, I have not done a lick of work. I love it.

But I can't seem to get away from it. This summer was meant to be a time for me to fully, decadently, unabashedly, relax. After working 35-hour weeks in college while attending school, 12-months a year, I felt somewhat justified to kick back and revert back to being a 13-year old, living out of my parents' refrigerator.

But more often than not, I'm reminded by something in the street or on the radio of my kids and New Mexico. I was listening to NPR today while driving through the leafy neighborhoods of the D.C., suburbs, and on came a rapso band from the Caribbean. Somehow, the beats reminded me of the native New Zealand "poly funk" band, Ardijah, which had come to my school to play for the students twice last year.

The first time they came was in the first few weeks of the school year. I was stressed, tense and apparently crying all the time. But when this group came to perform in our gymnasium that night, I made myself go. I was mesmerized by their sound. The acoustics bounced off the freshly waxed basketball court and made me bop in my seat. I wanted to get up and twirl, but no one was dancing. It sounded like part calypso, part reggae - yet all Polynesian seashore. I needed a mixed drink with an umbrella. But there I was, on a mesa on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico. It was all too twilight-zone-ish. I laughed and teared up a little bit. It reminded me of humid nights in Miami clubs. But best of all, I realized that I probably wouldn't have the chance to rock out to a native New Zealand band on the Navajo Nation again anytime soon.

I was wrong. They came back in the spring. I was much different then. I had figured out my job a bit. I had made friends with staff members in the school. The kids knew me. I was relaxed. By this time, my colleagues knew I liked to dance. They had never seen me dance, but they had heard about it. The concert was held during school hours this time, so I dropped by the assembly halfway through. When I snuck in to sit down, one of the teaching assistants kept prodding me and giggling that I should go up there and dance. I liked to dance, right? After 10 minutes of their nudging and teasing, I was fed up. I was going to dance. No one was up there to dance to this happy music, so I was. But this wasn't Miami and there were no neon-colored frozen drinks in hand. I wasn't about to go up there alone.

At that moment, I spotted little Dana* . She was in the 3rd grade and was still having trouble sounding out her letters. She was as famous for her tantrums as her enormous brown doe eyes. For some reason, she took a liking to me early on. I waved for her to come down to where I was sitting. As soon as she sat down, I grabbed her hand and told her we were going to dance out there. She sat there petrified. But I kept coaxing her. The band was going to finish soon. The singer kept urging people to start moving, but no one did. Finally, Dana got up from her seat and we walked to the center of the big gymnasium, with hundreds of people and the band looking down at us. She tried running back to the bleachers.

But I grabbed her hand and started twirling her. Soon she was giggling as we wiggled our hips and waved our arms. (I like to dance. That does not mean I am good at it. There may now be a generation of young Navajo children who will dance like arm-flapping, hip-swinging chickens.) After five minutes, another teacher led a student to the center of our makeshift dance floor. Soon, more joined us. Everyone wanted to be twirled. Dana was ecstatic. I had walked away to take a phone call and returned a few minutes later to find her teaching a kindergartner how to swing her arms to the rhythmic music.

By the end of the concert, dozens of children were dancing. Even their teachers joined. Dana, who was more accustomed to sitting in time-out, was being patted on the back for being such a good dancer. Before the end of their set, the lead singer called her up to the stage to receive a special gift of an Ardijah CD for being the first student to be brave enough to dance. She couldn't stop beaming. Then she went back to dancing.