I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth in three days, I’ve been reusing dirty dishes, and I lost my dog in a pile of used tissues. Hey teachers, how was your Thanksgiving weekend? Why do we martyr ourselves? I used to eye with suspicion any student who spoke with a gravelly voice and keep my […]
Picture this: “So, what is the significance of the color gold in this story?” (pause to look at glassy-eyed students) “Anyone?” (pause again…was that a snore in the back?) “Didn’t anyone read the chapter last night?” (oh, they are SO getting a quiz now—that’ll teach them!) UGH. I grew up preferring books to food, but
Stacks of homework papers used to sit on my table, glaring at me. Menacing little goblins. A good teacher would have graded all that already, right? When we became teachers, we signed away our right to have lives outside the classroom, RIGHT? Wrong. But I didn’t know that yet. When “Creative” Becomes “Soul-Crushing” Last term,
Have you ever worked at a place where people had genuine (not coffee-induced) smiles in the mornings? Where people asked about your weekend and listened instead of bemoaning another Monday? If you have, isn’t that what you want in your classroom for your students? If you haven’t, wouldn’t you like to make that part of your life?
Your students are scrolling. Right now, someone in your class is checking their phone while you’re mid-sentence. You know it. They know you know it. And yet here we are, pretending that if we just try hard enough, we can out-compete the entire internet. Google “how to manage digital device use in a classroom,” and
It’s back to school time, and teachers everywhere are groaning over the tsunami of products being marketed at them while simultaneously filling up Amazon wishlists. I get it. I used to be that teacher too—hunting down the perfect organizational system, buying yet another set of markers, adding teaching props to my cart. Then something changed.
“Teacher, I need extra credit. My family and my government will be very angry if I don’t get an A. You must give me one more chance.” Mariam stood at my desk after class, eyes pleading, voice rising. Behind her, three more students waited in line. This was the fourth time that week someone had
