A Teacher Poem

The New Ideal Teacher - A Poem

The New Ideal Teacher
By David Lee Finkle

The new ideal teacher
Is driven by data,
And kids become points
On her test-score schemata.
Winnie is a "1" and must be forced to make a gain.
Theo is a "3" and that's a score he must maintain.
Freddy is a "5"; there's no more room inside his brain.
The new ideal teacher
Wants things she can measure;
If it fits on a chart,
Then it's something to treasure.

For the new ideal teacher,
It's shame or it's merit.
She's caught in between...
Well, a stick and a carrot.
The scores control her destiny, for better or for worse.
If scores are high, then there could be more money in her purse.
If low she might discover her career is in a hearse.
The ideal teacher's wallet
Is empty or padded
Depending on value
Deducted or added.

The new ideal teacher
Does not plan her lessons.
Her classes are all pre-
Fab learning-gains sessions.
Today is lesson thirty-seven; tomorrow's thirty-eight.
Page by page the pacing guide ensures she won't run late,
Just like the teacher down the hall and in some other state.
Original thought
She's been taught
To self-censor.
She pops lessons out like big Pez dispenser.

The new ideal teacher
Doesn't question or query.
She does as she's told;
She's compliant and cheery.
When someone says, "It's best for kids!" she'll never even blink.
When she is told her pay's been cut, her spirits never sink.
When buried under new reforms, she'll never raise a stink.
She'll teach critical thinking
From a book off the shelf,
But she never would think
She might think for herself.

The new ideal teacher
Can prioritize:
She puts first things first,
And she won't compromise.
Good test scores are number one; they lead to higher pay,
Which, of course, is number two-- more money makes her day.
Fidelity is third: give her a script; she'll never stray.
The new ideal teacher
Is stalwart and steadfast.
The system comes first,
So her students come dead last.

The Real Mr. Fitz

A Poem About Me

The poem below was sent to me by a parent of a former student, found during a semi-regular clean-up.

It made me feel good, but it also shows how the test seemed to permeate everything.

This student, who is now on her way to middle school, is an incredible kid. In second grade she wrote this; she did this often, actually, as she put up with everyone around her who just weren't as bright. I think very bright kids like this one find ways to keep themselves busy and engaged in a classroom full of varying abilities.

One thing I made sure to do due for this poet -- a math whiz as well as poet -- was to have a few different choices of math homework for her, and her classmates, to choose from. I had a range of difficulty available, and allowed all my students to walk by the offerings and pick whichever one they wanted. I set it up by telling them there was no pressure to do any particular homework, but if they pick one that was a bit hard for them they would learn more--too hard though and they'll just get mad. I always had one homework sheet with simple addition and subtraction problems, but with multi-digit numbers; adding two 10-digit numbers makes the weaker mathematicians feel like they can do hard work, plus it helps them with place value, the typical sticking point for young kids struggling with simple addition and subtraction.

This allowed all the kids to take some ownership of their learning, and gave everyone the satisfaction of, usually, being able to complete the math homework on their own and therefore each kid knew what they could do and what they needed help on.  I always allowed the kids to look at each others homework and the answer sheet together if they chose. Kids that understand concepts laying on the rug with those that didn't all learning together, with no pressure, was a wonderful site. I could walk around and see everyone being both learner and teacher.

I do miss a classroom. I don't know if I could even do the things I used to do 3 short years ago, given how the reform movement has ruined teacher autonomy. I was corralled back then!

Remember, this poem was probably written in about 3 seconds, I assume. (I also assume Gravity was being explained because it came up in the story I was reading and someone asked a question about it. Knowing me, I stopped reading so we could discuss Gravity, as the gravity of the need to learn about gravity was gratuitous.)

My second grade teacher is funny.
Reading a book to us most afternoons.

Singing we are while he plays his guitar.
Understanding and being right most of the time.
Gravity -- explaining.
Everything on the test, mostly, is what he taught us.
Right! Very, very right!
Making us work very hard.
A very good teacher.
Nice and funny.

Three things I am proud of: she called me funny, she mentioned me playing guitar, and she seemed proud to work hard. I call that success.

A Poem

This poem was written by a fourth-grade blogger friend. I love it.

Friends in Room 304
By Nory Klop-Packel

No one has ever heard
The song of wind whistling through the labyrinth of branches

No one has ever seen
The black bird cutting through the cold night air

No one has ever felt
The soft touch of a warm blanket

No one cried
When the snail room 101 kept as a class pet was washed away by the river currents

No one helped out
When the art supplies spilled all over the hallway
And into the open door of the classroom
And out the window
And into the night air

And that is why
Paint splattered all over the sidewalk
And only the students of room 304 cleaned it up

There is no room 304

And no one has ever tasted
Robin’s hot fudge cake
When the recipe was spreading over America
Only room 304 went on the computer to print out the recipe
Along with rooms 405, 333, 567, and 888

The school building only goes up to 209

And no one visited Lisa when she was in the hospital
Except that room 405 made a class trip of it

And when the science teacher quit
(because of disrespectful kids)
No one cried
No one made a card for her
But in art
Room 304 did just that

And everyone never studied
Never shopped for school supplies
And got very low grades on tests
And they were actually ranked the least smart students in the district
In the state
In the country

Compliments were for other schools
And rooms 304, 405, 333, 567, and 888

And the school closed
And opened again
And the teachers never got praise
But for homework
Room 304 got assigned the creation of a compliment blog

But no one other than that

And no one else changed

And no one has ever found out
Why room 304 does everything they’re supposed to
But they don’t deserve it
The other students do

No one has ever felt
What it is like to be friends
And hear the unhearable
And see the unseeable
And feel the unfeelable
And cry when someone has suffered a loss
And help when help is needed
And taste famous recipes
And build room 304

Limerick

There was a young lady from Bude
Who went for a swim in the lake
A man in a punt
Stuck an oar in her ear
And said, "You can't swim here, it's private

A Thanksgiving Poem

THANKSGIVING PRAYER
William Burroughs

"To John Dillinger and hope he is still alive.
Thanksgiving Day November 28, 1986"


Thanks for the wild turkey and
the passenger pigeons, destined
to be shat out through wholesome
American guts.


Thanks for a continent to despoil
and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a
modicum of challenge and
danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to
kill and skin leaving the
carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves
and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until
the bare lies shine through.*

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin' lawmen,
feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter,
evil faces.

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for
Christ" stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the
war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where
nobody's allowed to mind the
own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the
memories-- all right let's see
your arms!

You always were a headache and
you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest
betrayal of the last and greatest
of human dreams.

*emphasis mine