Category Archives: Prose

5 Lessons I Learned from My First Year of Teaching

Just four weeks ago, I completed my first year of teaching. Somehow, within the chaos, self-doubt, sleepless nights, and shimmering moments of success, I managed to continue to learn and grow as both an educator and an individual. In fact, I think I learned more from my students, my colleagues, and my own experience than my students managed to learn from me. Regardless, I know that the wisdom I gained in my first year will serve to make the coming years more enriching, more successful, and more fulfilling for both my students and myself. What follows is only five of the countless lessons I learned, which apply not only to my classroom, but to my everyday life. 

1. Specificity is Key

When I first started teaching, I had no idea what I wanted my classroom to look like. I didn’t know how I wanted my desks arranged, how I wanted papers handed in, or even how I wanted students to label their assignments. As a result, I was rarely specific or consistent. My desk arrangement changed at least every quarter, students handed their papers in upside down, backwards, and slantways, and sometimes, I had no idea which assignment I was grading because I never taught my students how to write a proper heading. I learned, the hard way, that being specific about everything in my classroom was the key to managing it effectively. There is power in being specific: specificity shows that you know exactly what you want and how you want it; you are in control.

2. Raise the Bar

I cannot count the times that I toned down the difficulty level of assignments because I thought it was “too much” for my kids. What I didn’t realize is that students will rise, or fall, to meet their teacher’s expectations. In the words of Harry Wong, “Students tend to learn as little or as much as their teachers expect.” When the expectations are high, students exert the effort and energy to rise up and meet them. If the expectations are low, so too is students’ effort and energy, creating a culture of apathy and negativity. Raising the bar, then, is crucial for students’ success both in the classroom and in life.

I asked my students to create a poetry book that contained examples of each poetic device we studied. Expect quality and that's what you get!

I asked my students to create a poetry book that contained examples of each poetic device we studied. This particular student went above and beyond expectations!

3. Don’t React, Respond

When I look back at how I handled disruptive situations in my classroom,  I’m a little embarrassed. It was rare that I managed to stop and think before reacting to something that happened in my classroom. If a student did something hilarious, it wasn’t uncommon for me to burst out laughing, completely derailing class so that I could collect myself. If my most challenging class was completely out of control, I often reacted with explosive, harsh fury. It wasn’t until the last quarter of the school year that I was able to change my behavior from reactive to responsive. Calculating a mature and controlled response to a given situation is much more effective than unleashing whatever gut reaction arrived initially. This sets a precedent that disruptive situations will be handled calmly and effectively each time they arise. It also reduces tension between teacher and student and shifts control back to the teacher. Pause. Breathe. Respond.

4. Try Again Differently

Sometimes I left school at the end of the day feeling successful, like I’d achieved what I set out to do and manifested my intentions. Other times I felt deflated, like I’d failed to turn my vision into reality and let my kids down. It was in these moments that I had to remind myself that I could try again tomorrow. And tomorrow, I had the chance to try again differently. If my lesson didn’t go as planned or the students didn’t connect to the material, I could revisit the same concept tomorrow using alternate methods. I could give them a different task or read a different poem; I could explain something with a real-life example or show a video. I realized that I had options, and each day was a new opportunity to start over. There are few jobs that allow you to simply forget about yesterday and start anew. That’s one thing I love about teaching: everyday at 3:30 pm I can let my students go home knowing that the next day at 8:00 am I’ll see them again, and together we’ll try again, hopefully a little better than the day before.

5. Never Stop Learning

If there is one thing I am proud of about my first year, it is that I never stopped looking at my teaching with a critical eye and asking myself, “how can I do this more effectively?” I took risks, and I was never too proud or afraid to incorporate suggestions from my colleagues and my students. As a result, my classroom was constantly evolving, and I was constantly learning—learning from my successes, my mistakes, and my failures.

Whether you are a school teacher, a professor, a yoga instructor, or a coach, never stop being a student. As teachers, we must be students first. We must forever cultivate our curiosity. We must always keep an open mind. We must be brave enough to experiment, knowing that if we are not successful, we have not failed— we have merely learned an invaluable lesson for tomorrow.

K(now) W(onder) L(earned) charts are an activity that I learned from one of my fellow teachers. It turned into a great way to engage my students in what they are reading!

K(now) W(onder) L(earned) charts are an activity that I learned from one of my fellow teachers. It turned into a great way to engage my students in what they are reading!

Fellow teachers, what are some lessons you’ve learned throughout your career? Share them in the comments below!

Learn on,

Savannah

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9 Things I learned from Yoga Teacher Training

It was only a couple short weeks ago that I received my 200 RYT and Yogahour® certification from YogaOasis here in Tucson. This ten-month-long training not only taught me about yoga, it taught me about myself. Below are nine major lessons that I took away from the experience. 

1. Work from the Foundation Up

As myself and my fellow teacher trainees learned how to instruct poses, our teachers taught us to deliver instructions from the foundation up. In other words, if the pose is reverse warrior (below) and the student’s weight is in her feet, start with aligning the feet and legs, then work upward. To me, this concept doesn’t just apply to giving directions; it is also a reminder to return—constantly—to the basics. To the breath, to the heart, and to love.

Reverse Warrior

2. Use Props

When I began yoga teacher training in August 2014, my attitude towards props was not positive. To me, props were crutches; I didn’t need them. That changed quickly, for I learned that props are not just things to lean on; they can be things to pull, things to squeeze, things that make your limbs longer, and things that make your poses stronger, things to melt over, and things to push against. The more I delved into using props, the more open, challenging, and truer my practice became.

3. Listen to Your Body

I say that my practice became “truer” when I started using props because I started using them in response to the needs of my own body. About halfway through the training, a recurring knee problem resurfaced, and I could no longer perform certain asanas in the same way. For instance, I could no longer straighten my leg in trikonasana, or triangle pose (below). Instead, I learned to place my hand on a block and gently bend my front leg. Now that I’ve learned to tune into and actually respond to the pleas of my body, my practice has become more modest, more nurturing, and more sustainable.

Trikonasana/Triangle Pose with block

4. Acknowledge Your Mistakes

Early on in the training, we were given a task to form small groups and each recite the exact instructions for a few of the poses we had memorized. We were not to use our scripts. In the group I was in, I was the first to be thrown into the fire. The exercise was challenging, but I played by the rules. After a few poses, another member of my group jumped in, and so on. When the final member of our group began her turn, she reached down for the script and began to use it to prompt herself. My ego quickly flared up. Who was she to break the rules and use the script? I thought. If it were me, would I want my peers to let me keep using the script? Or would I want them to force me to crash and burn? I decided I’d prefer the latter, and moved to snatch the script away. My fellow student snatched it back. I complained, saying nobody else had used the script. Then, she said something that made me wish I’d let it be: she told me she had a medical condition whose treatment caused her memory to falter, a fact which I was completely unaware of and should have never needed to know in the first place. I was floored. I immediately shut my mouth and withdrew. I felt shame, sorrow, and disappointment in my behavior. I had let my ego take over, and as a result I had hurt another person.

At the end of training that day, I apologized to my group member for how I had treated her. I acknowledged that it was a mistake for me to think that I knew what was best for another person and to impose myself upon her. She accepted my apology wholeheartedly, and we later became friends. In the end, I was grateful that she had pointed out my mistake and that I had confronted it. I would return to this lesson over and over again, not only in teacher training, but in my classroom, in my relationships, and it my yoga practice. By acknowledging my mistakes, I’ve transformed them into tools for learning and growth.

5. Let Go of Your Ego

Rumi said, “the Ego is a veil between humans and God.” I like to translate this as, “the Ego is a veil between humans and Love.” Throughout the training, whenever our teachers would offer someone the opportunity to share with the class, teach the whole group, or do a demonstration, my first thought was always “Me! Me! I want to go!” What followed next was a reminder from my inner self that although I was capable of doing whatever it was in front of everyone, I didn’t have to be the person in the spotlight all the time. Just because I didn’t jump on center stage didn’t mean that I was incompetent.

As I learned to let others take the lead, I began to feel more invested in the success of my peers. I felt joy as I watched my fellow students meet the challenges set before them, and I let go of my ego’s desire to show off. Now, I realize that what matters is not showing off, but showing up.

6. Practice Makes Progress

The lessons I learned during each session of training—whether they were dealt with my asana or my self-development—became exercises requiring constant practice. For instance, on my mat, I practiced bending my knees in standing poses to prevent hyperextension. At first, I thought this effort was fruitless because the pain in my knees did not subside, but now, months and months later, my entire practice has transformed. My legs are stronger, my knees are healthier, and my poses are more sustainable. My practice is far from perfect, but progress, not perfection, is what matters.

Falling_Tree_Sage

7. Reflect

One of the most useful parts of my teacher training was the brief minutes when we were asked to take out our journals and reflect upon a question chosen by our teachers. These questions included everything from “What is your word of the day?” to “Why do you want to teach?” to “How has the training invited you to be more courageous? To what degree have you accepted the invitation?” For me, these journaling exercises acted as a hoe tilling the soil, uncovering what has been buried and bringing fresh earth to the surface. As I attempted to answer each question, I tilled my own sort of inner garden, allowing new understanding and clarity to spring forth.

8. Know Your Lineage

During the second month of training, we discussed the lineage of Yogahour®. Darren Rhodes, the creator of Yogahour®, told us, “Lineage is leverage. What we have is really a recalibration of what is, what was.” My background, past experience, and origins are tools that inform what I create moving forward. Without lineage, I am like a tree without roots. By understanding my own lineage and what it has to offer, I can infuse my own offering with the insight, wisdom, and power of what has come before.

9. Take the Seat of the Teacher

Through this training, and the many experiences I had alongside it, I’ve learned to stand in my own power, to trust what I know, and to be where I am. Hopefully, where I am will be more and more in the seat of the teacher. This is a role I am eager to fill, but it is not without self-doubt, hesitation, and fear. If there is a tenth lesson I learned from yoga teacher training, it is that I have so much yet to learn. Supposedly, I know things now that I didn’t before, but here I am, feeling as though I know nothing. However, this should not and will not prevent me from giving all I that I can.

A gift from a friend.

A gift from a friend.

The following words came originally from Darren’s father, and he offered them to us. In the coming months and even years, I know they will come in handy:

“God does not choose the qualified. He qualifies the chosen.”

Love and light,

Savannah

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Re—

“Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. You are the truthsayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues on fire. Don’t let the pen banish you from yourself. Don’t let the ink coagulate in your pens. Don’t let the censor snuff out the spark, nor the gags muffle your voice. Put your shit on the paper.”
– Gloria Anzaldúa

Put your shit on the paper.

Five months have come and gone without a single specimen of creativity. Five months have come and gone without the tapping tap tapping of the keys. Five months, and I haven’t put my shit on the paper, at least not intentionally, not voluntarily, not the way I want to. That doesn’t mean there’s been nothing to say. On the contrary, there’s been more to say these past five months than any other time in this chapter of my life:

go to the office, put your butt in a chair, but why?, I love you!, om nama shivaya, om shanti, please take three minutes to complete your Do Now silently and independently, AzMERIT, step one, step two, everybody line up!, I want you, good morning :), coffee?, Hi my name is Savannah and the word of the day is, take your hat off please, this is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, namaste, step your right foot forward between your hands, 20 school days, 3 school days, I HATE water day, thank god it’s summer!, good morning, I love you

The words have poured out of my mouth and into space. Sometimes like tears, sometimes like screams, sometimes like raindrops, like laughter, like wine, like water, like comets, like waves colliding with people and hurling them down into the sea… but never like ink pouring onto paper. I’ve found these past five months that I can speak, but I cannot write. This paradox has led me to think about what it is that allows me to put my shit on the paper and what it is that never lets it land there. I think the determining factor has a lot to do with the prefix “re-.”

The Oxford Dictionary defines “re-” primarily as “once more; afresh, anew.” It then follows this definition with many more, the second being “with return to a previous state” as in “restore” or “revert.” For me, writing is a means of reflection, a sort of review, a revisiting of past events, thoughts, and lessons. All of those “re-” prefixes imply returning. To return means to steer yourself to a previous place, condition, or experience rather than continuing with your eyes set on what lies ahead. Hence why I’ve found it nearly impossible to write: living fully for the past five months has required that all of my energy and effort be directed forward. I’ve not been able to reflect on what has come and gone; I’ve only had room enough to bask, and burn, in the present.

With that said, I can now take refuge in a more fluid, slow-moving present: summer. During these short months, I have the space to revisit what I’ve learned and felt from January to June. I can review moments in which I made and grew from mistakes. I can restore the rhythm of the rapping on the keys. I can return to the past so that I may arrive in the future a little wiser. I can breathe. And as I exhale, I hope the breath will turn into words and travel down my arms into my fingertips where the words will turn to notes and the notes into music and the music into truth.

sunset in Tucson, AZ

Renew. Return. Rejoice. 

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Once a Teacher, Always a Teacher

Never in my life has winter break seemed so necessary. Not even when I was recovering from my first semester in the stifling libraries of Sciences-Po, my eyes aching from staring intensely at the pages of academic articles and mes dissertations, did this small window of repose feel so crucial. Teaching is really fucking hard.

I grew up in classrooms. During my elementary years, I went immediately from my own school to the larger, more intimidating campuses of my uncles and my mother. The bell rang, I got on the bus, and I bounced and chattered through every stop until there was only me and the driver. Then I moved up to the front of the bus to chat with her (or was it a him?) as we neared the middle school. From there I would either go to my uncle’s classroom on the middle school campus, or walk over to the high school on the other end of the football field. I sat out the remainder of the afternoons in the back of the room watching my uncle or my mother teach. My most vivid memories are of my mom’s Advanced Placement English classes. The Scarlet Letter. “The Graduate.” “The Fall of the House of Usher.” These were the works of my childhood, the prose, intertwined with the melancholy voices of Simon and Garfunkel, weaving a refrain in the background of my thoughts. I don’t know when I fell in love with literature and words and storytelling. But those countless days spent in the back of my mother’s classroom listening to her dive head first into the often dark and gruesome tales of humanity had something to do with it. They also had something to do with me becoming a teacher.

The adults in my life modeled teaching, and so I mimicked them. As soon as my little sister could take on the role of my pupil I set up a school for her in the basement. I wrote on the chalkboard my parents had bought us as she sat in a red antique desk copying my letters and numbers onto paper. We practiced the ABCs and counting to 10. We learned colors, sang songs, played games. It was all a game, really, but for me it was very real. I was her teacher and she was my student. I loved every minute of it.

I would not say today that I love every minute of teaching. On the contrary, I spend much of my time being very uncomfortable, especially when it comes to discipline. I’ve found that yelling at students actually makes me feel dirty. It has somewhat of a dementor effect, as if some dark force swooped down upon me and sucked out my soul. I try not to yell or “be mean,” and in turn my students take advantage of my compassion. I’m learning, though, to use discipline in a more constructive and effective way, and as I become more comfortable with it, to use it as a tool rather than a whip. It still requires and immeasurable amount of energy, though. Teaching takes all of me, from lesson planning, to grading, to being up in front of a class for five hours a day. I plan five different hour-long presentations everyday, five days a week, for an audience that doesn’t want to be there and doesn’t want to listen. If you didn’t get it the first time, teaching is really fucking hard.

That is why these two weeks of break are so needed. That is also why it’s been three months since I posted anything on this blog. By the end of the day, I’ve been talking for so long that I have no words left. Each day I am emptied. Only yoga and food and booze and sleep can replenish me. Well, only that and my students.

Ironically enough, the very soul-sucking, heart-wrenching, energy-depleting creatures that torment me all day are also the source of my happiness. Just as they make every day miserable, they make every day worth it. I live for the small moments—a student grasping a concept for the first time, a group of boys who are typically fighting working happily together, a student finding a typo in my own writing (we call them “word crimes”), a girl who used to be rude and disruptive slowly transforming into a kind and caring young woman, hugs and hellos from little ones who aren’t even my students, baking 84 Christmas cookies and watching my students eat them gleefully. The list is endless.

And so, during these two weeks, the truth is I will never set aside my teacher hat. I will think of my students, my lessons, books I’m teaching next quarter, things I need to do, activities to plan. I will talk about teaching at Christmas dinner, over coffee with old friends, here on this blog. I will tell stories and relive the worst and best moments of the past five months. Ms. Martin will not disappear. But in all honesty, she’s always been there, and she’s here to stay.

Smiles and all the best,

Savannah

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Becoming Ms. Martin: How and Why I became an English Teacher

Being an adult means eating dark chocolate with breakfast.

Or at least, that’s what it meant as I sat down to journal this morning between bites of oatmeal and sips of green tea. Like every morning, my last bite of oatmeal created a sense of loss on my taste buds, which prompted me, like every morning, to lick the bowl with desperation (another perk of adulthood, at least when you’re living alone). But this morning, not even that could banish my longing. And so I savored two pieces of Ghirardelli Twilight Delight and now I feel much better.

All this and much more has become commonplace in my life over the past two months. July brought many changes. I moved out of my condo that I shared with one of my dearest friends and moved into a small one-bedroom house that I share with me, myself, and my pet fish. I quit riding my bike to work and class and started driving my car. I left my job as a barista and found something more personally fulfilling: teaching. With my new job, I secured health and dental insurance, a salary, a contract, and 80 middle schoolers. I stopped flashing my student ID at Albertson’s on Saturdays to get the 10 percent discount. When the cashier commented on the pile of 99-cent notebooks I stacked atop the counter—”Back to school! Are you at the U?”—I replied, “Oh no, I’m a teacher. These are for my kids.”

My kids. I never thought I’d be watching over 80 6th-through-9th graders only two months after graduating from college. But now, I spend five days a week in the company of pre-and-mid-pubescents, loving them, hating them, and somewhere in there, teaching them, though I think I’m learning more from them than they are from me. For this political science major who once had her heart set on diplomacy and NGO work, this decision may seem tangential. Yet, when I saw the ad on Craigslist and sent in my résumé, I did so with something stronger than confidence. It was clairvoyance. I knew without knowing why that I was meant to do it. That becoming “Ms. Martin” was a critical juncture along my journey.

That doesn’t mean I acted purely from some greater calling within myself. Two things prompted me to begin scouring the internet for something new. One, I felt over-worked, bored, and unfulfilled at my former job. I could only make so many lattes and pour so many Dragoon IPAs before I started craving something more meaningful. Two, I needed more money. Not receiving a scholarship to pay for my yoga teacher training, as beneficial as it is to my personal growth, is also expensive. I was prepared to pay for the training, but it would drain my savings. So, I began the Craigslist comb, and soon enough, there it was: A charter school on the south side of Tucson was looking for a junior high English Language Arts teacher. A couple weeks later, that teacher was me.

My classroom bookshelf

The library I inherited in my classroom 


Now I go to bed at 10 each night and wake up at 5:45, giving me enough time to shower, eat, meditate, and feed my fish before zipping off to school. I leave the house with four bags—my purse, my lunch box, my bag of ungraded papers, and my bag of yoga clothes for after work. I pull into the parking lot around 7:40, sign in at the office, and grab my attendance sheet. First hour, 6th grade, starts at 8:30. Each class is an hour, and each hour is different. The 6th graders come in sleepy some days and rowdy the others. The 7th graders either want to talk all hour or work like angels. The 8th graders either can’t stop derailing the class or can’t stop asking questions. Out of the five classes that I teach, only 9th grade is consistent. There are only eight students in the class because most of their peers left the charter school to go to standard high schools. They are quiet and reserved, but we have a good time together. Because no time is wasted on discipline or classroom management in my 9th grade class, I allow us to stray. We take alternative paths through weekends and pop music and idioms, but I am always able to use our digressions as fuel for discussion. I’ve learned that learning is most engaging when it resembles real life. And for my students, real life is rich and dramatic and tumultuous, full of change and discovery and loss. For some of my students, real life is like a horror story from the streets of Tijuana.

Teaching where I do has proven a remarkably humbling and eye-opening experience.  Many of my students are from Mexican families who have been divided along the Borderlands. Some have been torn from their parents to live with tías and tíos on the American side of the border. Some have lost their fathers to bloodshed in Mexican streets, American streets, Tucson streets. Others have never met their baby brothers because the toddlers could not survive the journey to the U.S.. Others return to Mexico frequently, missing days of school at a time. Their lives look nothing like those of the characters I fell in love with as a kid. And as a white middle class woman, there is little I can draw from to help me comprehend the totality of their experiences, each with their own moments of sorrow, struggle, and success. All I have is Arizona pulsing through my veins and Humanity drumming in my heart. I know the tingle of tamarind on my tongue and the singe of the sun on my skin. I know the crunch of corn tortilla chips and the smell of carne asada in the kitchen. I know the ache of losing a grandmother. I know the weariness of being far from home. I will never claim to know what my students endure, but I hope to gain insight into what they overcome. As their teacher, I hope to help them turn all they have lived into fuel so that they may combine that fuel with knowledge and, like a fire, feed their own self-actualization.

I realized at some point in college that that is what I’m passionate about: helping others, particularly youth, access and use the opportunities available to them to give them agency, to self-actualize. I know I am only one young, completely inexperienced teacher in one, small school on Tucson’s south side, but I also know that on our best days, my students and I create something powerful together. We create a ripple somewhere in the universe by learning with and teaching one another, and that ripple joins with another and yet another until, one day, the universe is hit by a hurricane, and a disadvantaged, immigrant youth defies all the odds and not only passes the AIMS test, but goes to college.

That’s why I responded to that Craigslist ad two months ago. That’s why I want to teach yoga. That’s why I don’t want to work in the State Department or UNESCO.  Because, for me, a classroom of kids finding empowerment in the words of Sandra Cisneros and a studio of yogis singing om to the sound of their unified hearts are where the tremors start. These places and these moments are the axes of change, where the Earth splits and the plates shift and the world is reincarnated—not always better, but undoubtedly different.

 

 

 

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