lockout

I commented on a teacher blog yesterday, one that I didn't realize hadn't been updated for a year. If I recall correctly, the entry was about mean resource teachers and mean classroom aides, and the teacher's powerlessness to make them stop being mean to her kids. Anyway, I re-visited to see if there had been a reply, and found the blog locked. Still not updated, according to the blogroll whence I entered, but as of yesterday, locked.

I totally understand this. Teachers are public servants (I am happy to debate this openly with anyone wishing to disagree) but so much of what we do happens behind closed doors. (Well, not literally - we'd need to be air-conditioned before we could literally close our doors and not drop dead - but figuratively speaking is sad enough.) At some of the places I've worked at and observed, every teacher is an island. A lonely island. A lonely, pissed-off island. A lonely, pissed-off island cut off from the other islands. I don't think teachers should make up a theoretical, philosophical pangea or anything, as that would seriously limit diversity and creativity, not to mention stunt problem-solving capabilities, but I am glad that my current workplace is an environment in which ideas are freely, and quite often happily, exchanged.

Anyway, combine the smallness of some schools with the explosive largeness of emotions involved when you tell a person (in any fashion) that they're not doing their job right, top gently with a totally supportive but equally random comment on a meanness issue (we don't know each other from Adam), and boom, blog's locked.

Bummer. It was a good entry on a relevant topic.

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PBJ 2008 - A partial bust. Last year's "event" went off without a hitch, so I totally didn't consider the possibility that someone might be really, really embarrassed and hurt by the activity.

My bad.

Procedure: I randomly choose a "Sandwich Artist" who randomly draws a folded up recipe from the stack. The first SA up selected the sandwich directions of "Why do people assassinate presidents?" boy. To hoots, hollers and screams of laughter, the SA created a typical "first-timer" sandwich: a jar of peanut butter between two slices of bread. (No mention of a knife, scooping the PB, etc.) The kids were hysterical - so hysterical that it took a few moments to notice that Dead Presidents Boy was nowhere to be found. He was curled up behind his chair, weeping. When he finally got hold of himself, he went off. He was embarrassed and angry that the kids were laughing at him, and with every second that went by, grew even more embarrassed and more angry as it occurred to him that he had overreacted. I gently tried to reason with him and tell him that everyone's sandwich was probably going to be silly-looking, but he got madder and madder and finally had to go outside.

Oops.

It was still fun, but they didn't quite reach the same fever pitch that they started with. (Which from a classroom management standpoint is a good thing, actually.) Eventually, Dead Presidents came back in and asked to be a Sandwich Artist, and it was all good, but next year I will definitely consider their personalities before doing this activity, and make sure they are sufficiently prepped first.

Lesson learned.