Josue and the Martian

Because of Covid (and some Emmy-award-level drama through the administration), there was no longer a position for me at the high school where I taught last year. 

So I moved to another school in town--an intermediate school: 6 and 7th grade. This was a very different demographic than high school performers. Low-income school, lots of English Language Learners. Lots of tough kids. My bleeding liberal heart loved the idea of really changing a kids' life through music. But the day-to-day was not that romantic. 

The next few blog posts are about my time teaching 6-7th grade goobers. 

Josue and the Martian

Three weeks into school. This is very different than teaching high schoolers. 

6th and 7th grade. 11-13 year-olds.

Remember what you were like then?

 Now multiply that by 40. That's what I have to teach three times a day. These creatures are like aliens to me. They might as well be a different species. They can't really sing. They don't sit still. They don't really listen, even when they are quiet--which is not often.

This was the recipe for my year: 

Take 42 barely-pubescent children

Gently fold them in the same small classroom

Beat until submissive -Kidding-

Remember they've just came out of quarantine (played video games endlessly for months). 

Now cover their mouths so you can't tell who's talking. And you have to learn all 120 of their names using just their eyes and hair cuts as distinguishing features. 

Most of them are there because there's not enough room in art or PE class, and they have no hesitation telling you how much they hate your subject matter. 

This one kid--we'll call Mav--is literally bouncing in his seat. When we do our introductions, he is "Mav the Martian" and wiggled his entire body for a whole minute before we could move on to the next child. He cannot stand still. He cannot sit still. He cannot stop talking. 

I finally threaten that I might his move him to another chair across the room, and he immediately freezes and goes silent.  I am surprised: This tactic is not usually that effective. I made a mental note that Mav really doesn't want to move seats. 

After class he comes up to me, "Uh... teacher?" 

I reply with a snarky, "Yes... pupil?" I can learn 120 names without noses, and you can't remember one teacher name?

I can see he is confused by my response--my awesome sarcasm does not land. I then recognize that he doesn't know what pupil means in this context, and sigh. They'll never appreciate my humor. 

I try again, "Ya, Mav, what's up?"

"Um...You said you might move my seat, which is fine and all, but can I please sit next to Josue? He doesn't speak English, so he gets lost and scared in class if I don't help translate." 

*cue heart melt. 

The next few days, I observe the way Mav watches out for his English-learning friend. 

This Mav kid immediately changes from being one of my least favorite, to one of my most. He is certainly not a model student. I can't even call him a good one. And he hates singing--and he makes that clear to me often. 

But I love his spirit. I love watching him be protective of a fellow student, Josue, who could easily feel lost,  isolated, and overwhelmed in a classroom where you don't speak the language.

For our Christmas (virtual) concert, we sing a song in Spanish. As we're learning it, I put Josue in charge of his own group to help with the pronunciation, and he beams with satisfaction that he can contribute.  

Though Mav doesn't like choir, Josue does. He likes choir a lot. And without Mav annoying my class, and watching over his friend, Josue might never have known it.