Never smile till Thanksgiving.
Why not? My rule is to begin smiling on the first day of school. As my new students amble into class, I also shake their hands and introduce myself. This takes the apprehension out of Day One and sets the tone for the rest of the year.
Teachers should be in constant control of their emotions.
Phooey. The first week of school, I read my students Carol Hall's poem, "It's All Right to Cry." While this never produces a rash of teary-eyed kids, it does start an epidemic of shared feelings. When we watch the movie of The Little Prince or The Velveteen Rabbit, my students may note tears filling my eyes. And as I read Shel Silverstein's poetry, they see that it's okay — even for teachers — to laugh, giggle, or groan in school.
Once a vulture, always a vulture.
Don't believe it. Every child has a talent or interest that a thoughtful teacher can nurture into a table-turning sense of self-worth. Take Sam, for example. Sure, he'd been a troublemaker last year, but that was no reason for me to play out the same script with him this year despite his former teacher's horror tales. So, Sam and I wrote a new script. I pointed out some things he did well: For example, he got good grades on spelling quizzes and was a whiz at spotting the principal at a distance. With that, Sam began to see himself as an "expert" in those areas. And his bolstered self-esteem slowly began to edge out his need to get attention by acting up.
Teachers know all the answers.
Students — and some parents — seem to believe this. (Even some teachers torment themselves with this expectation.) It means I'm supposed to know who really discovered America and where Beth's lost lunch money is, all the definitions in the Random House Dictionary and whether or not it's going to rain during Thursday's field trip. What a burden.
I let my students know right away that I don't know all the answers. Then, we hunt for them together. Some we carefully track down; some we stumble upon; and some we never find at all. But the kids get a lot more out of the chase than they'd ever get from my dispensing answers like a candy machine.
Teachers never make mistakes.
And they commute every day from Mount Olympus. My students quickly learn that I do make mistakes; in fact, they often see them first, especially when I'm writing fast on the board. And don't try to cover up with the old, "I was just testing to see if you were paying attention." My kids are too smart for that. So, when Billy finds a mistake, instead of wasting time mentally kicking myself (or the textbook editors), I praise him for being on the ball. He feels good, so I feel good too — a lot "gooder" than if I never made a mistake.
Turkeys have turkeys.
Sometimes. But I've met many students who were cooperative and friendly, though their parents were difficult and demanding. Take Ronny's parents, for example. They'd often call me at school or show up unexpectedly. If they couldn't call or come in, they'd have Ronny deliver a stinging note that deflated my good spirits. In their eyes, I could never do enough for their child. But Ronny came to like me despite what his parents said and did. Why? Because I treated him — and every child — like an eagle, not a turkey.
Nothing matters except the three Rs.
To this I say, "Those who live by the grade book, die by the grade book." In my own classroom, we study the usual lessons. But we also have long discussions about rights, rules, and responsibilities; about feelings and emotions; about divorce and coping with death.
These discussions set a tone of caring that paid off handsomely at least once. Kelly came to me upset that her grandfather might die during upcoming surgery. What could she do? I suggested she write him a letter expressing her love for him and her appreciation for all the things they'd done together. And I gave her time to write the letter in class. Later, she told me how good the letter made her feel and how much her grandfather (who survived the surgery) appreciated it. But this might have been missed if all we ever talked about in class was academics.
The textbook must be covered.
And captains must go down with their ships. Experienced teachers concentrate on teaching the essentials and use leftover time for enrichment activities. Whether or not we teach the whole text depends on the text and the students' particular needs. Surely, if we don't get around to teaching how to identify dependent adverbial clauses, someone will do it for us next year. Remember, anyone can "cover" the text ... all it takes is a brown paper bag.
Everything must be planned in advance.
If I knew exactly what I'd be doing from moment to moment, I'd quit teaching. Who wants to follow a detailed plan every second of the week? Half the fun lies in changing the routine to avoid ruts, or in guiding a class discussion down paths the students uncover.
For me, teaching is like following a map, but taking as many side roads as possible: You know where you want to go, and the trip is exciting, but you're not sure exactly when you'll get there or what new things you'll see along the way. Besides, being flexible keeps me from missing some of those "teachable moments"-and it makes fire drills easier to take.
Good teachers have no discipline problems.
Wishful thinking. The fact is, even good teachers do have discipline problems they just handle them better. And where do they get that savvy? Partly from experience, to be sure. But also from practicing the methods they see working for other teachers, and from learning to read individual student needs and the subtleties of classroom dynamics.
I've learned to diffuse classroom disruptions with something I call "tabling. " When two kids are fighting a private battle during a lesson, I ask them to table all hostilities until we have time to focus on the issues. The kids understand that tabling doesn't mean ignoring; they know we'll sit down later and talk. And often, our three-way talk draws in classmates who "can explain this better," until most of the class is involved in finding a positive resolution.