I gave a few students copies of the American Sign Language alphabet. I had no idea they make use of signing inside prison when they are in lockdown. They said they sign larger so someone else can see it from far away. These are the hazards of my job — any well meaning comment or teaching tool can be misconstrued. Soon every new arrival from prison will be asking me for the sign language alphabet. So for now I put the sign language worksheets away and go back to teaching long division.
My student Z is finally taking the GED. Someone who knows her told me Z has had anxiety attacks all weekend. I am confident we can get her through the exam. My greatest worry is not that she will fail but what a lack of success might drive her to do. Even a small failure can drive an addict back to the crack pipe. She will not have another chance in the program if she relapses.
“I’m going in with all paws,” Z said when she came by school. We agreed no studying today. She takes the test tomorrow. After almost eight hours of testing in five subjects, she will have to wait several weeks for her score. She has been ready for the GED for a long time, but is she ready for the results?
It isn’t often that I write about the dark side of my students though they tumble into my school with long unspoken histories. Most of them have been arrested more than fifteen times and that’s only counting when they got caught. When students get kicked out of the residential rehab it is often for drug use but sometimes it’s because they’ve become angry, even violent. Christopher left yesterday. I ran into him on my way in to work and he said he was leaving to go to another program. “I pushed someone,” he said. Christopher has a mohawk and small curled goat horns tattooed above his hairline on each side of his head. I heard he pushed an older guy on the stairs during a scuffle.
Christopher would come in to my school drunk on anger. If he got frustrated with a math problem he would storm out rather than ask for help. I worked with him to practice multiplication on paper. He was making slow progress in his arithmetic, but had no patience for the learning process. Standing beside his packed bags, Christopher expressed sadness in not being able to finish his math studies. I didn’t buy it but I tried to be supportive.
I read on the Internet that when a kitten is weaned too early, it doesn’t get a chance to learn about acceptable (and non-acceptable) behaviors from its mom and littermates.
It just so happens that a litter was born four weeks ago at the rehab and I have woven this story into recent posts. At my break today I went to check on the kittens and was told they were all given away to family visitors over the weekend. There are two problems with this. One, they were much too young to be weaned from the mother; and second, I was promised the gray and white one. This is the first cat I would have had in 23 years and I got very attached to the idea of taking it home with me.
I leave work every Friday, and on Mondays I return to a board with the names of students who were kicked out of or simply walked out of the rehab. More often than not, one of my students’ names is listed on the board. I’m never really surprised or disappointed by who left because it comes with this kind of job. But to suddenly find the kitten I was promised missing really threw me for a loop. Even if the kitten miraculously returned I would put it back with its mother.
I realize that I am a bit of a mother figure to my students. I try to help them practice acceptable behavior, an attitude and manners that will help them in the workplace. When they get aggressive or needy I call them on it and steer them back to the reason they are in my school: holes in their early education. They were weaned too early from math and reading.
We hear a lot about meth abuse but math abuse damages people too. One of my students complained that every time he sat at the computer to practice long division he would get a pounding headache. Learning long division in your forties is enough to give anyone a headache, but I always see it as a red flag. I asked him, “Did you ever have a bad experience around math?” He sat and thought. “Yes!” he said with sudden awareness. “When I was young I would sit at the kitchen table doing my math homework. My mom would stand behind me and when I got a problem wrong she’d hit me on the back of my head.” As bad as this sounds it’s not that uncommon. Many of my students have traumatic math memories, from the teacher who humiliated them at the chalkboard to the parent who used math skills as a barometer of intelligence; they leave math in the dust and never look back.
Some of my students still need to memorize their times tables. Henry hates math and he begged me not to make him do it. “What happened to you?” I asked. “My elementary teacher promised us an ice cream sundae if we memorized our times tables,” Henry said. “I memorized them and she never came through, she never made good on her promise.” Although it wasn’t a strike to the back of the head, what Henry’s teacher did scarred him for life.
I tell my students math is a puzzle (they like puzzles) and when you get good at it, it actually becomes fun. My goal is to create math addicts.
Wanda got her GED! She was waiting at the door of my school when I arrived Monday morning. We dressed her in the spare cap and gown I keep on hand. “Put the tassel on the right,” I said. We shuffled out to the garden and I snapped her photo next to a wall of pink flowers. This was the first time Wanda had ever worn a cap and gown. Statistics show that getting a high school diploma greatly increases a parolee’s chances of not going back to prison. I had five students who only needed to pass the math section to get their GED. Two walked out of the program (Damien and LaDeena), one went home (Marcos), and one is still here and will hopefully finish. But Wanda did it.
My students get test jitters just like everyone else, but for them the fear is exponential — success is terrifying and failure or even outright avoidance is the norm. Therefore I wasn’t surprised when I returned last Thursday to find Damien had walked out of the rehab, split the program. I had written Damien a letter of recommendation to get his GED funded. Like Wanda, he only needed to retake and pass the math section of the GED. The ink on the check was still wet when he ran. He didn’t take the check, he left without it. After all, this is a man who quietly cleaned my room every day for months. When I asked him, “What figure in history do you consider successful?” he answered, “Jesus.”
Wanda took the math section of the GED Saturday. I’ve been helping her prep for several months now. I handed her an envelope when I left on Friday. I wrote Good Luck on it and put a brand new sharpened pencil inside, pure cedar with a pink pearl eraser. We should have the results in a couple weeks. As for Damien, his leaving probably had nothing to do with taking the test but man he came close.
Samuel is doing better. His mother came and dropped off his I.D. and this time she visited with him. He is working very hard on his multiplication with carry-over. He takes homework with him to practice after dinner. One of my students asked me what the BMI was today so I showed her how to figure her Body Mass Index by setting it up as an algebra equation. Her BMI is 48.6, considered dangerously high. I recommended that she start a support group at the rehab for those wanting to lose weight. “How about a little healthy competition with team support,”I said, “like that TV show The Biggest Loser.” Parole housing or reality TV show, you decide.
Damien helps clean the classroom everyday at 3:45 and he does a damn good job. I can’t read his emotions at all. I know he was in a real long time and I know he was in for murder. He doesn’t talk much, but he often murmurs to himself, “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” in a descending scale. He has a certain innocence, a naiveté. “Miss P.,” Damien asked me, “do you think I could get $10 for this half a twenty if I take it to the bank?” I walked over to see he was holding half a twenty-dollar bill torn along the face of Andrew Jackson. “Not sure, ” I said. I looked on the Internet and learned you need to be able to read both serial numbers and at least 75% of the bill. “Maybe I should save it for good luck,” Damien said. “Or save it because maybe someday you’ll find the person who has the other half,” I said. He laughed. “That’s a one in a million chance, Miss P!”
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