Lauren+Rutledge

Genre Reflection 1 Don’t Rain on my Pretend

You can’t miss him. He’s the one towering over his classmates.

The one whose chin presses down against his barrel chest as he strains to make eye contact with friends, to make eye contact with me.

Surely he goes home with a neck ache.

But, if it bothers him at school—if anything bothers him—there’s no sign of it.

His smile is warm and ever-present. His eyes are bright, eager, seeming to look out from the pages of a paperback novel. Is he real?

A gentle giant among Jacks.

“Hi, Ms. Rutledge!”

I muster what I’ve cultivated thus far of my “teacher’s restraint” to express the proper amount of enthusiasm. Too excited, and I’m his peer. Not excited enough, and I’m his absent teacher—a far greater criminal than the truant student.

“Hi, Joe. How are you today?”

“Great!” There’s that smile.

One mini-test passed, a million more to go in the next 240 minutes. No “kill-and-drill” worksheets to prepare me.

Today, my storybook student presents his project in our makeshift Holocaust Museum.

I walk over in my best pretend teacher’s swag and have a seat at Joe’s table, waiting to be awed.

I look down, chin pressed against my chest.

A crumpled half poster board. A shaky line with green highlighter scrawled numbers spanning across. Ten dates—The minimum requirement. Six cut-and-paste pictures—“One picture per date” is four past his attention span. Half legible fragments summarizing the events—Blue highlighter this time.

Joe reads the few words he wrote in a voice I don’t recognize. For the first time, he seems uncomfortable in the slightly snug white t shirt that is his uniform. Its unraveling hem twists and turns preparing to take him hostage, and the stains I’ve never before noticed are threatening to wash him out.

I //am// in awe.

No sign of the smile I attach with his booming figure. No sign of the life that usually widens his eyes, and undoubtedly my own.

My storybook has turned on me.

“Did you see Joe’s project?” I ask the real life teacher.

“Yes.” No surprise. She doesn’t look up from her papers.

Shakily, “I was kind of expecting more from him.”

Her professional pen continues on its stabbing rampage without pause, “Joe doesn’t have a great home life. He doesn’t have the resources these other kids do. So I cut him some slack.”

The real life teacher wounds with her real life pen and her real life words at the same time.

Perhaps, I prefer to play pretend.


 * Lauren, this is awesome! I think it is so interesting that our specific experiences are so similar. I have a 'Joe' too, but his name is A.J. And sometimes I have to wonder if the look of honest surprise on his face when I smile and ask him how his day is going comes from the fact that it is me asking him OR if it comes from the fact that //someone// is taking an interest in //him.// Makes me sad to think about it. Yesterday, it dawned on me that my time with these kids is rapidly drawing to a close, and I was legitimately bothered by that thought. I'm not boasting about ANYTHING, and I'm certainly not naive enough to think that I alone hold the keys to success. But sometimes, I do feel like my honest concern and enthusiasm is a sort of breath of fresh air for some of these kids. As always, your writing is wonderful, and I sincerely enjoyed this. **
 * -Adriana 3.23.2011 **

Genre Reflectiton 2

[Ms.] GI Jane

The enemy is bigger, stronger, well-versed in the art of piercing hearts, crushing spirits. Their arsenal fully-stocked. Weapons of mass destruction at the ready— no safety to delay their steady trigger fingers.

I prepare my troops—outnumbered, but resilient. They have been drafted to fight in a war that is not their own. It is my job, my calling, to make it real for them. For it will be real soon enough.

We review fundamentals: Stay calm in the face of opposition. Think logically. Read your enemy to predict his next move. Pick apart his weaknesses. Know that you are stronger. Go with your gut. We practice in the context of what will be our reality—in the context of war.

The truth is, while my fighters train for the enemy that will look them in the eye—the enemy that will make demands in a language they don’t recognize; the enemy that will fight dirty, leaving landmines even the surefooted can’t sidestep—I know that we have two enemies. The one in front of us may be the most immediate threat, but it is the one who calls the shots, hiding behind the faceless shield of statistics that issues the greatest fate-determining blows.

They sit in their cozy office, gulping down hope with their freshly brewed coffee. They scrutinize research—plans of attack—prescribing the best route for our victory. They map out the ideal path to success, while I lead my troops, knowing that no one path is ideal for our whole team.

Kill-and-drill. Kill-and-drill. Kill-and-drill. The monotone phrase reverberates in my skull, bringing the collective pain of my soldiers to my temples. I feel it before they will. Because it is my job to stop it. I preemptively steal away their pain, so that they may keep their focus on the task at hand:

Mission Impossible.

It is no matter that our enemy is cowering, that they started strong, but we are rapidly forcing them closer to retreat. Our commanding generals have no time for forward progress; they want a kill shot. All or nothing. Hitler preferred blondes with blue eyes; their one size fits all comes in the shape of the letter A. A genocide of student individuality.

Mere months ago we were gasping for air, clenching side stitches—weak, never having seen a battle. Today, our breaths come much easier. I have seen my soldiers grow strong under this heaviest of burdens.

We march to the frontlines together. I lead them for one last charge. Have I done my best? Am I sending my troops off to a war they aren’t ready for? Can you ever be ready for war?

When the dust settles, and my warriors have stripped off their war paint and are once again sharpening pencils instead of loading guns, a raised arm revealing freshly formed muscles proclaims, “Ms. Rutledge, you’re doing a great job!”

In my mind, the words reverberate, struggling to settle so they can make their full impact, until finally, I hear, “Sergeant, I’d go to war with you any day.”


 * Lauren, this is sooooo good. Wow. I've said it once, and I'll probably say it ten more times before the semester is out. You are an amazing writer. I especially loved this piece because I do feel like we sometimes underestimate just how much of a 'war-zone' we've stepped into. And it's been particularly frustrating this semester because our TOSS experience will end before the CRCT. So we won't be able to see whether or not the students come through it on top. And it's not even about 'was I successful?', but about 'are they going to make it?'. But you've painted such a vivid picture that I was very much drawn in until the very end. And I absolutely loved the ending. Awesome job! Goodness, it deserves a smiley face even though you and I have talked, at length, about our distaste for emoticons. :) There! I did it! **

I agree wit the comment above. This is a great piece of writing! I really like the metaphor of school being a war zone and that you have to accomplish goals with you students. I could see the image you are creating perfectly as I was reading. Good stuff. Keep up the good work! - Jessica Cross

Genre Reflection 3 **Teacher** You taught me. You taught me to teach to the student, not to the test. You taught me that a friendly word can go a long way. You taught me that I am //always// modeling. You taught me the difference between on-level and honors, though I still only see similarities. You taught me that plans always change, and that it’s only good sense to back up your back-up.

You taught me that a student who causes trouble is probably fighting the trouble someone else is causing him. You taught me that glossed over eyes can regain focus if you get close enough. You taught me that the boy flipping through //The Divine Comedy// who can’t spell a word right if he’s copying it as he looks at it, is, in fact, //not// lazy. You taught me that every student is “smart” in some way; it’s showing //them// that that makes all the difference. You taught me that one-on-one, Everyone wins.

You taught me that I can think on the fly. You taught me that I can ask the right questions to engage students. You taught me that high expectations lead to higher rewards. You taught me that kids //want// you to make them think.

You taught me… That I can rely on myself.

You taught me that Sennet plays dumb, but is so smart. You taught me that Colin sits on his hands because popularity is higher on the food chain than good grades. You taught me that Davis can’t tell you what kind of sentence he’s writing, but, oh, is he writing. You taught me that Semaya craves extra attention, and that it’s okay to give her a little. You taught me that Sophie will always say she gets it, and if you keep asking… she will. You taught me that Lauren P. says she can’t get “lost” in a book, but if you ask her about what she read, you’ll get “lost” in her vivid explanations. You taught me that Lauren M. is a cheerleader… and a writer. You taught me that Lauren J. “play[s] second base, too!” and that If you tell her she can… she can. You taught me that the three Laurens get really excited when you know who’s who.

You taught me that Hunter is smarter than his grades show and that Chris speaks in terms of BMX or Lacrosse, and that Joe’s real name is Josephat (“But please don’t call me that!”), and that Kierra HATES to read, until she picks up a book about basketball, and that Talmadge has a speech impediment, but an eloquence to his words that is wise beyond his 13 years, and that Emily lives in books because she’s uncomfortable in the social dynamics of public school, but if you get her alone… She’ll tell you how her weekend was until she’s out of breath.

You taught me to care, to smile, to ask, to share, to feel, to listen, to hear, to learn, to offer, to ask again, to want, to strive, to reach and Keep On Reaching.

You taught me by making me teach myself. And, It turns out…

I am a teacher.

In spite of yourself, You taught me.


 * Lauren, **
 * All I can say is...'Preach it!'. This was wonderful. And I think it so beautifully captures everything that this experience was supposed to. I've thoroughly enjoyed reading all of our reflections, but I think this one was the best of the bunch. And I loved the last six lines. At the beginning, I really thought that this experience was supposed to be about our teaching the students. But now, I'm not so sure. At the end of it all, I'm convinced that it was about the students teaching us. Funny world, isn't it. **
 * -Adriana **