write write write until the end of the time. i challenge you to keep your pens moving, and yet, my mouth moves more readily than my pen. i challenge you, and i reward you with a sticker which is a symbol of excellence, a placating mechanism which will keep
(more) you writing even though we don't grade. the clipboards that we hug to our chests while orbiting the room have names and boxes, and we mark things in the boxes, but the marks have no meaning; the marks never leave the clipboard. power is having the clipboard and knowing whether or not it will be used, and being able to use the clipboard to regulate behaviors. it is good, all of it right and voice that escapes my throat in the front of that cement box is mine, but also a fabrication of a teacher voice. also the voice of my coaches. the voices of men. i am resistant to a classroom of silence. we are supposed to be able to get 6th graders to be silent. we are supposed to assert assert assert so they know to sit down and shut up and lean forward and nod to show comprehension. nodding doesn't show comprehension, though. it shows complacency. this is a community affected by Trayvon. this is a community afraid of the word 'aggressive' because we are in the Stop and Frisk zone and there are plenty of kids in my school who fit the police profile. in fact, most of my school. and so i raise my voice i shake my clipboard and i wonder: is it enough? can it ever be enough? so i can sleep at night, i say if it is enough for one student, it is enough for me. still, i wonder. (less)
