by Sylvia Maria Gross
NARRATION: I taught in a public school because I believe in the power of education to transform society. But I took the summer school job because I needed the cash.
It always seemed like a miserable way to spend summer vacation. The same kids that had failed your class during the year would have to suffer through the New York heat for several hours a day, sweating through their pre-adolescent pores. There would be no high achievers thrusting their hands in the air, just the sullen stares of frustration and resentment.
We had an advantage last summer—air conditioning units were installed on our floor. They put the wrong one in my window—it was designed for a small office. And when my neighbor Ms. Gonzalez and I both turned on our air conditioners and lights on, the circuits would blow on our end of the hall.
So, every night, I let the puny air conditioner run. I turned it off in the morning, threw open the windows, and pulled down the shades. I kept on only one row of fluorescent lights.
And in that moist, dark cave, twelve struggling seventh graders spread out and hunched over their math exercises.
Summer School 2003 was a neglected program. Mayor Bloomberg had just taken the reigns of the Department of Education. He and schools chancellor Joel Klein were busy re-writing the curriculum for all the schools.
But teachers did receive the traditional summer school bin. When you teach during the regular year at a typical public school, the administration doesn't even give you a piece of chalk. You dig through the belongings of your retired predecessors, borrow from colleagues, and buy everything else at Staples.
But for summer school, you get a stapler, scotch tape, some paper, pencils, index cards—even chalk. If you're thrifty, you can make the supplies last all year.
The summer school curriculum for math is extremely simple—basic workbooks with a bunch of problems in them. It's called skill and drill; or drill and kill, depending on your philosophy. In the past, I put a lot of energy into designing elegant activities for my math classes, like building models and analyzing art. I wanted my students to develop concepts and practice operations in the context of the real world.
But this summer, I just turned the page in the teacher's guide and explained the problems straight up. After six years of teaching, I knew the efficient way to show how to find a common denominator, or solve for x in an equation.
My students over the summer had no major learning disabilities. Shatisha failed because she couldn't keep her eyes off the boys. Julio understood the topics, but got defensive when he picked up a pencil. Anthony was lazy. Dayshawn was quick at calculations and concepts, probably from his three years in seventh grade. But he had failed math tests because he couldn't keep his eyes off Shatisha. April had tried, but she needed more of my attention. Chayanne had passed math, smirking all the way, but was there because he failed reading.
Jessica was the only one with whom I had no relationship, though she had been in my class. She had only opened her mouth to let me know she hated me, and, as an afterthought, hated math.
During the school year, they were in a class of 34 kids. I could spend only a few, hectic minutes at a time with each one. Jessica had never asked for my help, never opened the math book, never picked up a pencil.
After six months of disrupting the class with our battles, I finally just let her sit there.
But over the summer, something changed. She began to look at me while I talked. She started fumbling with the pages of her book. When I sat down next to her one morning, she asked me a question about rounding. I was surprised, but I answered in a business-like tone. She finished the page of problems.
For a week she picked and chose what she would work on—she'd do the one-step problems and answer the obvious questions. But by the time we came around to long division, she knew she would have to commit, or jump ship.
Seventh grade is just about the last time you have to do long division in New York State. The eighth grade exam lets you use a calculator. But in seventh grade you need to go all the way out to the fifth decimal place, and determine whether to round.
Long division is where a lot of kids give up on math—it takes instinct, memorization, and tedious routine. But I convinced the kids (and myself) of the dire necessity to understand the procedure in order to move on in math. It was something they had avoided since it first came up in the fourth grade.
After their initial reluctance, the thrill of mastery took over the rest of the class. I sat with Jessica for days—gently reminding her of the decimal point, adding the zeroes and dragging them down—until she got it.
For the first time in my teaching, I didn't feel rushed or overwhelmed. I sat with each student for as long as they needed until I had nothing left to do but check my email. I prepared games and challenging puzzles for students that finished early, but basically, I had done my jon. And we all left at noon every day.
Almost everyone passed summer school math. Even Jessica passed, though I had to round up a little extra for her. But I knew she would she would give up if she had to do seventh grade again—and would actually be going into eighth grade with better skills than some of the kids who passed directly.
Summer school stripped away my idealized notions of a sound education: success came down to some pencils, some math problems, and a small class. I still believe in critical thinking, creativity, and the art of teaching—but they should build on the basics.
On the last day of summer school, many of my students were awarded baseball caps emblazoned with the words "Summer School 2003." Dayshawn cracked up at the idea of wearing the hats on the street, so I took his, and wear it with pride.