Code Purple

Thursday snuck up on me this morning, and I nearly forgot that I'd planned on having an art lesson first thing today with my 2nd grade students. I arrived at school with 20 minutes to set up our project room for a tempera cake painting class. In case you're not familiar, tempera cakes are not edible- they are tempera paint pucks that are dry and very easy to store. I flew into our suite nearly knocking Ms. Day over, and noticed several tables were missing from the project room. I definitely had more than 20 minutes worth of set up ahead of me, but didn't pause to figure out what shortcuts I could have taken. Looking back, I did not need to have all the paints organized for each student- the project we would be working on was painting portraits of our desk pets. I imagine students would only needed 2 or 3 different colors for this. I pushed on until the room was student-ready. I looked at my watch and was shocked to see that I was now 7 minutes late for picking up my little charges in the cafeteria. I rushed over, and upon seeing me enter the hall, the majority of my students raced to line up. With a poker face, I told them that running is unacceptable, and had them sit down again, and then line up nicely. Seems hypocritical, as I myself wasn't following the rules. But teachers get this- students love structure and expectations. One little friend however, was set off by her routine being broken, possibly. As I was walking the students down the outdoor corridor,  Dylan was screaming at the back of the line, 'I don't want to be last!' Her screams and cries were pervasive throughout the school. A teacher's aide was walking with her and trying to calm her down. The rest of the class was too stunned to respond, and walked into the classroom like cautious deer scanning for predators. Even with my microphone on full volume, Dylan's wails were overriding my directions to bring water bottles to their bins. I tried to have Dylan stay outside with the aide until she was calm, but she wasn't having it. I've lived through a few of Dylan's meltdowns this year, and they all seem to ride out in a predictable pattern: she flips out about not getting her way about something, screams and cries and tantrums for about 5 minutes, then after sitting in her own space away from the class says 'I feel better now' and rejoins the class like nothing had bothered her. Recently, I tried using a simple breathing strategy to help her regulate her emotions. We have an expandable ball that I use with the class when they come in  from lunch recess to help them regroup. We breathe in together as I expand the bright purple sphere, and exhale as I contract it again. It's kind of like magic. They always focus much better during math when I remember to do this transitional activity first. On this day, the ball didn't help Dylan the first time. She really just needs to cry out her frustration. When I heard another lull in the crying, I approached her again with the ball. She accepted the help, and after 4 breaths, she was back with the class, completely engaged in painting the background for Cynthia, her desk pet kitty. Despite the rocky start, the class was so committed to the painting process- doing it, observing their peers in action, and in general, happy to be in a different space. As I escorted them to their morning recess and started preparing for my math lesson with Ms. Day's class, I realized that in my haste I had forgotten to put on my N95 mask. Due to the recent uptick in covid cases, our school district gave staff the new directive of having to wear this more protective face mask. I was having issues with it. On Monday, the nose piece cut into my skin and left a red mark. On Tuesday, I tried a different one, which was slightly too tight and thus pulled my ears down like Dumbo. It's hard to feel competent in front of a class with something pulling your ears out to the sides. I wondered if anyone would even notice if I just kept my soft, comfortable, inoffensive cloth mask on. I was going to test it. I greeted Ms. Day's class with a squirt of hand sanitizer for each student that entered from the playground. As I called tables to the carpet inviting them to sit horse-shoe style, Timmy called out with his strident articulate little voice, 'Hey, I thought no one's allowed to wear those masks anymore!' How did he know?? I don't allow kids to call out so I ignored him. He waited a second, then pointed an accusing finger at me and said louder, 'Hey, we're not supposed to wear cloth masks!' I calmly asked him to sit at a little table in the back, as I didn't appreciate being pointed at, and his calling out without raising his hand. When the class was occupied, I walked over to chat with him. 'You had something very important to say, but I don't like being pointed at.' I explained that he was right, staff is supposed to wear the N95 masks, and the students will be required to wear surgical masks starting next week as well. The whole class and I had a brief discussion about our feelings about these masks. I shared that I liked them because they made me feel safe, but sometimes they're really annoying. They all seemed to have thumbs up in response to their opinion of them, which is kind of surprising, but I noticed students often tend to agree with their teachers. I often remind them when I'm soliciting their opinions on matters, that whatever their answer is is OK- they do not have to agree with me. But I guess when you are being directed day after day on all of your affairs from hygiene to morality to efficient mathematics strategies- you might be inclined to defer to the one who is speaking 90% of the time for opinions. Looking back at all of my teaching experience, I remember now a quote I learned during graduate school by teacher and psychotherapist Haim Ginott that really made me stop and consider the gravity of a teacher's responsibility for her students:

I have come to a frightening conclusion.

I am the decisive element in the classroom.

It is my personal approach that creates the climate.

It is my daily mood that makes the weather.

As a teacher I possess tremendous power to make a child's life miserable or joyous.

I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration.

I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal.

In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis

will be escalated or de-escalated, and a child humanized or de-humanized