My mentor/friend/school-based teacher educator said, “Why don’t you interview Ashley? She’d be great for the job!” To which I looked at her in awe, excitement, and terror all at once. The dean turned to me and asked which certifications I was working toward and when I was expected to receive them. After exchanging information, she decided that I would forward my resume and application, and perform a demo-lesson for her and the principal preferably before my student teaching ended.

Not having been sure what just happened, I left the meeting with Tara and talked to her privately for the next hour in her office. She gabbed on about how wonderful it would be to keep me around and that the team could really use another young, new teacher to get the program to where it should be.

Less than a month later, with the help of friends in Long Island and family in Rochester, I was back in the city to demo a lesson in none other than Mark Lion’s tenth grade English class. Proud and enthralled to see my former students, I began the most stressful moment of my life. I had planned the lesson around what the students had been working on since I left–the Occupy protest and writing for persuasion. I prepared a few articles and an activity to get the students thinking critically about different sides of the political issue. Having not been fully immersed in their previous lectures, I did the best I could to differentiate the lesson with multiple levels of articles and readings, giving the students an open discussion forum.

Although the lesson did not go as well as planned, I soon found myself being offered a long-term subbing position at Coalition to fill in the current vacancy. After the lesson, I entered an interview with the Principal and Dean of Special Education where I discussed my portfolio and techniques to help the lesson I had just performed in the future.  Thanks to my former professor from The College at Brockport and lifelong friend, Aggie Seneway, I was prepared with copies of my newly revised resume and teaching philosophy in presentation folders for the panel and answers to the interview questions. When they offered me the position, I was completely beside myself. I felt as though I was looking in on a situation that was not really happening. This opportunity was not just a job or a cool gig. I had developed relationships with these students and could not wait to continue them. I had fallen in love with the atmosphere of the city and the culture of East Harlem and now I didn’t have to say goodbye.

I know I sound like a giddy new teacher but damn it, I am one! This was the chance to start my life in a city that I love with people who I appreciate and care for. All of my long nights in the university library, tears at Aggie’s kitchen table, and hours on public subways and buses had finally paid off and at that moment, I knew that there would be plenty more to write home about.

I’ve always wanted to know more about people, see the world, and write about it. I’m on my way to doing just that. Where they are from, what they do daily, and who they are personally makes people so interesting to my curiosity. Whether they live on the southern coast of India or the sunny shores of the Dominican Republic, people are everywhere just trying to get by. New York City is a perfect example of the literally “melting pot” of all cultures and ways of life. Rich or poor, tall or small, dark or light skinned, each person who lives in the city is living their own individual lives.

As I wrapped up my time in New York (and six new pairs of shoes) I knew that this city is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. I want to live here. I want to work here. Most of all, I want to make a difference here. I’m no Erin Gruwell, but I know my time here is far from finished. The next chapter in my life is about to begin and I can’t wait to write home to tell all about it.

On my last day at CAS, my students held their final publishing party to show the fairy tales they had created. They chose from three different options that ranged from retelling a classic fairy tale in an urban or modern setting, to building one from scratch using everything they had learned from Little Red Cap, The Three Little Pigs, Hansel and Gretel, The Little Mermaid, Cinderella, and the list goes on. I was again blown away by the student’s skills and level of effort for a writing assignment. Their creativity bloomed like the enthusiastic characters they had been studying. The students used power point, Google Docs, and good ‘ol fashioned scissors, glue, and crayons, giving life to their ideas. On this special day, we allowed the students to bring individual snacks and held an open discussion to wrap up the unit. They shared their favorite thing about studying fairy tales and about having a student teacher in the classroom. Many of their comments were related to having more than one teacher. As I reflect on this comment, I see each student’s need for individual attention more often than they receive it. The experience for them turned out to be more valuable not because of the change in face from their teacher, but because we were able to do more with two of us in the classroom and sometimes three when the CTT teacher was present. We all felt fortunate to have such a great time and were sorry to see it come to an end so quickly. Six weeks are sufficient, but a tease for new teachers because just as I got to know them, I had to leave them–just convincing them that my leaving wasn’t personal was a feat in itself. The day ended with a student in home room singing for me (something I’ve been begging for her to do for the past month). Though I had made it through the entire day without crying, I lost it when she burst into song. Her powerful voice and courage to get up in front of her peers let me know that through all their struggles, these students are strong individuals with a bright future ahead and I am so fortunate to have met them along their journeys.

They might not be able to punctuate contractions, but damn those eighth graders are cute!

Not all experiences are roses and pixy dust.

On my first day at Coalition School for Social Change in East Harlem, I met two more awesome teachers and a handful of members on the support team. My new coordinating teacher Mr. Lion, or Mark to his students, made me feel right at home as we spent the day planning lessons and digging deeper into Shakespeare’s Othello with his tenth grade CTT classes. Yep, you read that right. Othello. Who would have thought that a bunch of urban teenagers would be into reading, much less acting Shakespearean tragedy first thing in the year. Apparently I wasn’t the only one shocked, or proven wrong. By the time I arrived, the students had pretty much conquered the language barrier and were full-out acting tough scenes between Desdemona, Othello, and Iago. Imagine a bunch of tenth graders in baggy jeans, brightly colored hoodies, and hoop earrings with different pairs of animal ears and funky hats (used to distinguish between characters) shouting at each other in “thous” and “thys” in iambic pentameter.

Lunch time proved to be a little less glamorous, however when two students chose to stay up with Mark and I to discuss report cards. All report cards had been sent home by now, stirring up a mixture of feelings among the student body. Some had come for extra help as the report cards served a swift kick in the ass while others threw a fit–these two being examples of the latter. After the complaining phase, the students started to recognize the actual problems behind their poor grades. Attendance related to what I imagine to be drug induced comas seem to be the main reason. When this student finally admitted to her behavior, she decided that if not for the sake of her education that she would quit smoking “bud” to save money. We team calculated more than $1,000 per year that could go into her pocket, while the other student commented, “Do you know how big of a bottle of vodka I could buy with that?”

These aren’t the only students who struggle with drug abuse and alcoholism. Other students come in to school, if they even show up at all, smelling like weed with blood-shot eyes, making comments from another planet that disrupt the entire class. Not to mention poor attendance due to morning sickness, one year anniversaries with planned engagements, and God knows what else.

The trade-off for teachers in an area such as this has to be the moments stated prior. Like a high-speed rollercoaster, we try to increase the highs and eliminate the lows students experience every day.

Although my first day at CSSC was filled with mixed emotions of missing my middle schoolers and fearing the tenth graders (they literally tower over me), the spark has been officially lit back up as I begin a new part of student teaching and definitely serves as something to write home about.

Teaching in an urban area has proven difficult because of these daily hurdles. How does a teacher assign homework knowing this about their students? How do we expect our students to perform to their best abilities when they are completing writing assignments in the bathroom to block out the mayhem? If we use up instruction time for extra curriculars, how well-educated are they? The students want to participate in clubs and sports but often cannot commit, so do we taka the privilege away from everyone so it is fair? The teachers across the city are asked to teach several classes throughout the day in addition to an advisory class and other sessions to help gear up students for high school or college, leaving little-to-none planning time. This means any extra things added to lessons, or complicated grading techniques must be completed by the teacher at home where they are no longer getting paid for their work. Not to mention limited access to resources in the classroom.

It is no wonder why fun activities, enriching lessons, and differentiated instruction is overlooked by teachers when they have so much on their plate to begin with.  This is the ugly part of teaching that I expected, but am still shocked and learning how to deal with. It is for this reason that I admire my coordinating teacher so much. She doesn’t give in to the hype and helps me get awesome lessons planned all before 3:20 PM so we walk out with the students at the end of the day and still have the evening to ourselves. Her ambition and creative experience is something to write home about and I’m so lucky to work with her.

Although no students offered any real heart-wrenching tales or stories of grief, each of them participated in the moment of silence, “better than I’ve ever seen a group of adults” according to my coordinating teacher. The students truly amazed me on Friday morning, not for their respect toward one another, but for their courage to live in New York City and admit that although they can’t remember that day, they will never forget it.

Unfortunately, I cannot give credit for this photo, it was found online in a Bing Image search. I believe it was taken at the one year anniversary in 2002.

I would like to take this opportunity to recognize all of the people whose lives have been forever changed by the events of September 11, 2001. This includes everyone who has ever lived in the United States and beyond. As I reflect on the tragic events of that day, I remember sitting in my middle school class, just as my students were on Friday. I was in 7th grade art and hadn’t a clue what was going on. As my teacher began class, another teacher and a few students rushed in and turned on the television. My teacher had no idea what was going on, but did nothing to stop the inturruption–he just stared in awe. As my classmates and I watched the tragedy unfold, an eerie silence came over my school and all I could think of was “why?”

Similar feelings were stirred inside of me this morning when I walked the silent streets of New York City at around 8:30 this morning. The typical sounds of sirens, honking, and other loud bangs, pops, trains, and airplanes ignite a different sense of urgency than yesterday and I am pulled back into that nauseous, nervous state of mind an entire decade later.

For all of the firefighters, pilots, policemen and women, volunteers, soliders, families, friends, world leaders, churches, children, parents, siblings, workers at the pentagon, twin towers, and planes may God bless you and your loved ones today and always. Thank you for all that you stand for. It is because of you that America will never fall.

Some fantastic coverage of looking back ceremonies:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44474533/ns/us_news-9_11_ten_years_later/?GT1=43001?ocid=ansmsnbc11

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/12/nyregion/september-11-anniversary.html?_r=1&hp

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/us/sept-11-reckoning/viewer.html

This is my first time truly navigating the city on my own and while I tote my teacher briefcase bag in one hand and a metro card in the other, I feel like a real New Yorker. Of course, I’m so caught up in the moment that I get on the local train by accident instead of the express.

• For those who are “public-transit” challenged like me, the express is a much faster train because it stops fewer times and only runs during rush hour times (usually). This is the train I should have been on to make good time to my school this morning. Instead, I rush off the platform and on to a local beater that stops at what feels like every street from the Bronx to Manhattan.

Thankfully I have brought some reading material to pass the time.

• I am reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett right now and cannot put it down. I’ll be sure to post a full review when I’m done!

When I arrive at 96th Street, I walk down to the bus stop. I happily swipe my metro card which I just learned works interchangeably on all modes of public transit and take a seat in the back of the bus, looking up at the culture around me. The young, the elderly, hispanics, whites, African Americans, Asians, and people of different religions, cultures, and paths of life all sitting together brings me back to my book and the dramas of the civil rights movement in the early 60s and I consider the irony. 

After riding across Central Park, I get off of the bus and begin my three block walk to school literally uphill both ways. As I enter the school, I am greeted by two security guards. I introduce myself as a student teacher with Ms. Hernandez and am looked at like I have just grown six heads and given birth to twins right there in the lobby. With a combination of confused yet comforting gestures the women ask me again who I am here to see and we finally decide that I belong on the seventh floor where “my school” is.

• Another thing I’ve learned about urban education is that there can be more than one school to a building. Where I grew up, there was one school per village and it had one floor with an average of about 600 students total of six grade levels. This building houses three different schools (number of students TBD) with the Community Action School (MS 258, grades six through eight) where I will be teaching on the seventh and eighth floors only. The security guards nearly had me turning around to find a new building before figuring out that I didn’t know the secret multi-school code. **So again, fact check, then check again**
  

  Community Action School MS 258

• Also, all of the city schools I have worked in require keys to nearly every room. Where I am from, the doors are always open and the students are allowed in the halls for a quick run to their locker or the restroom. At this school, flipping through the manual takes more than a quick glance. For example, all students wear uniforms, cannot use a cell phone during the day, cannot chew gum, and cannot wear necklaces or bracelets–all of which are strict rules that my high school never thought twice about while I was matriculating.

I arrive to the breakfast meeting and realize how completely and utterly overdressed I am for the “no students” days of the first week. As I walk around, I absorb the relaxed yet anxious atmosphere of the staff. I am not even able to pick out the principal with everyone dressed in street clothes so I introduce myself to about six teachers before arriving at the right one. Beside the cold, damp window, Ms. Hernandez greets me with wide, warm eyes and I know immediately that this is going to be something to write home about.