Eduholic

Never thought I’d be starting a blog post with that title on Monday, June 29. But here it is, 12:28 in the AM, and once again I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with back to school jitters. Only this time, it’s summer school—sort of—and instead of teaching it, I’m running it.

Tomorrow marks the first day ever of academic summer classes at Congressional, a brand new program I’ve conceived and implemented (with a little help from my friends, as usual) which features challenging, ungraded enrichment courses taught by certified teachers.

The classes this session are: Math Lab, for kids from 1st to 9th grade featuring tutoring by TJ students; Story World, language arts enrichment for 2nd and 3rd graders; Rockets and Robots, where 4th graders including my own son get to play some hands on science; and Literature for Muggles, a class for middle schoolers who love Harry Potter. Courses in future sessions include writer’s workshop, Spanish immersion, and reading readiness for munchkins.

This isn’t the first summer program I’ve imagineered. I started a camp up at another private school two teaching gigs back (before TJ I spent a couple years at Alexandria Country Day School), and before that ran a walk-paddle-bike trip called “Potowmack Discovery” along a local stretch of the river (the extra letters are historical). But this is the first that is exclusively academic in nature. And there are a couple significant features I just have to brag about.

One, no grades. Gasp. That’s right, not a single percent, signifying letter or other abstract summary of a kid’s ability/performance/cut of jib/etc to be found in these classes. As a teacher I have always had mixed feelings at best about the efficacy of the extrinsic reward system that is as much a part of school as summer vacation (also needs to go, but I’ll rant about that some other time). Since they finally asked me, I chucked ‘em.

Here’s a prediction: even without grades, kids will learn. And teachers will be able to “control” their classes. And parents will be happy. Of course, we do plan to send home narratives at the end of each two-week session, with detailed description of course content including skills and essential concepts, featuring anecdotes and observations about each child. Imagine that: assessment that treats each student as an individual learner. Regasp.

Another cool aspect of this program is that it is designed within the context of our already existing mega-camp. Congo Camp is a wonder to behold: hundreds of children descend on our forty acre campus to ride horses, swim in the pool, zip in the trees, arch… you know, all the stuff that makes camp cool, and you don’t even have to sleep over. Dozens upon dozens of unfailingly cheerful blue-shirted staffers take care of all these bodies, communicating on radios and governed by elaborate color-coded schedules that look like they were created by Mondrian on speed. Nesting half day classes within the moving parts of camp was both a challenge and a necessity.

The trick for me now will be keeping track of my forty-four students amongst the 400 or more that will be running around camp this session. The campers will all be clad in lime green or orange t-shirts festooned with turtles; my kids will be the ones in civvies clutching pencils (except the ones that are only with me for a half a day, and then go to or come from camp, who will be wearing t-shirts and clutching pencils). After months of planning and preparation, it all comes down to counting noses.

“Camp Brain” will help with that. This old dog learned a new database, though I claim only basic facility with this software (the registrar works it like he’s driving a Ferrari in LA traffic). Another secret weapon is my girl Friday, in this case a UVA second-year named Casey, who has worked camp before and can walkie-talkie her way around both camp and campus blindfolded (she’s a grad of both CSOV and TJ, to boot).

The heart of it all, of course, will be what happens in the classroom. And while I have faith that my hand-picked staff will offer great classes, and have worked with them along the way to make sure that they do, there’s still going to be a twinge at 9 AM when their doors shut and I’m on the outside, clutching my clip board, looking in.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 1:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Here’s some stuff I’ll remember from my Father’s Day weekend:

Getting almost five-year old Will an early birthday present of a new fishing rod and, on the very first cast into not so picturesque but close enough 4-Mile Run, catching a bass.

End of little league season trip to National’s Park on a rainy Saturday morning where a few dozen kids sit in the dugout, throw pitches in the bullpen, take swings in the batting cages and get free hats, hotdogs, and tickets.

At the swimming pool where I grew up a few decades ago, now watching my own kids splash in the water, enjoying a Belgian beer at a table in the corner where there’s a pleasant breeze.

A card by Jack with his best cursive on kid’s handwriting paper with the dotted blue line in the middle to show the height of lower case letters, using “you’re” correctly as in, “I think you’re the best.”

Putting together five decent shots in a row to make par on one of nine holes on a windswept hilltop course that reminded my brother-in-law’s dad of Cape Cod.

Stopping by my parents’ house for a father’s day lunch of Balducci sandwiches and frozen custard from the best place in the neighborhood (even the President goes to the Dairy Godmother).

While he shuffles out to the back yard patio, Dad’s legs kicking crazily from the Parkinson’s, as if some twisted puppeteer has taken them over and is amusing himself by fastforwarding the controls.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 5:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I just finished teaching what may be the last English class of my career. It snuck up on me, but there it is. Next year I’m stepping out of daily teaching to focus on my role as Dean. I’ll still have plenty of contact with kids, but I won’t be the one giving homework, or making up units, or grading stacks of papers on the weekend (big tear plops down on keyboard here).

I spent this final morning with soon to graduate 8th graders at long tables in the cafeteria, guided by the art teacher in hand binding books of poems they’d written that sprang from seeds of poetic language collected while reading Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief.

After that, we segued into the library to read out loud the last few pages of The Comedy of Errors, some end of year Shakespeare that ends when two pairs of long separated twins are reunited: a couple servants (both named Dromio), and their masters (both named Antipholus). Hence all the errors. I’ll miss hearing kids try to pronounce “ducats,” which for some unfathomable reason they can never say right.

Stacks of manila portfolios sit on the coffee table behind me, and the last sweet week of school lies ahead, complete with field days and awards ceremonies and the rest of the hustle and bustle that happens when we leave. Only, I’ll stick around, now that I’m on a twelve-month schedule.

After catching my breath, it will be onward to the first ever academic summer school here at CSOV, which I have developed and will oversee in one small ring of the school while our summer program takes over the big top (can you guess the camp’s theme?).

Also during the summer I’ll finish developing an affective curriculum that we’ll roll out next year, to address social skills in the same intentional way that we currently do academics. As a staff we’ll read about Positive Discipline, and a school wide theme with a developmentally appropriate twist for each grade level will unify efforts to “Share Our Spirit.”

With so much happening now and in the weeks to come, it’s hard to stop for a moment and let it sink in. Sixteen years. Along with four more of night school and half a dozen semesters at the community college, that’s a lot of English teaching under my belt. I’m sad to set down certain tools on the bench that I may never use again, at least not in quite the same way.

Reading quizzes that grade themselves and perpetual writing machines are examples of the arcana I leave behind (kids write q and a’s when they walk in the door, and “I’m done”-ers put “conversation-starters” on the board during a freewrite to keep classmates—and themselves -- scribbling).

Then again, maybe I’ll find a way to keep using this stuff next year, when I plan to go into each classroom in the lower and middle schools, instead of being with the same grade level every day. My English teacher self can be reunited with the long lost identical twin he never knew he had, the Dean, just like the two Dromios at the end of the play.

“We’ll draw cuts for the senior,” says one, unsure of their birth order. “Till then, lead thou first.” Oh no, protests his twin: “We came into this world like brother and brother,/ And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.” A little schizophrenic, but as long as I can somehow continue to combine teaching and Deaning, it works for me.

Posted by Emmet Rosenfeld at 1:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)