Dearest Elementary Ed. Colleagues,

Please note, I mean the following with utmost respect and love:

Stop.

Using.

Comic.

Sans.

Just stop. Seriously. In the name of Vygotsky and all that is good and holy, just don’t use it ever again, especially if you’re sending it home to parents. You’re making my life a living hell.

You see, like many of you, I’m a parent as well as a teacher. As such, I belong to several online communities comprising other parents, many of whom are not teachers. And, my friends, they share the things you send home.

Within the confines of these secure little parenting groups, they mockingly share the things you send home. And then I have to defend your use of Comic Sans.

OK, I get it. It’s handwriting-like, it’s easy-to-read, and it’s casual. But just… don’t. There are way better handwriting-like fonts, and there are way better easy-to-read fonts, and there are way better fonts to convey the message that your classroom is a fun place to learn.

Trust me.

I know, I know. Back in the day (whenever you define “The Day” to be…), Comic Sans was it. Of the fonts that came with Microsoft Word on your district-issued machine (because what the hell self-respecting teacher has time to download and install fonts using Windows 98?), Comic Sans was the only one that met the criteria. All letters legible to five year-olds with a limited understanding of why the letter a might have that little loopy-do on top? BOOM. SOLD. THIS IS MY FONT FROM HERE ON OUT.

And then we just got stuck. Teachers, brand new to the profession, are still using it… because their professor, cooperating teacher, or first-year mentor suggested it. Because it’s there, and that’s what they used that one time they made a document, or because it was close to the beginning of the alphabet when they scrolled down, looking for a good primary-grades font..

Just. Stop. Using. It.

I’m sick of defending you. I’m sick of explaining that its an easily accessible child-friendly font when there are so many others available. You’re making us all look unprofessional. It’s an easy fix. It’s not 1999 anymore. Installing a new font isn’t a huge process. You just need to click a different ticky-box.

Here’s the thing. Comic Sans is a laughingstock. It’s a punchline. For various reasons, it’s a Thing We Shouldn’t Use (extraneous capitalization intentional). There are so many better options.

So, when it comes to Comic Sans, just stop. Please. It’s really hard to stand up and defend your silly typo that the “Moms Who Brunch In Yoga Pants” are mocking as evidence of your inadequacy when the document they present as evidence is written in Comic Sans. I want to, because I know you’re busy, but… I can’t.

Just. Stop. Please.

Don’t make me come over there.

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(Practice) Publishing, Authentic(ish) Audiences

If you delve into the teaching of writing, you find all manner of high-minded advice about “writing for authentic audiences.” Students shouldn’t, the experts admonish, just write for their teachers.

The problem is that, if we’re going to be totally honest here, there isn’t a huge, ravenous audience for kids’ (or even, usually, teenagers’) writing. We, as teachers, are left to come up with situations in which our students can write for someone other than ourselves, their parents, or classmates. The dirty little secret is that these authentic writing tasks are often more contrived than just saying, “write me a personal narrative.”

I mean, yeah, you can have your students write something and then “publish” it… but let’s be honest, here. They’re writing something because you told them to, and the act of publishing is pretty much just putting together your final draft and adding some finishing touches. You can “share it with your audience,” but for the most part, that audience isn’t an organic, natural audience. From the student’s perspective, it’s usually still the equivalent of taking your writing home and making mom and dad read it.

Students are smart, teachers. They know (or many of them know, anyway) that their audience is reading their writing piece because they were asked to. They didn’t wake up and think, Huh. You know what I want to read today? A fourth-grader’s essay explaining the plant cycle. We owe students a certain amount of honesty. These aren’t organic audiences. They’re audiences we’ve hunted down and set up in the name of teaching young people to be better writers… and that’s not a bad thing.
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To All the Teachers’ Kids

To all the teachers’ kids out there… the little kids hanging out in the too-big desks, the big kids hanging out in the too-small desks, the kids who have to suffer overhearing how their mom is the worst teacher ever, or more horrifyingly, how their mom is the best teacher ever, the kids who forget and call their dad’s colleague-friends by their first names and get gently reminded that this isn’t Friday-Evening-Unofficial-Staff-Wine-And-Whine but rather seventh period social studies, the kids who spend the waning days of their summer vacation in stifling classrooms, “helping” (or at least staying out of the way), the kids who watch movies on Dad’s classroom projector while he grades and plans, the kids who fall asleep to the quiet glow and muted clickety-clack of Mom’s computer because she’s got a lot of work to get done, but wants to spend just a few more minutes with you before you fall asleep, the kids who roll their eyes at all the school library discard books brought home to bulk up the home library, the kids whose parent-conferences are always on a different night than the other kids because Mom has conferences with her own students’ parents that night, the kids who pretend not to notice the teacher’s manual with all the answers to their math problems just sitting on the kitchen table, and the kids who know full well that teachers have lives outside of the classroom:

To you, I say thanks. Thanks for sharing your mom or dad (or mom and dad) with a whole bunch of other kids.

Sincerely,
A Teacher Parent

The Simpsons Did it First

…and by “The Simpsons,” I mean “Jennifer Gonzalez of Cult of Pedagogy

One weekday night, in a (futile? hopeless? naive?) attempt to get my house into shape the other day, I opened my podcast app for the first time in months (don’t judge) and caught up on a few favorites while I did some light housework disaster remediation.

I worked my way back to this podcast, titled 4 Things I’ve Learned About Teaching from CrossFit. I immediately swore upon hearing the title.

No, I’m not a CrossFit hater. It’s not for me for various reasons, but I appreciate what I perceive to be a welcoming, empowering fitness community. I swore because, gollygoshdarnit*, I had a blog post all written out in my mind** about how starting an athletic endeavor as an adult  has made me a better and more empathetic teacher.

It’s probably for the best that she got to it first. She has, like, an audience and stuff. Still, I have thoughts in my brain… thoughts that echo a whole bunch of what said, and a few that go off in my own direction.

Without further adieu, then, allow me to present the post I was going to write, but never got around to writing because *insert excuses valid reasons here*:

What Roller Derby Taught Me About Teaching English as a Second Language

A Post I Swear I Didn’t Rip Off from Cult of Pedagogy

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Stand Up and Do Your Work

This semester, two new pieces of furniture are causing quite the stir in room 004. OK, they’re not new. They’re what can euphemistically be described as vintage. I won’t say they’re as old as the WPA-era building I call home, but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking new furniture is in the budget.

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Go ahead and ignore the completely blank bulletin board in the background. It’s a work in progress. For the past year or so. Stop judging me.

I’ve succumbed to the craze that swept through corporate America something approximately ten years ago (I’m not a trend-setter) and introduced standing desks to my classroom.

Standing desks have found a home in elementary schools; I’ve seen them in action. I haven’t, however, seen standing desks at the secondary level outside of special education resource rooms. I can only venture a guess as to why. Preliminary studies hint at potential cognitive (and possibly academic) benefits in adolescents, but in my experience and observations, the concept hasn’t made its way to the standard 7th-12th grade learning environment just yet.

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Reading for (Fun and) Profit

The other day, one of my more, shall we say, challenging students proclaimed that he hates reading, and doesn’t read, and doesn’t want to read, and… you get the picture. This wasn’t a huge revelation to me; he throws this out into the world semi-regularly, just so we all remember.

Possibly, also, just to see what kind of reaction he’ll get. How better to get the attention of a teacher of literacy and lover of books than by proclaiming your hatred of the thing she’s putting in front of you, day in and day out. Not that adolescents ever do things just to get a reaction.

In any case, he’s what we call a “reluctant reader,” a tidy educational euphemism for “kid who hates reading, never reads unless forced to, and stands a high chance of rarely cracking a book after high school.” How to reach these students is a big deal in education these days… as it has been for decades.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. A student who can’t/won’t/doesn’t read is likely a student who doesn’t see the act of reading as profitable.

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In Defense of Not Reading Young Adult Literature

You caught me. I’m a junior high language arts (Well, ESL, but… sort of the same thing, right? Kind of? In some ways?) and I generally do not read young adult literature. I don’t, and I’m not at all ashamed, or I’m working on not being ashamed, anyway.

But Mrs. MacShibby, you implore, you must read young adult literature, because how else can you ask your students to read it?

Thank you for asking, gentle soul. In response, what if I said that I don’t care what my students read?

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