This Friendship

There are still a few minutes left in my Math 6 class when four 8th graders rush into my room. They hurry along the side of the room toward the front. They don’t interrupt me as I wrap up the lesson with my 6th graders. I can tell how excited they are to tell me something. And as soon as I dismiss the class Isaiah stretches his eyeballs and tells me, “Guess what Mrs. H said about you?! She said that your head is so big that it’s a miracle you can walk through the door!! And Mr. H (our principal) was there, and he laughed!!” The three girls who have come in with him — eyes equally wide — nod in unison, proud to bear witness to this most fantastic story. I suppress a smile, “Oh, she did, did she. And Mr. H laughed too? I see.”

Somehow the kids have picked up on the bantering between me and Erin, my next-door colleague of five years. They want to be a part of it, and we don’t want to deny them of the fun because that’s what it is.

Mostly the kids hear of our genuine respect for each other. I normally say, “Mrs. H is amazing.” And Erin, “Mrs. Nguyen is the best.” They see us laugh and observe our friendship. I think our students know how much we care about each other because they know how much we care about them.

Nothing is kept safe with these kids. I go over to Erin’s room to get something, and she tells me, “The kids told me you said shit in class today.” (1. It was not during class, and 2. You would too if you reached into a kid’s bag of chips not knowing what kind it was, and it turned out to be Takis Nitro.)

Whenever my class hears clapping next door, we want to clap louder, and we do. It’s deliciously juvenile, and I don’t stop until she gives up.

For 10 years I’d never missed a staff meeting if I was on campus, but on that day I did. I just went home because I forgot it was the second Tuesday of the month. Since then, Erin has always come over to fetch me for the meeting.

My desk at school is always a mess. Erin’s desk is neat and tidy. She remembers and meets every deadline. I run to her in panic, “Hey Erin, about that assessment that’s due tomorrow? What did you do? What’s the website again?” I’m convinced she has some sort of OCD to explain for all her perfection.

She wears not only a green top but also a green cap because it’s Friday and it’s Oregon’s color. We talk about opening up our own business — something that involves lots of wine and beer — when this teaching thing no longer works out. We talk about this plan in more detail, as if it would really happen, when we have a particularly bad day at work.

Erin is the colleague I wish for all of us. Someone who’s a friend outside of school. Someone who makes us look good. Someone who gives us more credit than we deserve. And that’s okay. Because there are always days when we deserve the credit, but no one is around to tell us.

It’s her fault that my head is so big.

Privilege

The word privilege is being spoken and written many times over. Within the past couple of years I’m seeing and hearing privilege used in an undeniably distinct context. (Or it could be that I was unknowingly and partially deaf and blind to this context.) The word is written on cardboard signs, on people’s faces — and no matter what surface it’s on, the impact it has seems unbearable to the canvas that holds it.

I was organizing my classroom yesterday, putting away new supplies, tossing out items that I’d kept for too long. I have enough paperclips to last me two more lifetimes. Elmer’s glue bottles and glue sticks fill up an entire shelf. Same with staples and pattern blocks. And why would I get mad at a kid for not having his pencil — I have a shitload of pencils. I remember feeling a vague sense of shame of not having certain school supplies when I was in grade school. I remember mashing up rice to use as glue.

Kevin was a black teacher-turned administrator at my former school. When his second daughter was born (maybe 15 years ago), he said, “I thank God I have daughters. It’s hard for a black boy to grow up in this country.”

My husband is white. It never occurred to me how white he is until we were walking the streets of southern Vietnam. People looked at us (much more at him than at me) with foreign expressions. I felt safe with him by my side. Although I had no reason to not feel safe. I was back in my homeland — unknown to everyone around me — yet I was thankful to have a personal bodyguard because Hey, I’m with the big white dude.

Graham Smith, age 11. Me, age 11. He said to me, “Go back to your country.” I actually didn’t understand what he said, my Vietnamese girlfriend provided the translation. His expression matched what she said. I’m terrible with remembering even just first names. But I remember Graham Smith.

Michael missed the bus and had no other ride home. I went to the office to see if I may have permission to take Michael home. My vice-principal, Mr. M, reminded me, “Fawn, he just threatened you last week! And no, you may not transport a student.” (Right, when I sent Michael out of my classroom, he said he wished he had a gun.) I said something like, “I don’t think he has a gun on him though. C’mon, I’ll sign whatever papers. The kid needs a ride home.” Realizing that I was ignorant of the teacher handbook, Mr. M got up from behind his desk and approached me, close enough so he could whisper, “A young Asian teacher should not take a black kid home.” I never thought that statement appeared in the teacher handbook, but what struck me was Mr. M, himself a black man, was saying this.

One year the housing committee at my college decided to move our entire floor of student residents to a different building on the other side of campus because it needed our floor for the football players to move in. Upset, I went to the school’s newspaper in hoping they’d give us a louder voice of protest. Near the end of our conversation, the interviewer said to me, “You are very beautiful. For a Vietnamese.”

Poor. Refugee. Gook. Boat people. Foreigner. Young. Asian. Vietnamese.

It’s been a quiet storm for me.

It’s been a violent storm for others.

It was a fatal storm for Michael Brown.

I close my eyes and take your hand. We ride this storm together, and this shall be my privilege.

Ability Grouping

– Elementary school (Saigon)

My father is a well respected and loved math teacher at the local Catholic high school (grades 6-12) where my older siblings attend. The “grade” we get is simply where we are ranked in the class. Kim, 3 years older, is always ranked #1 in all her classes. My teachers, upon learning that I am my father’s daughter and Kim’s sister, openly express their disappointment that I don’t measure up. Kim must have taken all the smart genes and none was left for you, haha.

I think I know my times table, but when my teacher asks me for a multiplication fact and I don’t answer fast enough, my palm gets a big whack with the stick. If I — by sheer reflex of not wanting to be hit — pulled my hand back and made the teacher miss, then I would get double the whacks. So I have to use my left hand to hold the wrist of my right hand to keep it extended in place. I never cry even though it stings a lot.

– Middle school (Minnesota)

I’m learning English, so I have no clue what’s happening in any of my classes. I remember just copying word for word everything I see in the textbook onto my notebook. The longest word I remember copying is be-cau-se — because. I don’t know what it means, but it sure looks funny.

I remember seeing the words “thank you” in print for the first time. I already know the meaning because I even hear people say it back in Vietnam. I’m really confused though because if I had to guess its spelling, it’d look more like thang-kew. I mean I don’t hear the “you” part at all. People already talk so fast in this country, and now I learn they don’t even pronounce words correctly.

But math suddenly becomes my favorite period of the day because it’s the only thing I understand, and I’m even ahead of the class. I know this stuff already.

– High school (Oregon)

Freshman year I’m on my own in algebra class – meaning I work through the book by myself. I don’t know why, maybe because I’d passed some pre-assessment with a high score. Sophomore year, the same thing happens in geometry. I don’t remember anything except for my teacher’s jokes. When someone asks him an obvious question, he asks back, “Is the Pope Catholic?”

A month into my sophomore year my English teacher transfers me out of his class and into the TAG (talented and gifted) class. He tells me my writing is really good. I don’t get it, but I’m not supposed to argue with the teacher. How can it be good when I just write three short paragraphs for homework each night about some dry prompt like What do you know about the Three Mile Island accident?

So I get into this TAG class and quickly learn that it’s a big fat mistake. Kids in here actually have talent, for God’s sake. They can play a musical instrument – you can hear them play. They are on the debate team – you can watch and listen to them argue with fancy rhetoric and big arm gestures. They can draw – you can stand back and admire their amazing handiwork. They can play a sport – everyone shows up to their games and screams out their names. In other words, they can all perform!

Who wants to read a 3-paragraph account of a nuclear meltdown? I’m such a loser.

But Joe is in TAG, and he makes the class bearable. He calls me beautiful. It does not matter that he’s the fattest boy in the school. Joe is an orator extraordinaire, and he’s sweet. I want to marry him someday because when someone calls you beautiful while no one else in the room sees you, then you just have to marry that person.

The above memories kept flashing through since our UCSB Math Project workshop last Thursday. My friend and co-presenter Jeff led us in a discussion about ability grouping. In dyads, we shared our thoughts on the what-when-where of leveling children in school. But first, he wanted us to share our own experiences when we were in school.

I held these beliefs about ability grouping:

We group kids all the time in sports, and no one thinks twice about this. You’re not playing on the varsity team if your skills are not of varsity quality. Why shouldn’t we group by math abilities too?

It’s easier to teach a class of students who have a common base of content knowledge. We should demand excellence at every level anyway. I don’t care what level you’re at, but wherever you are — and when you’re all at about the same level — I can focus better on your needs.

Students will fall even farther behind if we don’t help them shore up their skills and fill in the gaps. Now that would be even more criminal — pushing kids through when they’re not ready.

The 7th-grade math curriculum is a waste of time. Just take a look at how well my 7th graders do in algebra without a lick of 7th-grade math, and they continue to do well in geometry as 8th graders.

It’s easier to keep up with the curriculum pacing guide.

I no longer hold these beliefs. I’ve read enough about the detriments of ability grouping and tracking, especially for students of ethnic minorities.

I’m ashamed and surprised that I was part of the problem by supporting tracking because I’ve faithfully implemented problem-solving into every math curriculum that I teach. But I don’t want to beat myself up too much about this because I’ve always tried to do right by my students. I know math ability doesn’t define them. It doesn’t define anyone. What defines any human being is our level of kindness.

I need to learn more, read more, pay attention more. I need to define my beliefs more clearly for me — so I may serve my students better.

I Can't Afford Not To

When I share with teachers what my students do outside of the textbook/curriculum, I get the familiar and reasonable concern from them that there’s not enough time to cover the content as is, how is it possible to do “other stuff,” such as:

1. Math Munch

2. Problem Solving (weekly, in-class, group)

3. Math Talks (including Visual Patterns)

My reasons for doing the above, respectively, are:

1. I want my kids to take pleasure in seeing how beautiful math is, to appreciate the elegant proofs, to imagine the possibilities.

2. I want my kids to think deeply, to struggle, to persevere, to honor the process of problem solving instead of just answer getting. These skills directly help students with content material.

3. I want my kids to share their thinking out loud because a quiet math classroom is a scary place.

It’s very simple in my mind why I do what I do. If my administrators told me tomorrow that I could no longer do any of these, then I know it would be time for me to leave the classroom. I don’t follow fads and reforms and jargon. I don’t enter into those conversations in real life or online because I don’t know how or have anything to say.

I want to follow these reflections that my kids (6th graders) write:

First of all, the equations are coming so much easier to me! I think what helped me is opening up my mind to other methods, and trying out methods that I’ve seen other people use. I feel that the reason I have trouble with some problems is that in my mind, I make the problem seem so much harder than it actually is. After doing them week after week, everything is coming to me a lot easier than they used to.

This week I have learned a lot. I’ve learned new methods of solving problems and reviewed old ones too. Math Talks have helped me a lot in homework and class work too. God I’m brilliant.

So I have a lot to reflect on because there were a lot of Math Talks. I really liked the shopping problem because, you know, I’m a girl, and I like shopping. Sometimes I don’t get anything about a problem or pattern at all, then someone explains it really well and I get it. And I think, “Why didn’t I see that?” That happens to me a lot.

The next time I think I could think a bit more because this time, now I thought I should have thought about it a little more, seeing all the other people’s answers got me to think that I should have done better. Yesterday I wish I raised my hand before some other people because I had it up and other people were saying the same thing as me.

To improve I could get more time and after talking to Mrs Nguyen I understand more when she explains it better. The thing I found most difficult is problem solving & solve the patterns because it is hard to finish up mentally.

After talking to others it always makes more sense and they help. To improve I could get here earlier.

I think I’m getting stronger each day doing mental math and patterns. My favorite math talk this week was the pattern on 2-26-14, I thought it was clever because towards the end it wasn’t the rule, it was your rule.

I really loved the math talk on last week’s Friday. It was the buy one get one free or get 45% off. Because after you told us the answer and it could go either way, I thought to myself like how didn’t I figure that out. So there’s no right or wrong to the question.

I thought the guess-and-check that Cristian did was very helpful and it really helped me learned the strategy.

This week of math talks was very fun. I like the problem solving puzzles and equations. After talking to Skylar, she helped me understand the problems more.

This week I had better understanding with math talks. The one that really helped me was Janae’s; it was different and extravagant.

My favorite day this week was “would you rather get 45% off everything or buy one get one free.” Although it was simple, it was fun to share our different opinions.

One of this week’s math talks equation that really helped me understand was Seth’s equation from Thursday. It was when you divide money but you ignore the decimal and add it in later. This one helped me a lot.

On 2/21/14 math talk I did not get it at all, then when Diego explained how you were supposed to do it, I got it and that was good.

I am going to use different kinds of math strategies that everyone was using because some of the strategies help me solve a problem faster.

What I’m reading is that they value their classmates’ different ways of doing mathematics; they benefit from them.

A month ago Sam Shah started Explore Mathematics! with his Advanced Precalculus class, then last week Sam shared with me what one student had written:

I choose to dedicate some of our math time to explore out-of-content mathematics because I can’t afford not to.

Nicer Shoes

I stand in the food line with a round plastic container. My sister too, with her own round plastic container. When we get to the front of the line, we tell the people with the big ladles that we would like six servings please because there are six of us.

We do this three times a day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Or maybe it was just two meals — three just seems too many now. Maybe our containers weren’t plastic. Nor were they round. But I remember well the part about standing in line. I’m grateful for this food, however it tastes, however bland, however not-enough. This food will nourish me while I’m here.

It’s quite rare — and I don’t remember who gives us the money — that my sister and I get to buy a gorgeous bunch of plump longans from a girl who sells them outside our perimeter. We exchange goods through the iron bars. Mostly I remember watching other kids eating them — but I don’t stare, of course. I know shame already.

In the evenings I ask my sister to sing for me. I ask her to sing my favorite Vietnamese song that means “Mother’s Heart.” It’s like a lullaby. We rarely talk about missing home. What’s the point. I cry a lot, I suppose. I’m sure my sister tries to be strong in front of me so I never see her cry.

I pass the time in the afternoons by watching this woman crochet. She crochets a wide floppy brim hat that has bunches of grapes all around. The grapes would be one color, the rest another. I memorize her steps so when I go to America I can make the exact hat should I have money to buy some yarn and a crochet hook.

We wash ourselves by scooping water out of a long rectangular cement basin. Everybody brings their own scooping bowl and soap. The men just wear shorts and reach inside to scrub their whatever. The women wear sarongs. There’s a very beautiful woman here at the camp. It’s always more crowded at the basin whenever she’s there. I know so because that’s when I’m there too. I try to copy whatever she does, but only from the corner of my eye.

She washes her long hair first. But I’m more interested in how she washes her breasts while keeping the sarong up. She holds the corner of her sarong in her mouth, her right hand reaches inside to soap up, then she pours water over herself with her left hand. I can tell that her right hand is now farther down her sarong — she must be washing her… I can’t look, not even from the corner of my eye. But my sarong drops and bunches up at my ankles. I have no breasts to hold up this stupid piece of fabric. I feel foolish to even wear a sarong to the basin. All the other kids just come here naked.

Each family gets a small section of floor space. My sister and I are here with our three brothers and my oldest brother’s wife. I don’t remember interacting much with my brothers or sister-in-law. Like we have nothing to say to each other. I don’t remember the nights. I don’t remember falling asleep and waking up.

Three months have passed. Seems more like three years. Like any other evening — sometime after dinner — a man’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. I no longer tune in. But a name immediately stabs at my ears. Our ears. I look at my sister-in-law, our eyes wide in disbelief. Our family’s name has been called. We get to leave this refugee camp soon.

My sister’s son, Allen, told me that his mom recently bursted into tears and couldn’t stop crying while eating beets and peas at Sweet Tomatoes (aka Souplantation — she comes here 5 times a week because she can’t cook and is a health nut). I asked her more about it.

Me: Why the hell did you do that for?

Sis: I just thought about everything that you had gone through, and I lost it. I wept. I remember crying that hard only one other time.

M: Jesus. At a goddamn restaurant no less?

S: Yeah. You’ve gone through a lot.

M: We both did.

I go into my closet and see the stacks of shoe boxes on the floor. I mostly like wearing boots and have more than a few. Maybe if my sister saw how I spoil myself with footwear, then she wouldn’t cry her head off in a restaurant feeling sorry for me. Some days the food line seems like a century ago, but I’m reminded of it when grace happens. I have nicer shoes now.

I crocheted the hat from memory, turned out exactly as I’d wanted. Red yarn for the grapes and white yarn for the rest. Grapes were still a foreign fruit to me, so why not red. I liked the contrast. I forget now where I’d placed it.