Mrs. Ram's Jams

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    • Defund the Grammar Police

      Posted at 11:13 am by Jeddarae, on January 16, 2021

      Pssssssstttttt.

      You. Yes, you. 

      It’s time to hand in your self-bestowed grammar police badge.

      Quit writing snarky posts about other people’s command of Standard English.

      This past week, I encountered a Facebook post where the person said that a major percentage of social media users needed remedial English classes.

      Normally I would just keep on scrolling, but I stopped and made a comment because, oh the irony, the post had errors within it. I softened the blow with “Would you hate me forever if I…” and then proceeded to point out that sentences should never start with numerals (and patted myself on the back for not also pointing out that he should be using one space instead of two after a period). He responded with a sentence where nearly every word was used incorrectly and that he would have never guessed that I would have been so offended by numerals. I “haha”-ed his comment, but the original post still left a sour taste in my mouth.

      I saw multiple posts last week decrying, “It’s the Capitol Building–not the capital building facepalm emoji.” 

      And posts about the differences among there, their, and they’re will probably never go out of grammar shaming vogue.

      Because I am the grammar police, like have gotten paid for 15 years to read terrible writing by middle schoolers and high schoolers, let me let you in on a little secret—your weird sense of pride in being better at syntax, capitalization, and spelling than your peers makes me uncomfortable. Does pointing out grammar mistakes make you feel better about yourself? Are you trying to belittle the point the other person is trying to make? Do you recognize that your behavior is more than a little elitist? 

      First of all. It’s social media. Get over it. People don’t capitalize proper nouns and punctuation is optional. Who cares if someone you haven’t seen since high school uses its when they mean to use it’s?

      Autocorrect and predictive texts can ruin comments too. Have a little grace.

      Some people give zero fucks about proofreading.

      I diligently proofread, and errors still make their way onto Facebook. And on my blog–even after several reads, merry-go-rounds of spell checks, etc. I’m my own editor because I’m not paying anybody to do it and trying to solicit your friends to proofread something is akin to asking them for money that they know you’ll never pay back. It’s way easier to point out errors in someone else’s writing than your own. Having this blog has humbled my grammar policing because I know how hard it is to produce an error-free piece of writing. I am thrilled when I go back after a few weeks to revisit a post and realize there are no typos. 

      Some people write how they speak, particularly in informal writing, and there is nothing wrong with the way that ANYBODY speaks. When you are mocking the way a person is writing, you might be mocking how they talk, and now you’re inadvertently casting judgements about spoken language. There is nothing wrong with anybody’s dialect of English. 

      Go pick up any work of fiction. ANY WORK OF FICTION. Run-on sentences and fragments abound. Commas are used whenever the author wants to use the little guy. Hell, I’ve even read books where there are no quotation marks for dialogue. Language rules are meant to be broken. 

      Learning those Standard English rules are freaking hard. And while you might have mastered them, lots of people haven’t. And who knows if Twitter Thomas was even taught them after elementary school.

      Let’s throw it back twenty years. How much writing by your friends were you seeing daily? Maybe something on AIM, but nowhere near the amount you’re consuming now. Twenty years ago, you wouldn’t have been making these judgements about other people’s writing because you wouldn’t have even been exposed to it.

      You know what I look for anymore as an English teacher–meaning. If I sat and marked every knowledge of language and conventions error on every big writing assignment that I gave my students, I WOULD NEVER FINISH GRADING THEM. EVER. I ask myself, do these sentences make sense? Do I understand the point the student is trying to make? I pretty much only point out sentence construction issues because meaning will always be more important than modifiers being misplaced, words being left out, and misspelled words–especially since most writing is timed anymore. Our rubrics don’t even place that much emphasis on grammar anymore because meaning IS more important.

      When’s the last time you took a look at “The Declaration of Independence”? There. Are. Common. Nouns. Capitalized. Throughout. Its. Entirety. Thomas Jefferson himself capitalized words to the beat of his own founding-father’s heart. 

      So ask yourself, do I know what my fourth cousin’s husband meant when he wrote a post about killing the Biggest Buck of his life or are you going to let those capital Bs ruin your day? He’s probably just using them for emphasis. And killing an 18-pointer is freaking badass. I’d be capitalizing the shit out of that post too. And if he spells it dear instead of deer? Take a page out of Elsa’s book and let it doe. (Let it doe! Let it doe!)

      I’ll leave a box out on my sticky-note strewn teacher’s desk. I expect your imaginary grammar police badge to be in it by the end of the day, or I’m going to have to write you up for being MEAN instead of looking for MEANING. Hopefully my student-given sign sitting atop my desk that reads World’s Goodest Teacher makes you pause in humor and not contempt on your way out. 

      (But also, if you find any typos in this–HELP A GIRL OUT!) 

      Posted in teaching, writing | 7 Comments | Tagged english teacher, grammar police
    • Happy Holidays

      Posted at 8:23 am by Jeddarae, on December 26, 2020

      Happy Holidays from Mrs. Ram’s Jams!

      I hope you and yours had a merry merry merry insert-whatever-holiday-you-celebrate-here!

      Little Thing came home from school last Friday with a sore throat that progressed to “the bad sneezes” and a cough. So a week later, guess who got a cold and some chapped lips for Christmas? Me!

      I’m still feeling under the weather, so I’m not feeling prolific or revelatory in regards to today’s post. . .  but I am looking forward to next week’s post–my favorite reads from 2020. I’ve read 176 books so far this year, and I’m hoping to make it to 180 before 2021 hits.

      If anyone could help a sick girl out and make a few easy, breezy, heartwarming, or funny book recommendations, I’d appreciate it. I’ll get back into some heavy reads in 2021.

      Lots of love,

      Mrs. Ram’s Jams

      Posted in book reviews, books, reading, writing | 0 Comments | Tagged book recommendations, book reviewer, books
    • What I Miss

      Posted at 7:56 am by Jeddarae, on November 21, 2020

      I’m rather wistful this morning. Here are two things that I’ve been missing HARD because of the pandemic:

      1. Wearing fancy earrings. I have a whole drawer full of golden hoops, tortoise shell danglies, leather teardrops, and Kendra Scott knockoffs that are slowly going out of style. Instead, I’m donning studs, BORING, because I am fearful of losing an earlobe when tearing my mask off my face after class ends. Have you ever ripped a piercing wide open? I have— between freshman and sophomore year of college waiting tables at my cousin’s restaurant. I bussed a table using a big Rubbermaid container and brought it back to the dishwashing area. As I was setting it down, its lip got caught on my belly button ring and ripped that senior-year-in-high-school-spring-break-bad-decision right out. I screamed. It hurt like hell. For years the top of my bellybutton looked like it had floppy devil horns hanging upside down from it. I don’t want my ears to suffer the same fate. Occasionally I’ll sport my fancy earrings anyway when I want to live on the wild side or simply forget the dangers of fancy earring wearing. The only upside to wearing them is if you wear hoops. Then at least when you take your mask off, the hoopies catch the elastic and your mask can hang like a hammock from them if you don’t feel like putting your mask on your desk. 
      2. Name brand hand sanitizer. All I want for Christmas is some Germ-X or Purell. That cheap shit smells like tequila, and by nine a.m., WHILE I’M TEACHING CHILDREN, all I can think about is a giant top-shelf margarita. I’ve had to stop myself mid lesson from sniffing it because I’m all nostalgic for bygone Friday afternoon happy hours with my teacher friends. It’s not fair that my classroom smells like a Mexican restaurant when it’s unsafe to even patronize (Patrón-ize?) one currently. So if you walk past my classroom door and see me fondling a bottle of GermsNoMore and bringing it lovingly up to my nose, I might need you to come in and confiscate it and replace it with some chips and salsa, thank you very much. 

      If you need me for anything this Thanksgiving break, you can find me in my backyard wearing my favorite tortoise shell oversized hoopies sipping a massive margarita in my not-yet-purchased hammock. 


      What are the random things that you miss, friends?

      Posted in teaching, Uncategorized, writing | 4 Comments | Tagged funny, pandemic, teaching
    • A Mrs. Ram’s Jams Tale: The Pickle’s Descent

      Posted at 11:37 am by Jeddarae, on November 14, 2020

      The white-page glow of my Chromebook’s screen dimmed then disappeared as I closed my Chromebook with a click and thank-god-it’s-Friday. 

      Having just taught for five hours straight, I was famished. I exited the guest bedroom, my makeshift virtual classroom hub, and crossed into the kitchen, whipping the smart refrigerator’s door open to confirm it held nothing appetizing within. Its cool air laughed in my face while I sighed in defeat. I considered Waitr momentarily, but I’d already ordered it twice that week since I’d been too sick to cook. Ordering it a third time bordered on financial negligence. 

      The refrigerator chimed an eight-note tune, its way of saying—hey, blondie, you’re letting all the cold air out. Chastised, I eased its door closed, wishing no further admonishment.

      Snatching my keys off the black-flecked, white countertop, I mosied out the door towards my Buick, jangling the keys in my hand to see if my archnemesis, our cat Suny, was lazing or prowling near. His Evil Highness failed to appear. Darn.

      The sunshine did, however, and I unleashed an otherworldly fuck when it initially singed my vampire pallor. I shielded my eyes, forcing myself to gaze half-lidded into the cerulean sky, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness. A small defiance to acclimate to a healthy dose of Vitamin D. I sneezed. Thanks, Helios. I sneezed again. 

      Once I climbed into the car, I pressed my foot to the brake then my finger to the start button. I rolled the windows down, letting the stifling, stale November heat escape. I hooked my iPhone up to a power cord, engaging CarPlay mode, because who listens to the radio anymore when there’s Amazon Music? After a ferocious debate with myself because I felt like I was cheating on Taylor Swift’s Red album, I settled on The Chicks’ explicit Gaslighter album. I whispered sorry to TayTay, pinky-promised her we Would Be Getting Back Together, and cranked the volume to “How Do You Sleep at Night” to a the-neighbors-will-totally-disapprove level.

      Because my respiratory system was otherwise engaged in snot factory mode à la prednisone, I couldn’t sing along, but I bopped my head, despite a lingering headache, as I eased onto the highway.

      Burger King’s drive-through didn’t appear super busy, so I pulled in. I reluctantly turned my music down—Natalie, Emily, and Martie’s harmony decrescendoing into the low buzz associated with elevator music. 

      When it was my turn, the drive-through speaker issued forth a series of clicks and hisses. I assumed a human wasn’t attempting to make contact yet, so I sat patiently awaiting an employee’s request for my Whopper with cheese. More microphone noises filled the air for five minutes.

      Fed up, in my sweetest, to appease the french fry gods, voice, I questioned, “Hello?” I waited for a plague of ketchup sent from the heavens to smote me. Death by ketchup asphyxiation, not a terrible way to go, I guessed.

      Seconds passed. I broke into a sweat. A glance into my rearview mirror revealed the frustrated faces of lunch-hungry contemporaries also lamenting how fast food is never fast in the South, unless you’re at Chick-fil-A. 

      The speaker emitted a sound like someone was petting a microphone, and then finally spoke the most welcome phrase in the English language, “May I take your order?”

      After a rather unremarkable exchange of credit card and food, the smell of hot cheeseburger and greasy fries wafted on the air conditioner’s current, and I fumbled with the paper bag while trying to turn right out of the parking lot. 

      The brown bag crinkled while I fished for some fries. They were hot and mushy, not quite crispy enough, but they’d do. I finished them before even turning onto the interstate. 

      I licked my fingers like a deer at a salt lick, reveling in the brine. 

      I knew I should wait to eat the burger, but I dug in, blindly.

      I disrobed the burger, removing the bun (thank you wheat sensitivity), the lettuce, the onions, while keeping my eyes on the road. I tore off a piece of meat, my fingers immediately clothed in an outfit of ketchup, half-melted American cheese, and mayo, and plopped the certified Angus beef into my mouth.

      My next piece had an entire pickle glued to it. I’d eat the pickle, but I knew my IBD would be like a Little Rascal shouting, “I’ve got a pickle! I’ve got a pickle! I’ve got a pickle! Hey! Hey! Hey!” and create utter mayhem for me five hours later.

      So, I tried to fling the pickle back into the bag, but I missed.

      It landed with a gentle thwack to my right, on the center console’s black, perilous precipice. 

      A moment of stark horror raced through my mind. I knew I couldn’t immediately conduct an emergency rescue operation on the rogue pickle. I was approaching a roundabout, requiring full concentration and both hands on the wheel. But if I didn’t get to it in time, it would dangle, slip, fall into that unreachable no-man’s-land canyon of inanimate-object-death between my driver’s seat and center console. 

      I prayed to the Vlasic god this time and hoped that the pickle’s mayo and ketchup shroud would keep him glued to the edge to counteract his slippery juiciness while I looped to the right. 

      I thought I heard a faint, “Save me. This is no way to go.” I swept my eyes down to check on him. I breathed in relief; he hadn’t moved.

      I named him Dill.

      I couldn’t let Dill die.

      I swooped the steering wheel left.

      Another look revealed Dill had slid down the slope, leaving a sluglike white and red trail behind him. Even though he was still reachable, I couldn’t rescue him yet.

      By the time I made it safely through the roundabout, the abyss had devoured Dill.

      When I reached my driveway, I threw my crossover into park, unbuckled my seatbelt, and flung open the car door. I splayed myself flat across the driver’s side seat, becoming flush with its surface area, garnering grip for the Herculean task of pickle rescue. 

      “I’m coming, Dill!” I shouted. 

      I thrust my arm over the driver’s seat ledge, wishing Dill would throw up an arm and meet me halfway. But the crevice trapped my can-palm-a-basketball-man-hand.

      “Fuck.”

      I struggled for a minute, escaping unscathed save for a few brush burns.

      I heaved a sigh of frustration. I needed a break.

      “I’ll be back later, Dill.”

      So I left him there. I finished my lunch and my workday. 

      I picked up Little Thing from school, and when we pulled into the driveway, I explained Dill’s situation. She was unbothered and callous. She withdrew indoors to watch her iPad.

      I knew if I didn’t rescue Dill now his corpse would wreak havoc on my olfactory senses for weeks.

      I knew what I had to do.

      I opened my car door one last time and got on my knees. I pushed the button on the bottom side of my car’s seat. The seat moved back as far as it could go.

      I brought my head level to the car’s floor. My eyes shifted over rocks and dust, settling on the dark space between the seat and the console.

      And there was Dill. Wedged between a black and gold earring and a tube of pink lipstick. Looking dehydrated and on his last breath.

      I grabbed the tube of lipstick and used it as a rope to rescue him.

      I cradled him in my arms.

      I looked at him as he croaked, “Thank you.”

      I screamed and dropped him.

      Not because he was talking, but because he’d grown a full head of hair. Long blonde hair that looked vaguely familiar. 

      I recovered quickly, picking him up off the pavement.

      I brought him inside as he breathed his last breath.

      Little Thing (Who knew she was so morbid?) asked for a final viewing.

      We laid him to rest in the trash can. 

      May Dill forever rest in peace. 

      Posted in Uncategorized, writing | 4 Comments | Tagged funny, mini short stories, pickles, writing
    • A Little Thing Tale: On Your Eighth Birthday

      Posted at 11:21 am by Jeddarae, on September 12, 2020

      On your eighth birthday . . . 

      I shut your bedroom door, as quietly as I could, to keep the cat out, but you woke up anyway, a full hour earlier than normal. Sleep still in your eyes and with your over-sized pink nightgown, a shoulder peeping out playing peek-a-boo. I wished you a happy birthday and ensconced you in a too-tight hug before you plopped yourself on the sectional and watched YouTube Kids videos until it was time to get ready for school.


      When we walked out to my blue Buick, I told you to look in the front yard for a surprise. Granny had the yard Sign Gypsy-ed, and it shouted “Happy 8th Birthday Little Thing” to the entire neighborhood for the whole day. We requested a cat theme, but they gave you a purple, pink, gold, and gray girly display instead. It featured a present-laden birthday llama; I promise I didn’t request it. Your eyes widened in delight at the surprise, and your grin, oh that grin baby girl, it was so wide that you would have thought that we surprised you with a trip to Disney World. 


      I jammed to Taylor Swift’s Red album while driving, and you, as always, continued to watch YouTube Kids, a video about fairy circles. You chimed in with “I knew you were trouble when you walked in” in all the right places like you were a tiny background singer on autopilot. Nana and Papa Blob called to sing you happy birthday. Papa Blob butchered “Happy Birthday” even worse than he did when you turned seven. When we stopped at the last, long red light before reaching our destination, you said your throat hurt a little. I told you to grab your water bottle, which I normally wouldn’t send with you but the school’s water fountains are turned off because of coronavirus, but you informed me that I didn’t pack it. Then I realized that I didn’t pack you a snack either. Momentarily, horrible mother guilt mindset kicked in, how dare I not pack my baby girl water and snack on her birthday, but then I remembered the glove department emergency snacks and figured I’d steal a coworker’s extra bottle of water for you. At least I managed to tuck some birthday Oreos into your lunchbox, I thought. 


      You pulled on your favorite, pink kitty mask, adjusting it over your ears and moving its llama lanyard out of your face, after you climbed out of the backseat. I’m always afraid you’re going to tumble out and break your femur or your head wide open because the backseat isn’t roomy and your backpack is heavier than you are. Your gold headband with the beaded bow twinkled in the early morning light. The sky is pink you said. Half a moon hung in it too. You seemed droopy, but I chalked it up to your early morning wake up. 


      In the library, your friends surprised you with a card. One of your friends, the librarian’s daughter, tried to gift you the library’s copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. 


      When you climbed into my car after school, you were wearing a different mask, the backup one covered in conversation candy hearts. I asked How was your day? Did you have a good birthday at school? You huffed, Yes, but I had TWO nosebleeds AND I’m getting da bad sneezes. I heard the congestion, phlegmy and liquid, in your normally chirpy voice. I made sure a tissue box was in arm’s reach of your seat and passed back the only pair of sunglasses, a cheap promotion from a college bar–fire engine red with Captain Morgan written on the side, in the car to help combat your sneezes. After you let down your wildly long hair from its daily ponytail, you sighed in relief. You looked too grown and cool, like a snuffly badass. 


      I offered you birthday dinner from anywhere, but you just wanted noodles, edamame, strawberries, and chocolate milk. You worked on your homework while I was in the kitchen, but before I could finish dinner, you escaped into your room’s darkness, hiding from the sunlight like a vampire. Da bad sneezes lived up to their name. 


      Granny came over for cake, ice cream, and “Happy Birthday.” We couldn’t find a candle. The week before, you declared you wanted a Harry Potter scavenger hunt, complete with a Hermione Granger Halloween costume to wear while scavenging. So even though I’d already spent the money I had set aside for your birthday, I made it happen because COVID-19 sucks and you couldn’t have a party. I spent an hour writing clues and wrapped your presents the night before. The scavenger hunt was so worth it. You looked exactly like a tiny Hermione Granger/Emma Watson when you donned your Gryffindor robes. The clues lead you to Hermione’s wand, some LOL Surprise Dolls, Floop, a glittery pink phone stand, the Knight Bus LEGO set, and a build your own robot set. You loved all the gifts. Your eyes sparkled and you twirled and magic-spelled your way through the clues, but I could tell that you were feeling puny. 


      You played with your Floop and then tried to build the robot with Daddy, which was a silly idea because Daddy was broken. He was having surgery the next morning to repair a ruptured biceps tendon and had been sporting a sling for two weeks. I had been outside walking and would have argued against even opening its box. Luckily, your aunt, uncle, and cousin in Illinois Facetimed you, and I put the robot away. You talked with them for quite a while, showing off your completed LEGO sets and your rainbow artwork displayed on the refrigerator, and all of a sudden, you got that I-can’t-function-any-longer-look-in-your-eye, and asked your aunt, Is it okay if I go to bed now? And you abruptly ended the conversation–because you were done with the day, even though it was your birthday.


      You met Buckbeak before you went to bed because you insisted that I read to you despite your yawns and your sneezes. We listened to Lady Gaga’s and Ariana Grande’s Rain on Me, for the millionth time, while I braided your hair. I turned the lights off, put the cat away, brought you some water, and turned on your nightlight. You climbed out of bed, no longer able to form words, and tried to turn your night light off, too bright for your sneezy eyes. You accidentally looked directly into it, starting an uncontrollable sneezing fit. I turned it off. You climbed back in bed and closed your eyes. 

      You were snuffly and ethereal. 

      And I tucked you in, my little tuckered-out birthday girl. 

      Posted in kids, parenting, Uncategorized, writing | 7 Comments | Tagged birthday girl, happy birthday, harry potter, kids, parenting
    • A Teacher Tale: Virtual Learning Concerns

      Posted at 11:30 am by Jeddarae, on August 29, 2020

      Like any teacher who has started the 2020-2021 school year, I am trudging uphill to get a handle on teaching my curriculum in a digital world. Who am I kidding? We’ve been “in” school for three weeks, and I still won’t even get to the state-mandated curriculum until Tuesday. Like I said in a previous post, “I feel more like tech support than an actual English teacher” at this point. And in this new realm of almost fully digital teaching (I’ve gotten rid of all paper including books this year), these are the key factors that I’m worried about.

      1. Cheating and plagiarism. With the interwebs at their fingertips and teachers’ minimal capabilities of monitoring students learning at home, cheating and plagiarism, already an epidemic in middle and high schools, will be more rampant. Yes, there are programs to help catch plagiarism. Yes, there are programs where teachers can monitor what students are doing on their screens. Yes, there are programs where students can take tests in locked browsers. But. There’s no way for teachers to know that students at home don’t have their phones out or even another computer out googling answers while testing. Granted, the way that most English tests are set up anymore makes it hard to cheat, but that isn’t the case with math or social studies tests. And there’s no good way to prove that a student cheated with this setup. I also already had a student plagiarize an exit ticket, on a question that wasn’t even really plagiarize-able. Last year during digital learning, I had gobs of students put straight up the first thing they found in Google as their answers to a test grade assignment about “The Cask of Amontillado.” It’s loads easier to prove plagiarism, but students will deny it even with the proof in their face (and don’t get me started on the parent denial of their perfect student committing fraud). I’m enforcing a strict plagiarism policy this year to make it hit home to students that cheating in any form is not cool.
      2. Being recorded. There. I said it. We’re required to record our Google Meets. I’m being recorded all the time and so are the students. No thank you. First of all, I don’t understand how legally this can be a thing. I’m recording minors. Everyday. Secondly, the students don’t want to talk, whether it’s because of the fact they’re being recorded or you know they’re just middle schoolers who don’t want to talk. Thirdly, it’s a can of worms. It makes it awkward to correct a student’s behavior. My tone is forever documented on that recording, so are the students’. It’s going to make organic conversations around literature die, and these complex texts that we read at the middle school level discuss adult situations. You never know what kids are going to ask. Romeo and Juliet have a wedding night. They commit suicide. Odysseus cheats on his wife. Men rape women. While I’ve always handled the questions the kids ask about these texts professionally, I would hate to think what an outsider listening to these conversations might think about my classroom. I can’t skip over these parts; the kids are smart, they get it, and they ask questions about it. (Now granted, if students are doing independent work or testing, I don’t make them stay in the Meet the whole time because their technology doesn’t work properly if they’re running the Meet and trying to do work at the same time, but I run the Meet the whole time so they can pop in and out to ask questions.)
      3. Parent criticism. Listen, I’ve always dealt with this, lost sleep over it, had panic attacks about it, thought I’d quit my job over it, etc. But parents now can literally hear what’s going on in my classroom and your classroom if the students aren’t plugged into a headset. My students are on silent to get rid of background noise for the whole meeting, but I have no idea what’s going on in their houses or who is listening in because I can’t hear them and I can’t see them either. It’s eerie to know that people are listening who shouldn’t be. Not that parents aren’t welcome. Or that their input isn’t valuable. Or that they shouldn’t advocate for their children if they believe their children have been unjustly treated . . . but still. I’m human. Sometimes my tone comes out wrong, or I’m being sarcastic, or the parents have missed what’s happened before with their students, or– All. Of. The. Other. Possibilities. Parents are being eavesdroppers. And that’s creepy. Sorry not sorry. 
      4. Shift in teacher and student work expectations. I refuse to be available 24/7 to students and parents because of digital learning. I refuse to bend over backward to meet unreasonable digital learning expectations. I refuse to run myself ragged just because society demands it so. I can still be a good teacher even while saying no. I’ve already shifted my paper-based lessons to be fully digital. Do you know how many hours of work that took? I now don’t get my own lunch break because the students have to eat in our rooms. Heck, I have to clock into work at 7:05 and I’m now with students until 1:15 every day, except for SWIFT runs to the restroom in between classes. I’m now chained to my desk in front of three computers instead of up and interacting with kids during lessons. When students are quizzing, testing, or writing, that’s my time to grade in class. That goes out the window with virtual learning because I’m troubleshooting device issues with kids and monitoring their screens constantly instead. I’ve got even less time to grade at work than I did previously. And the poor kids. No recess. No true group work. Also tied to their device, or devices if they’re at home. Often their technology doesn’t work. Lots of students can’t manage their time in class without a teacher directly in front of them. Their technology is a distraction. And I could go on and on. But mainly, I’m distressed at how we’re expecting students to be miniature corporate business people who can toggle among Google Meets, a lesson, and four other tabs when there are kids out there who can’t even get logged into a website they use every day.  They’re just missing business suits and MBA’s. Pretty soon they’ll be telling their coworkers, I mean fellow students, to “lean in” and be “team players” and throwing “synergy” around like confetti.
      5. Is virtual learning our new forever? Once the pandemic gets under control, is virtual learning going to be a permanent part of brick and mortar schools? If I have students who get sick or have to have surgery requiring them to miss a week or two or seven of school, am I going to be expected to teach them while they’re at home if the parents want that for their children? Am I going to have to be prepared on any given day from this point forward to teach students at home too while most students will be physically present? If I have to have surgery that requires me to be out but I’m able to teach from home, will I be allowed to do it? Should I be allowed to do it? Is it one of those just because we can doesn’t mean we should scenarios for both students and teachers? Also, just an FYI, it takes three to four times as long to cover material virtually than it does in person. Students will get less done and learn less if this set-up is now part of our new forever. 

      I’ve got all kinds of other things on my mind, and I know the above is all rambly and gluey and incoherent in places, but at this point, I’m not worried about being eloquent. 

      And I’d love for all those Higher Ups in education, whether at the school level, district level, state level, or national level, to be alright with their workdays being recorded and listened into by whoever just so happens to walk by while they’re being live-streamed into people’s houses. Just saying. 

      Posted in teaching, writing | 4 Comments | Tagged teaching, teaching during a pandemic, teaching middle school, virtual learning
    • A Teacher Tale: How My First Week of Teaching Students During a Pandemic Went

      Posted at 12:08 pm by Jeddarae, on August 15, 2020

      If you’re not a teacher, have you checked in with your teacher friends who went back into the classroom this week?

      Sent them a silly gif of encouragement via text message?

      Venmo-ed them twenty bucks towards a splurge-y bottle of Pinot Noir for them to unwind with over the weekend?

      Offered your ear for them to vent their frustration?

      Or at least liked their end-of-the-first-week-with-students-during-a-pandemic Facebook post?

      You have?

      Good.

      Because it was probably rough on them. It definitely was overwhelming over here in Mrs. Ram Jam land.

      I made it through the first two days of only in-person learners just fine, but by day two’s end, my throat was on fire. From lack of use due to a five-month hiatus or just the normal back-to-school-first-week-malaise–or so I thought.

      Where I teach in Louisana, educators are teaching in-person learners and virtual learners simultaneously, and the first day with both, our third day, was particularly chaotic. Because the district’s network broke. I didn’t have high expectations to make it through much, but the whole experience was frustrating for learners and teachers both.  

      I woke up Thursday morning with a cough and a headache on top of my sore throat. I made the responsible choice and stayed home for the day, and my awesome principal let me teach from home. Google Meet didn’t work during first block nor second block, so I didn’t get much done with those students, but my last two classes went much more smoothly. Individual students kept having issues with their devices, Google Docs and websites lagging or failing to load, and Google Meet crashing.

      I felt even worse by the end of my last class. My doctor squeezed me in for a quick phone visit and ordered a COVID test for me, telling me to stay home for a week even if I tested negative because I have no immune system with all the medicine I’m on for my ulcerative colitis. 

      So I taught from home again yesterday, and while it went a million times better than the previous day, it was still glitchy and slow and crashy and frustrating for students experiencing tech issues.

      And it’s really hard to figure out how to help them when you’re not IRL in front of them.

      I also don’t have a good gauge of how engaged they are or even how much work they’re completing while they’re logged into virtual class, if they can even get logged in, because it’s impossible to run a Google Meet, answer their questions, help students troubleshoot tech problems, check my email for other issues, AND log into 20 different individual students’ Google Docs at the same time to check their progress. 

      Here are my takeaways from week one:

      • Always take your technology home. When I left school on Wednesday, I left my three work devices on my desk because I didn’t want to detach the chargers from the powerstrip, ruining my complicated teacher desk set-up. I’m lucky that I’m married to the network administrator for the district, and we have 105 different devices floating around at home, so I was able to teach from home on an extra device and my personal Chromebook. You never know when you or someone in your family will get sick, and you too might have to teach from home.
      • Keep it simple stupid (The KISS Rule). Don’t make your lessons complicated. Don’t make lessons that require students to have ten other tabs running at once besides their Google Meet too. I had to spend ten minutes teaching students how to split their screens on Wednesday because they didn’t know how, and I couldn’t even show them how to do it right because it wouldn’t work properly on my laptop hooked up to my SMART Board. Try to keep websites that require students to log in to a minimum. Most of my Wednesday was spent trying to get students logged into CommonLit and Newsela, two websites that the students will be using all year. It’s hard enough to get students logged into programs IRL and trying to do it virtually was ridiculously hard–even though to log into both of those programs they use the same login credentials to log into their Chromebooks every day, so you’d think it would be super easy. I still have students who can’t get logged in. Then once students get logged into new websites you have to teach them how to use them too. This goes without saying for any program you want the kids to use throughout the year. You will have to teach them how to use the programs first before you can expect them to do any lesson. I’m sticking to just Google Docs and Kami aside from CommonLit and Newsela, so I can teach content instead of having to teach kids how to use a different program every single day. Remember to KISS it.
      • Closed captioning is not your friend. In each class, I had a couple of students who couldn’t hear in Google Meets, so I turned closed captioning on to help them out, but can we talk about major backfire? Yesterday, I started going over Greek and Latin roots and how to break down words for parts. I modeled using the word “abhorrent” and then tried to work through the process with the word “acerbic.” In one class, I asked my eighth graders “How many parts does acerbic have?” I looked at my Google Meet screen and glanced at the closed captioning real quick and saw that it translated that to “How many parts does a cervix have?” My mouth dropped open briefly in surprise, and I recovered quickly and just ignored it, but how mortifying. I have no idea who actually saw that roll across the screen. Needless to say, I won’t be using closed captioning again.
      • Be flexible and realistic. Guess what? I’m already a couple of days behind where I’d like to be content-wise, and imma be real honest, I probably won’t get to my curriculum until Wednesday. Am I stressed about that? Nope. Am I stressed that my lessons are going to take longer to execute and that I have to streamline them? Nope. I’ll go with the flow and adapt. I am more worried about the students themselves and how they’re adapting to online learning and their frustration with technology that doesn’t want to work.
      • Don’t be chin surprised. With all of the everything going on this week, I forgot that my students had chins. And smiles. The students who I teach at fourth block eat lunch in my room every day, and when they whipped off their masks to chow down on their Lunchables on that very first day. I. Could. Not. Stop. Staring. At. The. Bottom. Of. Their. Faces. They looked like completely different human beings with their masks off, and this made me unbearably despondent. It just made everything hit home that this school year is so different and that I’m going to be denied their full range of facial expressions while they’re in my room. 

      As of right now, I feel more like tech support than an actual English teacher. And while I’m hopeful that this will pass and I’ll get into my groove, my Ram jam, of teaching poems, The Odyssey, the Hero’s Journey, symbolism, allegories, words, and writing, I’ve come to terms with our new teacher reality and I’m going to remain dedicated to not sugarcoating what we do to the general public (even though I approach it through the veil of humor sometimes). 

      Unrealistic expectations have been placed on teachers and students during this pandemic, and teachers need to speak out about it. 

      I encourage every single educator out there to share their bad and their ugly just as much as they’re sharing their good. 

      (Good news:  I don’t have the coronavirus! I got my results yesterday afternoon.)

      Posted in education, teaching, writing | 5 Comments | Tagged digital learning, english teacher, teaching, teaching during a pandemic, virtual learning
    • A Teacher Tale: Holy Shit the Students Come Next Week

      Posted at 9:39 am by Jeddarae, on August 8, 2020

      Monday is the first in-person learning day for my students. Wednesday is my first day teaching both virtual and in-person learners at the same time. 

      [Gulps. Takes a deep breath. Sings to herself “Everything’s gonna be alright. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye. Everything’s gonna be alright. Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye.”]

      shawnmullins

      https://tenor.com/view/good-cold-morning-lullaby-shawn-mullins-gif-15555338

      I can’t express to you how utterly mush-for-brained and overwhelmed I am right now (as are all teachers at this point). I’m going to be spending my weekend curled up in a little ball of denial on my couch singing real lullabies to myself, not the 90s rock variety, conserving brainpower and energy for the Herculean task of navigating in-person and virtual teaching simultaneously next week. 

      Can I do it? Absolutely, but you better be damn sure I’m gonna fuck it up spectacularly for a while–because I have to do eighty million and five things at one time. 

      My teacher desk set up includes three different computers. I can’t even count to three right now without needing a break between two and three. I’ve got Computer #1 hooked up to my SmartBoard that I’ll be running a Google Meet on for my virtual learners. Computer #2 I’m using to join the Google Meet, so I can interact with my virtual learners. Computer #3 is in charge of ALL OF THE OTHER THINGS. 

      I’ve got my Britney Spears headset (I don’t know how to use it yet, but, whatevs.), and you better believe that I’m gonna pretend that I’m a pop star while donning it. 

      britney

      https://tenor.com/view/britney-spears-turn-around-smiles-pretty-gif-15473483

      And I’ll probably get distracted by it to the point where I forget that I’m supposed to be teaching and operating three different computers at the same time and making sure that the students who are physically present are behaving and learning and healthy and socially distancing and wearing their masks and not-convinced-that-Mrs.-Ram-is-mentally-unstable. (Who am I kidding? I want them convinced that I’m insane.)

      So, there’s all that. 

      Plus, can we talk about my BIGGEST concern for this school year? How am I going to pull all of this off without dropping expletives like a sailor while I’m doing it? For realz. I’m doomed. So. So. So. Fucking. Doomed. Fuck.

      (I joke. I joke. But seriously. I’m doomed. My cursing has gotten a smidge out of control as of late.)

      Think happy thoughts for all teachers and students as the school year starts.

      We need all the good juju you can throw our way.  

      phoebe

      https://tenor.com/view/bad-juju-dont-want-that-bad-juju-friends-phoebe-buffay-lisa-kudrow-gif-13642805

      And throw some other stuff our way too if you can–like soap, Lysol, Clorox wipes, etc. You could literally throw a bottle of liquid Dial handsoap and hit me with it in the face, and I would thank you for the abuse as long as you were donating the handsoap to my classroom.

       

       

       

      Posted in teaching, Uncategorized, writing | 2 Comments | Tagged english teacher, school, teaching, teaching middle school
    • A Little Thing Tale: How Can She Be So Big and So Impossibly Little?

      Posted at 1:06 pm by Jeddarae, on July 25, 2020

      She’s big enough now, on tippy-toes and on ever-lengthening legs, to swipe her allergy medicine off the lazy Susan from the upper cabinet that’s to the left of the stainless steel stove. She’s grown taller and stronger but no matter how hard she presses down on the liquid Xyzal’s child-proofed, plastic cap, she’s unable to master its removal. She sighs in frustration while I think . . . When will her dexterity match her determination? Did her hair grow long enough to reach the tops of her legs, or did her legs grow long enough to reach her hair? How can she be so big and so impossibly little? 

      She interrupts my thoughts, asking, “Mom, is there going to be any fires?” 

      She sniffs her medicine, crinkles her nose, and laps the Xyzal tentatively, wary of the medicine although she takes it nightly.  

      “No sweet girl,” I reply before she careens down the dim, narrow hallway–arms outstretched to alternate touching both sides of the hallway as she goes, ricocheting like a bowling ball off bumpers–to brush her teeth. Her hair, tangled and bleached a light summer brown, drifts behind her, torturing the gray tabby kitty following her. She casts a mischievous smile, a plea that sifts twinkles into her brown sugar eyes, over her shoulder down at the cat.

      Before she disappears around the corner, the kitten capitalizes on the plea, bowling into her. He jumps, swiping at her hair. 

      “Suny! Stop it!” she shrieks, affronted, sounding more like a teenage girl whose little brother has ruined her Instagram worthy ponytail by pulling it than a little thing admonishing a naughty kitten. 

      And I think . . . How can she be so big and so impossibly little?

      She brushes her teeth, changes into her nightgown, climbs into her bed. While I read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to her, the cat bats around a stray Lego, distracting us both. 

      It’s her turn to play a song while I braid her hair. “Alexa, play ‘Rain On Me’ by Lady Gaga,” she instructs her Amazon Echo Dot. I start on her right side, combing back her locks with my fingers, dividing it into three sections. I waterfall it three times before grabbing a crunchy section, tacky and wafting hints of apples into the air.

      “Did you get applesauce in your hair today?” I ask, ditching the braid and starting over. A whole pouch of applesauce must be ensconced in half her hair. 

      “No, I got it all over my dress.” She says, rolling her eyes. 

      “Did you clean it up?”

      “No.”

      “Did your hair touch the front of your dress today?”

      “Maybe.”

      “So where do you think the spilled applesauce went?”

      Realization dawns in her eyes. “My hair?”

      “Next time, clean up after yourself, and put your hair behind your shoulders while you’re eating,” I suggest, barely disguised laughter in my tone.

      She shakes her head yes in response and, in time with the poppy dance music playing in the background, croons, “Rain on me, tsunami.” 

      I shake my head at her and leave her hair loose. It’ll be even more of a disaster in the morning, but I can’t waste any more energy dealing with it.

      “Would you rather have applesauce in your hair or open the Chamber of Secrets?” she asks.

      “Totally have applesauce in my hair.”  A crooked smile steals across my face. “What about you?”

      “Samesies!” she giggles. 

      She curls up into a ball on her bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and stuffed animal-shaped pillows, and I pull her fluffy pink comforter up to her chin. She reaches for her favorite plushie, a small gray and white striped kitty with a turquoise glitter bow and waterfall-colored, glassy eyes. 

      “You know what you forgot to do today?” I ask.

      “What?”

      “Feed the invisible chickens in the front yard.”

      “Mom,” she draws the word out, making it two syllables, “How many times do I have to tell you? Invisible chickens don’t exist.”

      “And how many times do I have to tell you that just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there? How can you keep letting out pets starve?” I feign distress.

      The incredulity dissipates from her face like a balloon slowly leaking air. How much longer can I keep this charade up? I want her to picture invisible chickens pecking around free-range, clucking, and happy with the palm trees and our house in the background forever.

      “I don’t believe you,” she whispers, more dubious than assertive. 

      “I guess I’ll just have to feed them after I finish tucking you in.” 

      I kiss her forehead. My lips accidentally brushing the spot where she dabbed it with holy water.

      “Good night, sweet girl,” I say while turning off the lights, checking to see that I’ve positioned her nightlight’s reflection properly on the wall so she can make shadow puppets until she falls asleep.

      “Mommy,” she calls, tacking on the M and the Y because she’s more little than big in the dark. “I know I already asked, but is there going to be any fires?” 

      “No sweet girl. But you know what to do if there is one. Go to sleep. I need to go feed the invisible chickens.” 

      I close her door halfway and pause. She has both hands raised above her, thumbs hooked and twisted, fingers splayed wide open and fluttering–creating a shadow butterfly on the wall. Her tongue sticks out her mouth’s left side, and she bites down on it in concentration, just like she did when she was a chubby toddler building towers out of blocks. My breath hitches because she’s still impossibly little, if only for a little while longer.  

       

       

       

      Posted in kids, Uncategorized, writing | 8 Comments | Tagged harry potter, kids, parenting, writing
    • A Poem: Thin Air

      Posted at 10:23 am by Jeddarae, on July 18, 2020

      you’re thin air
      i need an oxygen mask
      because you’re blowing thin air
      i gasp and i gasp and i gasp
      and i sigh

      because i can’t breathe your thin air

      you’re breathing in lies and breathing out lines
      i can no longer ignore the signs
      when you’re weaving thick lies out of thin air

      your thin air is under pressure
      your thick lies are under pressure
      think you can press my face into the gas
      for your pleasure

      i can’t breathe because you’re pressing my face into the gas for your pleasure

      i’m under pressure
      i’m under pressure
      and i’ve got one question to ask
      for good measure

      how can you be so cold when you’re full of hot air?

      i gasp and i gasp and i gasp
      and i sigh

      if i stay here a moment longer
      i’ll disappear into thin air
      but my lungs are getting stronger

      My lungs have gotten stronger.
      I won’t stay a moment longer.

      Because I can’t breathe your hot air.
      No more oxygen masks
      because I’m through with thin air.

      You’re out of thin air.
      My lungs have gotten stronger.

      And you’ve disappeared into thin air.

      white clouds in pink and blue clouds

      Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

      Posted in poems, poetry, Uncategorized, writing | 4 Comments | Tagged out of thin air, poem, poems, poetry, thin air
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