Today I spent a good chunk of time writing my interim comments. “What are those?” you ask quizzically.

I’m glad you asked. Halfway through each quarter, we’re asked to write interim comments for students earning a C- or below, or who we have concerns about. (We also are encouraged to write interim comments for students who are doing really well, but considering doing that requires a significant amount of extra work, no one actually does.)

They’re tough to write, because it’s unclear who the intended audience is, and exactly what the purpose of these comments are. The dean gets a copy, the adviser gets a copy, and the parents get a copy. Are we writing for the dean, the adviser, the parents, the students, or even some have asked, the tutor?

My interim comments tend to be slightly more than just a litany of grades, and slightly less than a full-blown narrative evaluation. I direct my interim to the parents, informing them — frankly and honestly — of the grades the student has received. I won’t say “on the first quiz, Jane Doe earned an B-.” Instead, I will say something like “The first major quiz was on logarithm and exponents, transformations of functions, and basic trigonometry. Jane earned a 40.5/50 (B-). She was most challenged by questions involving logarithms, but also made a number of basic algebraic errors.” I then usually outline one or two suggestions to help the student. (Normally they get more specific in later quarters, when I know the student better.)

The one thing I avoid like the plague when writing comments is making any inferences about the student. I would never say “Jane needs to spend more time doing her homework each night” because I don’t know how much time Jane does spend on homework. I would say, however, “Jane tends to come to class with partially completed homework assignments, which are often sloppily written.”

These comments are, at least for me, to keep the parent in the loop about their child. I want them to know that I’m paying attention, and that I know their child’s math work well. But these comments can also, importantly, in the independent school system, act as insurance against parents who tend to get a bit… zealous… about their children’s grades. Which happens more often than you’d think.

I’m really fast at typing up comments, and making them comprehensive. I thank my time at UCLA for that.

When I was a TA in grad school, I began to type up long narrative comments on each of my students’ essays, in addition to marking them up for grammar, structure, tone, etc. I got good at doing it well, and quickly. I was a bit more blunt with them than I would be with my high school students. Example:

I believe that you are trying to argue that the guillotine and the steam engine effected social change, and because they were structurally different, they caused different sorts of social change. This thesis is not actually arguing much – the second bit (the type of social changes) is descriptive, and the first part (machines can causes changes in society) is not very “deep” (in the sense that I don’t think you need to prove it). So I think that is your most fundamental problem – that your thesis indicates that your paper isn’t so much of an argument as much as a description.

I wondered if the amount of time I invested was worth it. But my answer came in an email from a former student, ages ago. But I still keep it near and dear, because it reminds us of why I do what I do. The Post Script is the most relevant part of this email:

You’re probably wondering why I am emailing you two quarters after I took History 3C with you as my teaching assistant.

[…]

Sam, you were the perfect TA for this student who initially felt lost during his first history course at UCLA. The nature of the course was definitely new and uncharted territory for me, as I’m sure that you could tell with all my random questions. I was initially unsure of how to take notes or write historically, but you were always there to guide me and set me on the right track. You were a truly awesome TA since you always provided us students with very constructive feedback (whether in discussion, on the weekly questions, or on the papers); and although the discussion sections weren’t always organized, they were always very informative and well done.

[…]

P.S. Your providing each of us students with feedback on our papers in some weird way influenced this whole e-mailing TAs thing that I’m doing. Feedback goes a long way—thanks again for helping me realize that.

And that’s it. After the aw shucks moment, after the puffed chest deflated, what I was left with was a student saying that he got something out of my feedback.

So although I’m still unclear to whom I’m directing my interim comments, and unclear of the reasons I’m writing them, I will go along believing they do some small bit of good.

My friend Robin Wasserman is a writer of young adult books. I am often afflicted by deep affection for my friends and sing their praises liberally. However, I can say without hyperbole that my friend Robin is extraordinarily talented. Her latest book — her first foray in to science fiction — has been released and I’ve finished my copy.

It’s great. It touches on a lot of really smart themes (see this interview from the SciFi channel and this even more interesting interview by another young adult author). And more importantly, as a teacher, I can see this book leading to some fascinating discussions about science, about emotions, about faith, about humanity, about relationships, and about visions of the future. Maybe it is better said by a professional opinion:

“Futuristically blurring the boundaries of life and death, this text intimately tackles tough ethical topics, including faith, identity, suicide and genetic engineering, through blunt dialogue and realistic characters.”
– Kirkus Reviews

She doesn’t know I’m writing this. She’ll probably find it soon eough because she googles herself about once every hour. But even though it’s not math, I just had to blog about it.

Okay, it didn’t, and I’m not actually speaking in metaphors. But it was scary. My school has a photolab which sits right above my classroom. They did a huge art studio renovation this summer, and some really heavy, shiny new equipment was hauled up there.

During my multivariable calc class yesterday, we were having a jolly ol’ time learning about conic sections. (Turns out that these students never took precalculus, which is how they got to my class… but to understand oblate spheroids and hyperbolic paraboloids, they need some conic sections.) I heard a creaking coming from the ceiling. It was loud and sounded like something (or somebody!) was going to fall through.

We jumped. Okay, of the five of us in the room, I was the only one who jumped. But it freaked us all out. I had all my students move to the other side of the classroom, in case the ceiling did come crashing down on that side. We heard the sounds two more times.

A few classes later, I was teaching my Algebra II students, and told them of this strange occurrence. By this time, I had shifted each desk a yard away from the side of the room that the noise came from. I — in a somewhat playful histrionic tone — told them that the ceiling might crash and they need to brace themselves for that possibility.

They mocked. They were skeptical.

We heard shuffling around, and they were like “Mr. Shah, that isn’t a ceiling falling.” Their skepticism increased. I answered, “that’s not what I heard before.”

Five minutes later, and the timing couldn’t have been better, the same horrifying noise I heard before resounded. And a student, who had gotten up to check a review problem answer, literally jumped and there was probably a yelp. All the students were freaked out, and, let’s be honest, it was nice to be vindicated. They laughed (at me) first, but I got to laugh (at them) last.

I’m back from my wedding. It was great. One of my favorite moments — well, one of many — was when I got to sit on the porch with my friend T., who taught fourth grade for five years and has just transitioned into a pseudo-administrator position (he’s in charge of staff placements for elementary teachers in this very large school district).

We’ve never talked about teaching since I became a teacher.

It was great talking to him-as-teacher. I dig him-as-teacher. Two things struck with me, which made me realize that we shared a lot of the same values. He said:

“When you give a test and your students do badly, it’s your fault.” In blogs in the educational community, that seems to be an unstated undercurrent to many of the bloggers’s philosophies. There’s a lot to disagree with in a blanket statement like that (e.g. what if you aren’t given the tools, if your curriculum is impractical, etc.). But the sentiment — of accountability, of not immediately jumping to blame the students — is valuable.

“When I was interviewing,” T. said, “I was asked ‘what’s your two-week plan?’ in terms of what was going on in my classroom, and I laughed.” He laughed because he couldn’t fathom knowing what was going to be covered on Thursday if he hadn’t taught on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. He didn’t mean that he was unprepared or directionless; instead, that he doesn’t go off of rote lesson plans that are concerned with teaching material, instead of flexible lesson plans centered around student learning.

(I laughed at that point, because I was like: “T., you’d be so proud of me. I make each of my lesson plans the night before too! Who would have thought that anyone else would find that a virtue?!”)

We disagreed here and there (we had a variation of this conversation/debate).

But overall, it was nice to see my high school friend as a teacher friend.

Tomorrow I’m taking off to go to a wedding of a close high school friend. It’s a nice thought that some of the students I teach will be friends years down the road, like my friend who is getting married and I are. Years down the road. Okay, yeah, I know, I’m not that old, and I’m sounding positively ancient. But anyway, it’s a nice thought.

Just for a little walk down memory lane, I broke out the old yearbook. There are a lot of people who I barely remember, a ton of people whose names seem utterly foreign to me, and just a few names which I remember well. Partly it’s the hand of time trying to whitewash over my high school memories. However, I also moved to my high school at the beginning of my sophomore year; I didn’t grow up with these people. My histories with them don’t go back to childhood.

Here are two random entries:

Sam, my dear… It’s been an amazing year, and an… interesting… high school career. We are officially cast members of the longest-running Samuel Beckett production in history. You will always be the Godot tree to me. I love Mr. Parent and his countless journeys deep into the Absurd. That English class was the best. Hmm, what else? Oh yeah… WHAM! It was so much fun WHAM-ing it up the past couple of years. Jew power! We are the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be. I wish you the best of luck at MIT and I know you’ll do well. I’m sure I’ll hear about you when you win a Nobel Prize or something. I really hope we can keep in touch next year. Sam, you are an extremely talented person and I’m sure you’ll succeed in whatever you decide to do. Have a great summer and have a great time next year. Talk to ya later.

Dear Sam-Bam, someday we will change the world, either together or separately. Everyone will know our names because you will invent the formula for world peace and I will be there to document it. I’ll take artsy fartsy pictures of your experience, and I will write poems about your equations. All you have to do is be a genius. Man! I gave you the easy job… But seriously, Sammy. You are one cool cat, and even if you still miss Illinois, I’m so so glad you moved here. Of course I don’t want to get mushy in your yearbook because this isn’t goodbye. We’re going to be friends for a long time. In fact, you’re not going to be able to get rid of me… ha ha! No siree bob, I’m going to show up just when you least expect it. When you’re a world renowned math professor. I’ll enroll in your class and surprise you! (Of course, we might have to work out a “payment plan” so that I can pass) (kidding!). I’m glad that your’e going to MIT rather than Harvard Smarvard. Those people are just stuck up. And I’m not just saying that because they rejected me. (No, I’m really not, because I never applied. I should’ve though. They might have taken me on as a social experiment.) Well, so far its taken me 40+ minutes to write this, so it’s about time to wrap up. Let me leave you with these two thoughts: 1. I love you! 2. “If you’re going to do it, overdo it. That’s how you know you’re alive. Go ahead, take a coma-nap baby; take a Puddle Dive” – ani. You know I had to end with ani.

My high school experience was in no way standard — my group of friends did not easily fit into a single stereotype. We were… unique. We saw ourselves as… unique. Maybe that “we’re so different” attitude is our stereotype, I don’t know. We thought we were just so great. We started an underground zine, and secretly put posters up around the school telling everyone about it’s imminent arrival. We would drag couches and TVs outside of people’s houses and watch movies in nature. We would drive 45 minutes just to have tea at this hip tea lounge because it was a place no one else knew about. Annually, we would all skip school on the same day to go to a giant rummage sale. (Okay, you got me, I had my mother call me in sick.) We would go to the local truck stop (hey, we were in Jersey after all) and drink coffee and order fries and hang out at midnight or one or two in the morning.

We were also “good” kids. We did lots of community service. Lots. We quizzed each other for American History exams during lunch. We liked talking to (some of our) teachers. We were kids that — barring certain classes here or there — actually liked school. Most of us had jobs (me: restaurant and supermarket). Most of us didn’t drink until late in the game. Most of us didn’t do drugs.

Maybe secretly we did want to be normal. But we were an eclectic group, and I think we identified as that.

But because of that “I’m so uncategorizable and unique” attitude I copped in high school, I thought “Our yearbook won’t reflect my high school experience at all.” And so I gave each of my friends a page and told them to fill it up with whatever they wanted. Quotes, messages, doodles, pictures, photographs, whatever. Then I made color copies made of each of the pages, bound them, and handed them out. My group of friends had our own yearbook, one that actually reflected who we were in high school and what we did in high school.

On my page, I put a whole bunch of memories strung together (“And the four-boy-trampoline-party in the rain? And my daily doses of “so sorry sams” and people going for the gummy and then making up?… Try not to forget the wrestling matches on the lawn, in my house, at Eva’s house, etc… And then there was the Skynard Concert and Dennis’s Fourth of July Mishap with THE DIP….“). I had a Richard Feynman quotation (“I was born not knowing and have only had a little time to change that here or there“). I had a quotation from My So-Called Life (I won’t embarrass myself by telling you which one). I had a pretentious math formula that I probably copied from my beaten CRC book of tables and formulas. I also stated that Counting Crows was “the best band in the entire world.”

High school feels like forever ago. And yet, my high school friend getting married? That same friend who let us watch Real World in her basement? The same one with whom I tried to get ice cream from the McDonalds drive through by walking through, after playing ultimate frisbee? The same one who I ate lunch with, sitting in those weird-colored plastic seats in the lunchroom?

PS. Do I think of any of this when I’m at my high school, teaching? Do I see any of my old self in my students? Do I remember the friendships that get forged, the drama that breaks out — daily!, the heightened emotional response to everything? Honestly, the answer is no. Maybe it’s because my high school was so different than my current high school. Probably it’s because I just have such a bad memory that I remember almost nothing. But for the most part — minus the “when I was in high school, I never would have…” moments — I don’t associate my life as a teacher with anything about my life as a student. At least not consciously. Fascinating, now that I think about it.

I wish this were a metaphor, or something deep, but it’s not. It’s just cute.

Last week, one of my multivariable calc students was late to class. No excuse, he just forgot to leave the break period on time. He was a good 5 minutes late, so me and the other students closed and locked the door, and when we heard him knocking, we starting talking — really loudly — about all this candy we had that we were eating, and throwing around calculus terms. It didn’t make sense, what we were saying. It was just us having a little fun.

After 30 seconds of this, we let him in, and I was like: “Oh, guys, we’re so silly. We should have moved the whiteboard (it’s on wheels in this classroom) in front of the door.”

Of course, Monday comes about, and I open the door to my classroom, and what do I see and hear? I see a whiteboard covering the entrance, and I hear my students — who have all arrived early to do this — talking loudly about candy.

It warmed the cockles of my heart. (Not that I know what a cockle is, nor whether my heart has them or not. But still. You get the point.) [1]

[1] Okay, I had to look this up. This is what I found.

Every so often, I get a reminder of how completely different this independent school world is to the rest of the universe of schools out there. I guess after my first year in this microcosm, the shock and infinitude of differences have become so naturalized that I fail to recognize the weirdness, except when something jars me out of this strange reality.

Then you’ll usually hear me mutter “back when I was in school…”

And Sarah and Jackie’s comments to my last post did exactly that. I spoke about letting students out of my classes a few (not many) minutes early, if they finished and checked over a quiz. How is that even possible?

Let me paint a scene for you.

A school where there are no hall passes, no late passes, no detentions, no bathroom passes [1]. Students, when they have a free period or two, can sign out and leave the building. To get lunch, to get coffee, to enjoy some fresh New York air. Sometimes students sign out three our four times a day. We send our official attendance to the main office only once daily — after homeroom — and then teachers are responsible for keeping track of their classes attendance. Students are trusted that they’ll be where they need to be.

Not that there aren’t the occasional breaches of trust. A substitute comes and a student sneaks out of class. A student skips out on a gradewide meeting. Students who aren’t allowed to sign out — because of being late to school too many times or being put on academic probation — sometimes do sneak out. (Not on my watch, mind you.)

But they are occasional, and definitely the exception.

Right now, as I type, I’m sitting with my laptop at the sign out table in the front entrance. Students come by to say hi as they walk to Chipotle for lunch. I often get to have really nice conversations with teachers who walk by.

It’s a different world from what I grew up in, where our bathroom passes were toilet seat covers spraypainted in neon colors, where we had official pink hall passes, and where there were detentions for being late to class too many times. I guess that’s my “back when I was in school…” moment.

There are amazing benefits to working at my New York City independent school. And, as you would suspect even though I don’t write about them here, there are problems too. I don’t see my school through rose-tinted glasses. Seriously, I don’t. Still, I have a lot of admiration for this community that has been cultivated over the past hundred and some years. This school does something right… a lot of somethings right.