If you work in a school for long enough, or even for not very long at all, at some point the wifi will go out. What you do next probably depends on how old you are.

Ten instructional days down, 179 to go. Here are some images so far: The child who came into our Reading class after doing a phonics screen, put their head down and cried. They can “read” but only words they already know. When I went to comfort them, saying, “This is not your fault; this is the fault of the school system,” they whispered back, “Please don’t kick me out.

I haven't written here all summer (wow!), but that doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about reading and writing. In fact, quite the opposite is true. During a summer of learning and thinking about how to help students who are not yet reading at their grade level or chronological age, I found myself remembering some of my own stabs at emergent literacy.

I’ve written about my “chaos class” several times this month. First, when faced with my exasperated declaration, “fine, you choose what we study!” they shocked me by choosing Romeo & Juliet. Then, there were several incidents of bullying which led to me giving them a very serious dressing down. Then we had March Break (and let me tell you, we needed it). When we returned from break, I knew I had to have my “strict teacher” persona firmly at the fore for a little while so that the students didn’t think their appalling pre-break behaviour was acceptable.

A “graduated” from our reading class last semester after our screeners consistently showed that he was now reading at least at a grade 7 level - probably closer to grade 8. Given that he is in grade 9 and that he had been placed in our reading class because he wasn’t reading well, this was good news.  One of his favourite things in class was watching and discussing the daily news. Each class started with CNN10, and each day he took a contrarian point of view and challenged our thinking. He loved being pushed to think beyond his own perspective, and he loved learning new “fancy” vocabulary words. 

My mind keeps going back to Sherri’s post from earlier this month. In it, she quotes abolitionist organizer Mariame Kaba who says, “Knowing who to be mad at truly is praxis.” Sherri follows this quote with a number of questions we might consider when we think about our anger. In my comment I suggested that I should put them on a poster and have them next to my desk. After venting my spleen yesterday about the frustrations of teaching with no textbooks and little content guidance, I started thinking about Kaba’s statement again: who should I be mad at truly?

The first I hear of his plan is when he pops in to pick up something he has printed for a class, and I ask how his classes are going. I haven’t seen him in a few days, but that’s not surprising: he’s a new teacher with a full load of courses, and I know that’s tough. Still, he cheerily tells me all is well, then, in passing says, “So, about Hamlet: I think I’m just going to sort of, you know, touch on the main points and cover it in two weeks.

Ok, hear me out on this: when I started participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge years ago, I didn’t think things through to their inevitable end. I just started writing. But I’ve been at this for 8 years now, and every year March 27 arrives - and every year that day is my spouse’s birthday - which means that every year I have to decide if I’m going to write about him. He’s pretty wonderful, so the issue is never if he’s worth writing about (he is!); the issue is if I’ll embarrass him by writing about him (I will).

Ok, hear me out on this: years ago, when I started participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge years ago, I didn’t think things through to their inevitable end. I just started writing. But I’ve been at this for 8 years now, and every year, March 27 arrives - and every year that day is my spouse’s birthday - which means that every year I have to decide if I’m going to write about him.  He’s pretty wonderful, so the issue is never if he’s worth writing about (he is!); the issue is if I’ll embarrass him by writing about him (I will).

The older I get, the more I enjoy meeting caregivers at conference night. (We used to call them parent-teacher conferences, but “caregiver” makes more sense - tonight I met a host parent/ guardian, several parents and an uncle - and also a very cute younger brother, but he was not a caregiver.) I especially enjoy when students come with their caregivers and we can chat together about how things are going. I love opening with compliments and watching people’s faces light up. I love asking the students to talk about what they’ve learned.

I need to write. Yesterday I only posted a picture. I mean, it was a good picture, but a picture nonetheless, which is only sort of a slice of life - though now that I’m thinking about it, a daily picture as a slice of life would be interesting, too. But that’s not this challenge, so today I have to write. It’s March 25. Only six days left in this challenge. I’m not going to stop now. It’s just that last night I was so tired that I fell asleep right after work and slept for 12 hours - even though March Break just ended two days ago, so technically I should be refreshed.

Two days post-break: I miss the ocean.

I honestly don’t know how anyone teaches without a planner of some sort. Schools function in a series of intermeshing cycles - like gears of different sizes that each need to keep moving in order for the whole system to function. School days must sync with the weeks and the months and the rhythm of a semester and school year and calendar year. Then there’s the cycles within the class itself and, in high school, the four year cycle from entry to graduation. It gets complex. On top of that, I teach four classes on a schedule that alternates daily between AB CD/ BA DC.

As I packed my bag yesterday, I followed my personal rituals, tailored to this particular carry-on: stashed socks in various corners, used t-shirts to fill the gap between the bottom bars, placed my toiletries bag on top of the clothes on the wheel end of the bag, made sure that underwear were not the top layer, in case the bag got searched, splayed open in front of passengers everywhere. When I realized I was reveling in my lack of actual shoes - sandals only for this trip! - and thus lack of decisions about stuffing socks in them, I remembered a long-ago argument with my sister.

Things that never made it out of my suitcase: 4 pairs of socks the “nice” shorts 1 “decent” t-shirt my least comfortable swimsuit top airpods 2 bras mascara student writing that needs to be graded by Monday my second & third books Things I found exactly where I dropped them the day we arrived one pair of lightweight pants one sweatshirt shoes with laces compression socks Things to put in my backpack book #2 a few scavenged seashells and three small pieces of sea glass water bottle journal - the seats are too small for a laptop sand, whether I want it or not Things I will not bring home sunscreen a half-full bottle of moisturizer, now empty travel razor regrets

I take my foot off the bottom rung and sink softly down, surrounded suddenly by a school of yellow grunt. Their bodies undulate all around me and, though their large eyes are right next to mine, they seem unperturbed by my presence. I watch their gills work, amazed. A few blue tang join us, cutting crossways through the motion of the school of grunt, not unlike the way the boys I’m with now join me. We are giants compared to them - each grunt is the size of my outstretched hand, the tang maybe the size of a small dinnerplate - but we are flying through their world, and they are unconcerned.

Some days these boys just chill, but other days they cram in as much as they can. Today - to my surprise - was the latter when I was expecting the former -which is why I'm writing (again) after 10 pm. Ridiculous. Context: I am with my son and four of his buddies on their March Break trip. Four of the five of them graduate at the end of this year, so this is their grade 12 grad trip. They are delightful & I am really enjoying them; I am also the only one who can drive here - which is why I am here.

Part of the magic of writing a daily slice of life is that I’m forced to notice small moments every day, and - somewhat less obviously - allowed to reflect. The noticing is clear: whether I’m writing about something that happened that day or stumbling across a memory that has sudden relevance, I pause to collect the moment and then provide structure via words. In this way, writing is an attempt to capture and share an impression. Writing also shapes the moment, insisting on a start and an end, a form, the importance of some details over others, and an expected or desired effect.

A few days ago on Ethical ELA’s monthly poetry Open Write, I read a prompt that suggested we play with the idea of interruptions. I immediately thought it was a great idea, so I have been catching up on the series Lincoln Lawyer which two of my friends from college recommended, and I find it so compelling that I often end up watching right into another episode because boy do those writers understand the power of a cliffhanger, and, while Cayman doesn’t have any cliffs, the boys I’m with hopped out of the car tonight to look “over the edge” of the ocean (behind the grocery store where we’d stopped for more eggs - even though they’ve managed to eat 3 ½ dozen in two days; I suppose that’s less shocking if I tell you there are five of them and they are all 17 or 18 years old, but it is still a lot of eggs, and let me tell you, eggs are not something I have a lot of anymore (thank you, menopause), but aside from the fact that I can’t seem to follow even my own train of thought anymore, it’s really not so bad) and what was I going to say - don’t go look at the ocean when obviously the ocean is what we’re here to look at or, more to the point, to go in, and we are all happy that we don’t have to go in to school this week so we really might as well take advantage - which I think we did today because we swam with turtles and walked on the white sand beach and spent time with family and every time I thought I might have a minute to write I was wrong - interruptions abounded so here I am, writing at 11:15pm but I am getting it done because that is part of the deal and since the boys are dealing cards downstairs I’m going to shut the bedroom door and go to sleep or, if menopause rears her head, maybe watch Lincoln Lawyer but just for one episode, I swear.

The door would not open. After spending most of lunch working to make the plans for this class just a bit more interactive - they were already fine, but I wanted better - I had nipped upstairs to the photocopier before the first bell. A few early birds were arriving as I left, so I called, “Be right back!” as they filed in and I rushed out. And I truly was right back - maybe three minutes had passed and the second bell hadn’t yet sounded when I found myself facing unexpected resistance from my own classroom door. 

Some of the grade 12s have already found their seat before the students from period 1 have entirely cleared out, but somehow the bell still sneaks up on us. As the announcements play, I observe that a lot of students are wearing green and comment out loud before remembering that today is “fake” St. Patrick’s Day since the real one falls during March Break this year. One thing leads to another and soon we are looking up St. Patrick and why people celebrate St. Patrick’s day. Didn’t he drive something out of Ireland?

The bell has rung, but attendance is sparse on this last day before our March Break. The students who have made it to class on time occupy two ends of a spectrum: they either have their head down on the desk and appear to be asleep or they have a serious case of the sillies and are taking up a lot of space. This is more or less normal: First Period is Reading class, and not all of the students are entirely enthusiastic about starting their school day learning how to read - whether or not the next week is a holiday.

Today was a really long day. In Reading Class no one read. Wonderfully thoughtful Socratic Seminar about Omelas. Skipped lunch to zhuzh up plans. Didn't matter: students needed kindness reminders. Friday night: book club with friends ** March Break has officially started & I swear I will write more and better again starting tomorrow.

Earth Date, March 2026Context: Ramadan, Lent, war in Iran, the week before March Break Monday, Break -5: Finally succumbing to whatever bug has been decimating attendance, I stay home sick; some students do some of the work I've left for them. Tuesday, B -4: Student walk out (to protest provincial changes to education) starts at lunch and continues into the afternoon; workers in the neighbourhood accidentally cut the power lines; things goes dark; school is dismissed early. Wednesday, B -3: Major ice storm predicted; buses cancelled; teachers must attend school but students do not; I have a total of two students attend class; in the end, the freezing rain mostly misses us.

By the time you read this, I will already know my fate. I might be at home, curled up in a blanket, marking essays or reading a book. I might be driving on an icy road, heading to a school likely to be all but empty - buses cancelled; schools open. And, though this is very unlikely, I might be preparing to teach a full class of students. Weather forecast: up to 20mm of ice accumulation (25 mm = 1 in) from freezing rain. Warning level: orange (No one really seems to know what an orange warning is - but it’s more dire than yellow and less dire than red, so that’s something.)

The lights went out. The image projected on the board went black. Then I heard screams. Chaos ensued. Up and down the hallway, teachers threw open classroom doors to see what was happening. Student faces peeked out behind them. Soon, we learned that the power crew working down the street had accidentally cut the power lines in the neighbourhood. Luckily, my classroom has windows and, even better, I had just handed out new worksheets, so we were golden. Golden, that is, if you ignored the intermittent screaming from across the hall, often followed by hilarious laughter.

Walking the Dog in Springtime(after Frank O’Hara’s poem “Having a Coke with You”) is even more ridiculous than walking home from daycare with a toddleror scouring the pavement for that one glove, lost in the last week of winterpartly because he has to smell every inch of newly-exposed mudpartly because of my desire to breathe in the rain-washed air, partly because of his desire to breathe in everythingpartly because of his enthusiasm for the disgusting remnants the melting snow has revealed on the edge of the sidewalks…

A conversation with myself Are you sick?Maybe. Well, I mean, yes, obviously - otherwise I wouldn’t be asking. How sick?Achy and headachy, but not sniffling and sneezing. So probably not contagious?Probably not If you go in, what's the likelihood that you'll lose your cool before the end of the school day?If I still feel like this: high How old are your emergency lesson plans?Very very old Not useful, then?Not even a little Will making sub plans be better or worse than going in?Hmm… 50/50…

Understanding by Design Template 2.0 Stage 1 Desired Results ESTABLISHED GOALS Mark the essays UNDERSTANDINGS Students will understand that…the teacher read their work ESSENTIAL QUESTIONS Why? Why why why? Stage 2 - Evidence Evaluative Criteria Assessment Evidence The essays have a final mark OTHER EVIDENCE: Ideally with thoughtful comments All of them Stage 3 – Learning Plan Summary of Key Learning Events and Instruction End goal* - Finish the marking *those who finish early will be allowed to comment on other blog posts as a rewardStart marking

After I broke my wrist in December, I took a few weeks off from walking the dog. In fact, I took a few weeks off from walking at all; I had no desire to find out what might happen if I slipped on another patch of ice. Can one break a currently-broken wrist? What if I slipped and broke my left wrist? What does one do with two broken wrists? I decided that I didn’t want to know the answers to these questions so, since Ottawa is definitely icy in the winter, I stayed home and “let” my partner and the kids walk the dog.

When I was in high school, friends of mine kept track of how many times our Chemistry teacher said a particular phrase. I think it was “um,” but surely that is too banal. Surely we had better things to do in Chemistry than tally the number of times our poor teacher hesitated every class period, day after day, right? Of course, we also kept track of at least one teacher’s outfits: ah, there’s Tuesday’s skirt! Right on cue, Thursday’s dress! And my sister’s class once united to torture a student teacher by tearing out their notes, day after day, then pretending she had not given the previous day’s lecture. 

During my prep period I head to the front office to ask a question. In the lobby, the Principal is talking to two of our regular “hall walkers” - students who spend most of their time in the halls rather than in class. I maintain my pace but watch, intrigued, as he moves them inexorably towards the office even as they argue with him. At one point he says, “1,150 students are in class. Why aren’t you?” I’m impressed by this statement, but the students remain defiant as I pass. 

Lately, I’ve been feeling my age as a teacher. Look, I don't think I'm old, exactly, but I’m definitely much nearer the end of my teaching career than the beginning. I’m literally the same age as the mother of one of my colleagues. I try not to think about it, but it’s still out there. I’ve given up on some things - I no longer even bother pretending to keep up with celebrities and slang. I pick up a bit here & there, toss it into the occasional class discussion and pray I’m only a bit out of date.

Might as well get these out of the way on Day 1. I’m not ready for this month. I haven’t prepared topics or set aside time. I’m still in the middle of the book I meant to finish before March, and it’s due at the library, so I need to prioritize that. I didn’t manage to finish marking all those essays I swore I’d finish before the March challenge started, and now I might never find the time… or at least not until April. The students will suffer. I’ll never have time to comment on as many other posts as I want to.

Tuesday morning. 8:10am.  The phone rings one traffic light before the entrance to the highway. The computerized voice in the car announces that my spouse is calling. I feel my stomach drop: this is likely not good. “I hope nothing’s wrong,” I say to my carpool buddy as I press the button on the steering wheel and answer. “Hi Honey,” his voice sounds a bit tense. I catch my breath. “Things are a bit akimbo here and we’re hoping you can help us. Mr. 17 is trying to find his clean clothes.

As an immigrant to Canada, I may never get over the way schools here handle snow days. In South Carolina, we sometimes had “weather days” because somebody somewhere had uttered the word “snow”; everyone freaked out, panic-bought milk at the grocery store, and school was cancelled. In upstate New York, where my sisters went to high school, school was occasionally cancelled because it was too cold out for kids to be waiting for buses. In Ottawa, if there’s a LOT of snow and we’re really lucky, they might cancel school buses, but schools are pretty much always open.

We’re nearly done reviewing yesterday’s words when a voice floats up from the back corner of the classroom. “Why are we learning these words? Who even says ‘persevere’?” I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I face the class. “Persevere? Of all the words, persevere is the one that bugs you?” Giggles. Yes. It’s the second day of second semester. Most students have all new classes, but Reading class has only sort of changed. Sure, some students from Semester 1 have “graduated”; they are now reading at least a grade 8 level, so we’ve sent them off into the wilds of their regular classrooms.

We are rapidly approaching the end of January. Here in Ontario that means plunging temperatures, rising snow banks and the end of first semester courses in high schools. That, in turn, means that stress levels in schools are ratcheting upwards. Students race to finish assignments and juggle projects from various classes; teachers push to gather evidence of student learning and struggle to mark myriad late assignments before exams. And everyone worries about report cards. As a Department Head (officially known as a “Position of Added Responsibility” - a phrase designed to make it very clear that I am in charge of precisely nothing), I experience the end of January as a long series of “what if” questions that usually end in either frustration or confusion.

“Miss!” my student wailed, “my story is showing up as AI on all the checkers, but it’s not AI. I swear I wrote it!” Forgive me if I immediately doubted her. The story was due that day and, from what I could tell, she’d spent at least as much time in class playing on her phone under her desk as she had actually writing. I also knew that she was very grades-driven, often sharing her results with friends as they measured their success and, I think, some of their self-worth by the numbers on their assignments.

In the late 1770s or, more likely, the early 1780s, young Abraham Colles is said to have found an anatomic textbook floating in the river Nore in Kilkenny, Ireland. Apparently the river had flooded, and the local physician’s textbook had been carried away only to arrive, fortuitously, in Abraham's hands. Abraham tried to return the book, but Dr. Butler gifted it to him, and thus was born a great physician. In 1790 Abraham and his brother William enrolled in Trinity College in Dublin.  At the same time Abraham became an apprentice at  Dr Steevens’ Hospital.

Max found a Labubu - and ate it Our dog Max is a rescue. What he was rescued from, we don’t exactly know, but we do know that he came to Canada from Lebanon, we assume in a large dog crate. This explains many things. First, Max is an anxious dog. Second, he does not love crates. According to our dog trainer, his anxiety presents as aggression - so, she assures us, he’s not really an #$@hole; he just acts out because he’s nervous and doesn't know what's expected of him.

9:30 sharp (as per the email)- PD Day beginsTeachers wander into the library and mill about, slowly noticing that we have assigned seats. Some people try to switch groups. One entire table switches locations because they have been placed so far to the front and side that they cannot see the screen.  9:33:30 - Principal addressToday’s PD will be extremely useful 9:35:12 - First speaker. Topic: substance abuseY’all, it is happening: kids are still abusing substances. You know it, I know it, they know it. Sure, the overall stats are pretty good and, yeah, we *could* invest in vape detectors for the bathrooms, but that costs money, so instead someone will tell you about marijuana and cannabis as though it is still the 80s.

“We all have stories to tell,” I say to my Creative Writing class. “We tell stories all the time. We swim in them.” I draw their attention to the Thomas King quote I’ve put in our Google Classroom: “The truth about stories is that that’s all we are.” Students bob their heads up and down. They are nodding, but they are also wary. After all, we’re starting our “Narrative” unit, and they know they will soon be writing “a story” that they will have to share with others. This is terrifying.

I’ve already handed out the papers - forty words neatly divided into two columns with checkboxes next to each word; forty words we read aloud earlier this week as a group; forty words that should be easily accessible to high school students, although I am well aware that they will not be easy for the students in this room - and the students are calmly looking them over. Calmly, that is, until I say, “So, today’s challenge is to read these words out loud in your small groups.” As the words “out loud” leave my mouth, a hand shoots up.

As I approach my classroom, I glance down at the crack between the door and the floor. “Wait - is it dark?” It’s Monday of the third week of school. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, and yet I can’t help it. I call out to my colleague, who trails behind me, somewhat less obsessed. “I think it’s dark!” As I get closer, reality sets in, “Nope. It's still light.” My shoulders slump and my pace slows. The lights are still on - exactly as they have been 24 hours a day since some time during the week before school started.

What happened was a thunderstorm with a massive burst of lightning and a thunderclap so loud that I jumped out of bed even before I understood that the dog was barking. What happened was that the dog went crazy, running and barking and shaking, after the thunderclap that shook our house and shook me out of bed, so now I was wide awake and went downstairs to the kitchen, where I talked to my visiting in-laws about the much-needed rain that was pouring pouring pouring down. What happened was that the rain started coming down so hard after that giant clap of thunder that it took us a second to register the blaring of the fire alarm.

It’s been twenty years since I taught American Lit to 11th graders in a high school in Washington, DC. Once I’d taught the course a few times, I used to start the class with the same qu…

I’m losing them and there’s no time to think this all the way through. The class is smallish today because it’s Eid al-Fitr. Split-second decision: I go for it. “Let’s play a game!” I clap my hands together. Faces look up. At least one cell phone gets pushed into a desk. “A good game?” someone asks. I shake my head. “Always a teacher game.” They’ve heard me say this so many times, I half expect them to chime in, but they don’t.

In 12 days, he will be done with high school. Today, however, he is sitting in my classroom during his "spare" period, trying to catch up on what he’s missed. He has his earbuds in, his phone out. He’s using one of my Sharpies to write a thesis on a scrap piece of paper. He will not catch up. I’ve known him since his first day of grade 9, and I’ve taught him English three times. Usually, when I say that out loud, I put air quotes around “taught”. When he was in grade 9, I hid the Sharpies and push pins from him so that he wouldn’t casually harass his peers.