"Teaching in Kaltag"

That was the headline of the sub notes that were left for me. There were generalizations for strategies that would work for the kids here in the village. There were lesson plans to let me know how much material had been covered, and which resources to use. I also had a specific log of student behaviors for the first two months of the year. I didn't receive these notes until the end of the day on Friday, and I'm glad I didn't get them until after I'd had a couple of days with my new class. A sage piece of advice I once received at the beginning of my teaching career was not to form my opinion of my students based on an accumulation of others' experiences with them. And for the years that I taught in the classroom, I wouldn't look too closely at their records until after the first week was done. I know I would rather other people judge me accordingly based solely on my words and actions alone, rather than others' perceptions or misperceptions of me. I don't see why my students would be any different.

That first morning, which was literally the very next morning after we had arrived, Philip and I walked in the dark, through the snow, to work. We laughed as we reflected on how many times we'd said before that it would be great if we could find a way to work together. My nerves were high since I had no idea what to expect. We had very little to go on as far as what the day's schedule was, what exactly we were supposed to teach, or what the school procedures were. We had only seen our classrooms once, and now we had about an hour to figure out what we were going to do for the day before students were sitting expectantly in front of us.

Walking into our respective rooms, it became apparent how common the revolving door of teacher turnover has been at this school. There were shelves and cabinets stock full of all sorts of things, ranging from old and outdated curriculum to brand new, never-been-opened STEM materials. There was no order, no logic to the arrangement of things in the room, and it was clear that as people have come and gone, they have left their contribution for someone else to figure out. The district we are in has plenty of money to spend on educational resources. But without constant stewards out here to make good use of it, it's accumulated into a mountain of chaos.

Looking at the daily schedule that had been left on the board, I began to piece together our day. I will skip the play-by-play a bit and just say that throughout the day, Philip and I got the fly-by, "oh by the ways" of when certain things were supposed to happen. I probably adjusted that daily schedule five or six times before I finally gave up. But generally speaking, the kids arrived at 8:30 to eat breakfast, and then we did a morning meeting on the gym floor with all the students at 9:00. Once the meeting was done, we broke to go to our classrooms. So that first day, with a final good luck wish to Philip, I headed to my room.

Folks, I've had several first days of school, each with their own surprises. But when you have a couple of kids come into your room, with a chest full of ice water and a live river fish, (freshly caught), and they tell you that we now have our class pet, you know you're in for something different. And sure enough, they plopped that poor fish into an aquarium that was sitting vacant on the counter, full of water that they promised me they had "treated" the week before. Of course, there was nothing about a plan for a class pet fish in any sort of notes that I had seen up to this point, so of course I rolled with it. I decided to use it as a jumping point for a science lesson, in discussing the type of fish it was, and what might be required to care for it in our classroom. That constituted my introduction to the class.

I'm going to move ahead, but I promise you, the fish comes back into my story later on.

Most of the morning was spent letting the kids get to know me and ask me any questions they had about me or our family. Unlike any preface I had been given about the nature of their personalities, they were not shy. And for quite some time, we had a good rhythm of sharing stories, and learning simultaneously about our different home locations. Philip and I both knew that coming in as new teachers, we were going to be tried and tested by our students. Any new teacher-student dynamic has that. It's human nature, to test the boundaries of a relationship, in an attempt to establish trust. But what really hit hard was when my students and I began writing a class contract. We started with my job. I asked them what they needed from me, as their teacher, and what they expected for their learning experience in our class. And without batting an eye, or pausing for thought, the first response blurted out was, "To stay. Everyone always leaves us." I had to keep going, continuing the conversation, and eventually turning it to what I needed from them in order to do my job. But man, that response hung with me throughout the day. It's already become my internal mantra that I recite to myself when they really try me.

Lunch at our school is pretty casual. We take our 10 second walk to the gym, and the kids get their food from our cook. Then they all sit together at the one table, and quietly eat their lunch and converse with each other. It's very different from the endless monitoring and micromanaging of cafeteria behavior in your larger districts. Then, with their remaining time, they may play a bit in the gym before heading back to the classroom. So far, the first day was going alright.

However, as soon as we got back to the room, and began trying to dive in to some academic content, that's when the first resistance reared its ugly head. Obviously, I can't go into detail, but I will say this; there is a lot of pain and anger in my class. Every single student I have has at least one parent who has died. Several of them are orphaned. Additionally, about a month before we arrived in Kaltag, there was a fatal trauma that really rocked the village, and directly impacted a few of my students. So their responses are intense. Knowing this intellectually and experiencing it in reality never quite line up. And the part of me that has a tendency to worry about compliance and other's expectations immediately flared up. How in the world am I going to get these kids where they need to be academically? How am I going to have time to figure out how to navigate all the curricular checkboxes and bureaucratic expectations if there is almost no emotional regulation in this room? Most notable is the prevalence of despondency among the kids. There seems to be no hope that life will ever be any different, and in their minds, since I'll probably leave them just like every other teacher has, what point is there in investing any academic energy or doing anything I ask them to do?

If this is getting too heavy, let me lighten the mood a little by getting back to the fish. On Wednesdays, our class joins a virtual lesson on Alaskan language and culture in the afternoon (I learned about this about 10 minutes before our slotted time.) Fortunately, one of my students took the lead and set up the Promethean board to get us tuned in. Once we were connected, and we began to see some of the other village classrooms, my students remembered our fish. One of them excitedly ran over, grabbed the fish out of the tank, and ran over to the screen to show the other students their new class pet. That was when the fish flopped out of his hands, landed on the floor, and continued to flop across the carpet. He was caught only to be dropped again, as the rest of the class was laughing and squealing over the runaway fish. By the time the fish was finally recovered, and returned to the tank, it was apparent that he may not have survived his numerous falls. This moved another one of my students into action, and in a frenzied moment of compassion, he began CPR on this fish. I'm talking both hands down in the tank, manually squeezing the heck out of this dead fish, trying to revive him. My attempt to explain how CPR and the anatomy of a fish are not compatible was completely ignored. The whole class was invested in his heroic attempt. All I could do was watch and learn about this unique combination of personalities that I am now a part of. And what I learned was this:

Kids are kids no matter where you go.

Sure, there is a spectrum of behavior and experiences, and these kids have experienced trauma that I can't imagine. But if I believe the narrative that these kids are different, that because of their circumstances, I should just aim to survive and forget about thriving, our whole decision to come out here is null and void. It's a narrative I simply cannot accept about anyone, regardless of where they are on the globe, or their background. I know I can't save these kids. That's not my aim, and frankly that idea is rather imperious. All I can do is show them that change is possible and that they are in control of their trajectory. And I can show them what stability and safety looks like. Maybe if that's all I teach them while I have them, then that will be a success.

It didn't help that at the end of the day, we had a district meeting that we had to attend virtually with the principal and the other two teachers on staff. Anyone who is or has been a teacher, knows what I mean when I say how infuriating it is to sit in a meeting where the presenter clearly has all the time in the world to focus on minuscule, fluffy details, while you're barely hanging on by a thread, desperate for every second you can get to figure out the big stuff. The hard stuff. Like, which of the million online programs you mentioned do I actually have to use? Do I have a science curriculum? How do I enter grades? Where do I find any of the things you've mentioned in my newly stuffed email inbox? Why did you choose an online lesson plan book program that doesn't consider the user? How do I actually help my kids?

We left the school that day, mentally exhausted and frustrated at the initially stated expectations that juxtaposed with the clear lack of structure and abundant oversight of some of the basics. In a way, this is a good thing. It's good for my tendency to be too compliant, usually at the expense of my creativity and healthy risk-taking. Philip has had to remind me several times, that at the end of the day, everyone is so relieved that we're here, and so hopeful that we'll stay, that that gives us leverage to teach what we think is best and in the way we feel will connect the most. And sometimes, that means not taking that vibrantly colored spiral bound teacher's manual too seriously. Sometimes it means we're going to remember that Maslow's hierarchy trumps the scope and sequence. It also means it's extremely important to recognize and remember the wins when they happen, no matter how small they are. They won't show up on any appraisals or state board of education checklists, but they're the wins that matter the most. A student apologizing to me for his outburst, of his own volition. Students diving in to help me clean up a mess I accidentally created, when they initially told me it was my fault and I should do it myself. Wins.

To end this post, I'll share some highlights from this weekend. Our principal took us around the village for a tour of some of the sights, including a beautiful lookout point and a frozen pond, on which I'm sure our crew will eventually be skating. The school had a bonfire with hot dogs and marshmallows, followed by the tribe hosting a Halloween activity night at their hall, to which we were invited. The kids had a lot of fun, and Philip got the additional experience of retrieving a dry docked boat out of snow and ice. (Sadly, I have no pictures of that, but we learned much!) So far, it's been good to see our kids more engaged with their classmates, and actually venturing out of their comfort zone and finding that they are enjoying themselves. Not a day has gone by since our arrival that we haven't had village kids over at our house.

And tonight, it was great to see a smile on Jadyn's face that I haven't seen in some time.