Grading In The Schools

Our hall monitor and I are talking about school. Kids are done with classes, so we are here on our own, grading, putting things in order, the usual. I've confided that this is my time to look busy. I'm not busy at all, but I need to look busy because most everyone else is terribly busy and will ask me to do some of their work. I'm not into that. 

Maybe this makes me seem like a bad colleague. 

Teaching is a good job, but grading sucks. I don't know anyone who enjoys grading or all the time it involves. One guy said he enjoyed reading student writing, and maybe he did, but I only enjoy reading as they're writing and working through the process. Once the piece is done, grading is mostly a bother. I write comments but they don't teach. They are to justify the grade which is usually lower than the kid wanted. 

Grading is something I work to avoid. I've found ways around most grading and, no surprise, seen no ill effects on learning. When I do have to grade stuff such as the final exam, I suck it up and grade the damn thing. 

But that doesn't mean it has to take much time. 

A teacher here is lamenting the time it will take him to grade the finals. "I'll be at it all week." I nodded and shrugged hoping he wouldn't ask what he then asked. "They take forever, don't they?" I nodded and shrugged some more. I hate to lie, but if I tell him I've finished grading, he won't believe me but word might get out that I'm done, and I can't have that. 

I am ordered to give a final and grade it. I don't want to run afoul of my admins (I prefer they forget I exist). I want to do my job well. I'm not looking for shortcuts around the directive. I actually like giving final exams. It's four days during which kids have incentive to work hard and be quiet. This year, to make things more peaceful and like real testing, I barred phones and headphones during the test. It went great. 

The other teacher imagines I have a huge stack of finals to grade, but I don't. 

Kids finished the final in dribs and drabs. As they finished the final, I graded it. The multiple choice is cake. Takes a minute. The essay has a strict rubric (from the state exams), and I've graded enough of them that I can do one in three minutes. Then there's a piece of free-writing graded largely on how much they wrote and how well they thought. That takes two minutes but only because I like reading them. Each final takes no more than six minutes to grade and I finished them as they came in. 

Don't tell, but all my finals are graded and recorded. 

Years ago I watched a teacher calculating grades from a paper gradebook with calculator. She was frustrated. It was taking forever. I asked, why not use a spreadsheet? She said she didn't want to take the time to learn how. I nodded and shrugged, bowing out of the room. She looked flustered and rushed. She had a lot of work to do. I went back to my room and probably read a book after closing my door. 

This year, my spreadsheet has calculated the grades. I haven't entered them into the school's system yet. Better to do that closer to the due date. Until then, I've got my computer out to do this writing. Around the computer I have paper printouts of grades, a thick folder full of final exams, and a binder full of plans for next year. In a tab I have my spreadsheet and I click into it whenever anyone comes in to talk with me. I look busy as hell, so they don't stay long. And I am busy. I'm writing this. So don't bother me.

Just Do Something

My mother gave Stephanie a plant for Mother's Day. A hibiscus with lovely yellow blossoms. It came in the usual plastic pot and needed to be planted along the fence, an operation requiring a spade, some soil, water, and a few minutes of my time.

It languished on our patio in the plastic pot almost a month. The wind kept knocking it over so by today only half the soil remained and the plant looked sad, a little desperate. I may be anthropomorphizing here, but go with it. 

I hadn't planted the thing because, though logic clearly showed it would be the easiest of tasks, it always seemed like something I didn't want to do right then. I would get to it later. 

Later and later it turns out. 

Tonight, I came to sit on the patio and the plant was tipped over again. More soil had spilled out. Its lone blossom looked like Sally Struthers begging me to help feed needy children. Alright, I told it. I'll plant you. 

It took twelve minutes from decision to putting the tools away. 

Last week I had trouble writing anything worth posting. I had ideas but no faith in them or myself and left each one unfinished. 

Nike says, just do it, but Nike cripples thousands and thousands of runners and bilks people for the right to wear the swoosh, so screw them. 

I just need to do something. Almost anything. Though you already knew this, I had forgotten it. Write something. Plant something in the ground or type it on the screen and see what grows. Just do something.

The Farthest Star in the Night Sky

for Ann Moore

My friend and I walk through the night. Winter is coming back. The night sky is clear, no clouds. The night will grow colder. We sip coffee. She knows the stars. I’ve been stuck on the Pleiades. That name. A constellation I knew as a boy. A picture on a page. A story. Seven divine sisters. The Pleiades, I say, to hear the sound and give it life. She points. There, she says. I count aloud one, two, three, four, five and six. The seventh is beyond our ability to see unaided. We walk under Orion. Taurus The Bull steaming at the snout. I ask, how far away is the seventh Pleiade. She says a number beyond my imagination. The night becomes colder. I was once told that each star is someone in heaven. A pinprick in God’s dome. She asks if I’m looking for my father. No, I say. He’s farther than the seventh Pleiade. The farthest star in the cold night’s sky. We hurry. The coffee is always getting cold.  
 

It Keeps You Running

I'm in no hurry to exercise. Sounds like the words of a fat man eating Doritos, watching golf on the television, but I mean it otherwise. I'm reading headlines about how to exercise in just eight minutes a day. I see things touting the benefits of high intensity workouts done in no time. There's this hurry to get exercise over and done. I understand. Many people feel rushed, overburdened, and that there aren't enough hours in the day. I feel otherwise. 

It wasn't always so. Years ago my job was an hour's commute each way. The drive and job sucked  the life out of me. By the time I got home, I wouldn't drag my fat ass to any kind of workout. My wife, who thinks about me as much as I do but more effectively, got me a Y membership and I began going there at 5:30 each morning before work. I could work out for a solid hour, shower, and still arrive at the job early. 

That hour felt good. Not just the workout, but the luxury of an hour to myself. It damn sure felt better than the job or commute. It was easy to get out of bed in the dark and go to the gym. I wanted that hour. 

I'm no longer at that job and my commute is short. The Y costs $1,000 a year and I don't feel like paying. Instead, I run and, as I said at the outset, I'm in no hurry. 

The other day I came home tired but thinking, I should go for a run. It wasn't the obligation of getting in shape or keeping some streak. I said "should" because I was feeling lousy and few things are as relaxing and rejuvenating as running by myself. I set off into the hot sun, in no hurry at all. 

I'm running according to Phil Maffetone's heart rate plan. I stay between 121 and 131 beats per minute. In the hot sun after a full day of work, I hit 121 within three blocks and, if I'm not careful I go up over 131 even on the smallest of hills. I have to run pretty damn slow. The goal is to burn fat instead of sugar because sugar has to be replaced all the time, but there's enough fat on me to keep going 'til Rapture. 

Along with not hurrying the pace, I'm in no hurry to finish the run. Moving slowly, I feel like I can run forever. Going out for that run, I told my wife I'd be back in an hour or so. She accepts that or so likely means I'll be an hour and a half. I went almost seven miles and would have gone longer except I was holding up dinner. I'm running six, seven, sometimes ten miles not because I'm in such great shape, but because being in nor hurry allows me to enjoy time for myself. 

It's a bit greedy, but I'm a better man when I've had a run. I'm happier, healthier, and more accepting of a slow pace. Think of it this way: what kind of family man am I if I'm always in a hurry? 

I still understand why people rush and think that they have to. I just don't want to hurry right now and have found that I don't have to. Running helps me remember that. My wife's love and support is the foundation of that. And my happiness is the result of that. I don't need high intensity workouts I can finish in eight minutes. I want to feel this happy for much longer.