Reality 101: CEC's blog for new teachers

Kaylie: What To Do When Things Go Wrong

It was before 8 a.m. on Tuesday. My students were signing the daily sign-in sheet, completing the morning work assignment on the board, eating breakfast, looking at library books, and, of course, some were just milling around the room visiting. One of the last buses arrived, and three of my students entered the room. I was at my desk glancing at an IEP needing revision soon when I hear words that sound worse than nails on a chalkboard to me: “I haven’t had my medicine today! I’ll probably be a little rowdy!”

Let me start by saying that I am in no way against behavioral medication and truly believe that it helps a number of kids be successful. I don’t think it should be the first behavioral intervention, however, and find it very upsetting when some of my students believe they are not responsible for their own behavior after missing medication. Needless to say, this is not the first time I’ve had a student give me the old “I can’t help it; I haven’t had my medicine!” spiel. It is true that not taking medications can affect behavior, but I am a firm believer that students must still learn to make good choices.   

Jessica: The Other Side of the IEP Table

I hope I’m not late . . .
I hope I am dressed okay . . .
I hope I don’t say anything stupid . . .

This was me. Going to my first IEP. I was curious, hopeful, nervous.

First, introductions were made. Then, presentation of reports. I was very impressed with how in-depth the speech and language specialist’s and school psychologist’s reports were. I was probably thinking something like. Wow, they did a lot of tests . . . hey, that test has the word Hawaii in it . . . too bad we couldn’t have done the test in Hawaii. . . .

Sounds like I knew what I was doing, huh? In reality, I didn’t even know what “IEP” meant. I didn’t know about procedural safeguards or timelines, either. I only knew that everybody at the table was there to talk about my son.

Richard: Are We There Yet?

Wow. My students, para, and I have made it through the first six weeks of school and now are on vacation (thank you, balanced calendar!). Time to pause and reflect on our work together thus far.

I began the school year with a two-week review of basics for each subject, then plunged into the curriculum. I now realize that wasn’t the best idea. Why not? Because as we get into the finer details of the curriculum, I am finding that either my review didn’t work, or the students never really knew the basics to begin with.

For example, I recently gave a short essay assignment: Write a one-page narrative. The results were disheartening, to say the least. I realized my students have little-to-no working knowledge of basic grammar or writing conventions. I see now that I should have done a pre-/post-test for the review and spent the following week or so doing remediation for those ever-so-important basic skills.

Richard: NCLB Hits Home

The first two things I learned about special education were: 1) to be explicit in instruction and directions and 2) to create a culture of success for my students. I’ve learned those things are much easier said than done.

I started the school year believing my students were no more than two grade levels behind, based on their Criterion-Referenced Competency Test (CRCT) scores, and I created my lessons accordingly. I provided common accommodations such as shorter reading passages, read-aloud tests, advance organizers, and as many graphics as possible.

After weathering many meltdowns and shutdowns, I looked at my para in utter confusion. I could not understand what was setting my students off. I had evaluated the incidents and looked at antecedents, behaviors, and student expectations, and I failed to find a common theme.

Brad: Flying Alaska with Students, and an Anthony Update

Last week, I had the opportunity to travel to Bethel, Alaska, with two other teachers and 11 students. This was our first experience traveling anywhere off Alaska’s road system and for a few of the students, it was their first time on an airplane. We were invited to Bethel by the local high school’s Partners Club, who hosted a Unified Track and Basketball Tournament.

Overall, it was an amazing experience. We practiced preparing and packing for the trip, checking-in at the airport, and navigating security. One of my life-skills students had his first experience with the TSA, which included a professional swab of his nervous and sweaty palm.

I realize not every class gets to leave the classroom often — much less fly somewhere 400 miles away — so I’d like to share how we found the support and fundraised the money to do it. In two words: espresso and community.

Brad: “I Am Going to Drive You All Crazy”



It happens every year. Right about this time, I begin to hear about the new ninth graders our school will have next fall. Exasperated sighs are quickly followed by rumors and innuendo like “they’ll be adding 15 students to each of our caseloads” and “this one student drove two of the middle-school teachers into early retirement.”

No doubt, even in my short tenure teaching, I’ve seen some hardscrabble ninth graders, many with shaky academics and poor social skills. While I’ve nearly lost my faith a few times, I’m happy to say that I’ve always been willing to search for a seed of optimism.

For example: Last Wednesday, I lost it after a ninth-grade student in my classroom spent 90 minutes waving his hand in the air and making coughing noises to disrupt the class. I told him to go to the hallway, mostly just to give myself a moment to think of what to do next. Within 30 seconds, he rapped at the door, laughing and pointing his finger in the shape of a gun through the window. I fell back on the familiar, the only response I’d been able to quietly model and then teach others. I ignored him.

But as Anthony kicked the door with his sneakers, I admitted to myself that my method wasn’t working — what he was asking for was more attention, not less.

Megan: My Special Education Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who dreamed of being a teacher. . . .

This week I covered a unit on fairy tales. As my students brainstormed all the fairy tales they had ever read, I realized that sometimes my role is to be my classroom’s fairy godmother: perky, cheerful, bestowing little nuggets of knowledge into my students’ receptive (if not always eager) minds.

My room feels even more like a living fairy tale when one of my little friends refuses to answer a question unless we add “Princess” to her name — and I can’t even make up the fact that sometimes she wears a tiara to school (I might, too, if I could get away with it). And I conjure Cinderella as I frantically try to fit little gym shoes on little impatient feet before PE; one boy thought it was hilarious that I called him “Cinderfella.”

Some days I am so beloved that one student actually exclaimed, “Miss M, I love you more than chocolate cake!” That’s a serious compliment from a second grader. And other days . . . well, apparently I am meaner and nastier than any evil stepmother, warts and all.

My class has been settling into new routines, with new successes every day. I love the magic of the moment when a student does something new that I’ve taught them. I was so proud when my littlest guy, who only got one word right on that first spelling test in August, got all ten grade-level spelling words right on last week’s test. He was so proud to see this represented on his self-monitoring graph. When another student who typically cries before any daunting task said, “I love reading tests! I know I can do this!” I wanted to cry, too. If my student with selective mutism would only talk to me, I’d call it a day.

Sheena: One Stroke at a Time

Happy new year! Students and teachers alike returned to school this week feeling relaxed and refreshed.

In one of my classes, we asked students to write about a new goal for their language arts course. The seventh graders’ resolutions included: Change my attitude. Do my homework. Finish my classwork. Pay attention. It was an uplifting way to start the week, having our kids share their commitments to change.

Speaking of which, I kept my resolution to join a swim team. I made it to the first practice of Masters Club this week and was so nervous about being out of shape compared to other swimmers. My mind was plagued with images of gripping the wall in fatigue after each drill and being passed repeatedly by swim-mates sharing my lane. But as it turned out, the coach was a gentle, jovial soul who paired me with another swimmer who, like myself, was returning to swimming after a seven-year hiatus. We immediately bonded and shared some time in the hot tub after our 90-minute practice.

Each lap was just a lap. The coach advised us to take it easy and work on our form. He told me I needed to bend my arm with each stroke in freestyle, and I tried to focus on that skill with each lap. Being a teacher, I immediately compared my physical actions—focusing on each movement to complete a full stroke—to student learning. Teachers, like coaches, support students by providing them with skills that they can practice until it become part of their metacognitive process. My getting back into shape is similar to a student’s becoming proficient in a standard. Each stroke is supported by a skill that must be actively developed, practiced, and eventually owned.

Brad: Social-Emotional Temperature

One recent morning, I’m standing next to my desk, flipping through piles of permissions slips and saying hello to students coming through the door. Some have walked to school in the dark. Others have just gotten off the bus. Some have climbed out of cabs or mom’s van, or have been dropped off by foster parents or other caregivers. They amble into my classroom, half-sleeping. Most say hello, drop their binders onto the table, and march out to the commons to get a breakfast that isn’t available at home.

One student sits in the chair next to my desk and rubs his eyes. He knows I’ll ask about his weekend, as I always do. It’ll be hard for him to answer—and I can see the mental gymnastics as he replies to my questions, the same ones I always ask: What did you do this weekend? How’s your dad? Are you awake?

I have a plan for the day, but I’m also willing to change it based on a student preferences or ability levels. What I don’t yet know is that the most important lesson I’ll teach today isn’t actually in the lesson plans at all.

Megan: My Response to Intervention

I love response to intervention (RtI). I do. I think anything that helps students achieve success is a good thing. I love the idea of teachers working collaboratively to better serve the needs of all students, not just the ones officially in special education.

In theory, RtI is fabulous. As I pursue a certificate in Curriculum Adaptation as part of my master’s program, I am constantly learning new, fabulous ways to keep students in the general education classroom. I am excited to talk to other teachers and share ideas; I am a big adaptation nerd.

But my response to intervention is one of confusion. I’m someone who likes clear outlines. I’ve decided I want a rubric for RtI. I want to know exactly what a great RtI team looks like and what interventions are the most successful. I want to know when I’m supposed to step in and when I’m crossing the line.

I am new to special education; I am still learning the ropes of being a teacher in a self-contained classroom. Just as I’m getting the hang of my district’s curriculum and what’s expected of me, I feel like my job is changing because of RtI.

Kathy: My Work with Emotional Disabilities – Then and Now

When I was in college, a hundred years ago, my plan was to get a regular elementary teaching degree and endorsements in what was referred to back then as M.I. (mentally impaired) and E.I. (emotionally impaired).

Everything went swimmingly until it came time for E.I. student teaching. I was assigned to a middle-school class of seven boys with emotional disabilities. Every day was a struggle. I would go home exhausted and in tears. Emotional problems seemed so complex and depressing to me.

About three weeks into the semester, I reached the breaking point when one of the boys went home and committed suicide. I quit and never completed my student teaching for the E.I. endorsement. I decided there was a special place in heaven for those wonderful folks who worked with students with emotional impairments—and I just wasn’t one of them.

Katie: My IEP Pet Peeves

I…E...P…dundundun! These are three often intimidating letters for students, parents, and (new) teachers. IEPs are supposed to help our students make individual gains. However, I am starting to find that many schools’ faculty are creating and implementing these individualized tools for an assortment of inappropriate reasons.

Through my coursework (which included a class called IFSP/IEP Development for Young Children) I have learned that IEPs are to follow some general rules:

• Goals should be developed for Tier III needs (those that require specific systematic intervention).
• Skills that are newly introduced in the general curriculum or skills that same-age peers may struggle with due to age appropriate difficulties should not be targeted unless specific adaptations and modifications will be used in intervention. 
• Goals should follow a logical sequence according to the hierarchical manner in which they are to be learned.
• Goals should aim to assist students in their academic, social, and functional skills as appropriately needed.
• Parents should be involved with development and decision making and must be able to understand what is on the IEP.
• Goals should be INDIVIDUALIZED.

Ellen: A Bittersweet Goodbye

I recently shared about a student in my classroom who displays serious aggression toward me. I had offered many suggestions for appropriate supports to make our setting work for this student. After months of feeling unheard, staffing shortages suddenly spurred a response. I think there was also pressure from some administrators at the county level who became aware of the situation inadvertently from another teacher at my school.
 
A whirlwind Functional Behavior Assessment and Behavior Intervention Plan process followed and, less than a month later, the IEP team has determined that he will be transitioned to a more restrictive setting immediately after Thanksgiving break.

The change in setting is right for him. He will be in a behavior support program with a lower ratio, access to a full-time behavior specialist, and a more structured daily schedule. I met the staff, spoke at length with the behavior specialist, and think this is the right outcome for this student.

Jennifer: Teachable Moments

I once had a second-grade student who would get in trouble for being on his “cell phone” constantly in class. He talked to everyone he knew—sometimes nicely, sometimes yelling and disrupting the lesson.

This problem would have been easy to solve if we could just take the cell phone away. But in this case, the cell phone was not a phone at all, but my student’s little clenched fist held up to his ear, and the people on the other line were nothing more than his vivid imagination and memory of past conversations.

His constant conversations were becoming a problem. No matter how many tokens he lost, he still wanted to talk on his “phone.” He didn’t care if he had to work during choice time, because again, he had his phone with him. I didn’t know what to do about his behavior. Five minutes after I would ask him to “hang up,” he’d go and dial another number and be on the phone again. I felt like I was losing my mind!

Ellen: Hands to Self!

I have a student who is aggressive toward me on a daily basis. When denied access to sensory  self-stimulating behavior that involves touching (but not intentionally hurting) other students, he hits, bites, scratches, and pinches me. I am able to keep the other students safe—they are not in danger—but managing his aggression toward me requires constant vigilance.

We’ve started the formal Functional Behavior Assessment (FBA) process, which should yield us a formal Behavior Intervention Plan in a few weeks. I’ve been keeping anecdotal data since April, but outside support and consultation for this student’s behavior have been slow and limited. I think the FBA process will get some other very valuable sets of eyes on the problem and I am very hopeful that we can try some interventions that will prevent him from having to go into a more restrictive setting.

Home Base

By Brenda Myles

Some students with special needs may become overwhelmed by the typical events of the classroom and need to place to recoup or self-calm. For these students, a home base may be a helpful modification. A home base is a place in the school where the student can go to (a) plan or review the day’s events; (b) escape the stress of the classroom; (c) prevent a meltdown; or (d) regain control if a tantrum, rage, or meltdown has occurred. The location is not important -- the counselor’s office, speech/language pathologist’s room, or resource room can all serve as a home base. Regardless of its location, it is essential that the home base be viewed as a positive environment. Home base is not timeout! Also, it is not an escape from classroom tasks. The student takes her class work with her to home base.