Tag Archives: Nostalgia

Keys Wallet Cell Phone

When I was 24 I ran an after-school program for elementary kids in the East Bay. My co-director Jen and I would close up every night around seven, the September sun still burning through the smog and the Concord heat still clinging to the empty asphalt. Every night around 7:30 I’d return to pick up either my wallet or my cell phone, which I’d forgotten in the drawer of my desk. If it was my keys that I’d left, and Jen had already roared off for home, I would track down the night janitor and beg him to break protocol and open the office door for me. When he wasn’t around or was feeling unhelpful, Jen got a phone call.

For the first month my co-director took mild amusement at my forgetfulness; by October, she’d crafted a plan. “Keys-wallet-cell phone, keys-wallet-cell phone” became her new mantra as we turned off the final lights and prepared to lock the office. I’d pat down my pockets: front right – keys. Back left – wallet. Back right – cell phone. “Check!”

I didn’t forget them again.

These three simple pats have stuck. The days of me forgetting almost everything are over, but I still pat down my pockets every time I walk out of my house, or leave a tutoring session, or head home from the gym. Sometimes I can hear Jen’s voice, friendly but tinged with mocking. Keys. Wallet. Cell phone.

A decent number of my students are forgetful, but only one gives younger me a run for my money. I ask to see his assignment planner, but he’s forgotten it. He couldn’t do his math homework last night because he left his book at school. He’s got reading to do, but….where is that book?

So I crafted a plan. Every day as he leaves school, his mom will ask him this question: Do you have your M-BRAN? It’s going to change his life.

M – math book?
B – binder?
R – reading book?
A – assignment planner?
N – notebooks for reading and writing?

This was a simple system to create. I asked him what materials he needs to do his homework, and then I arranged the letters as best I could. Sometimes he doesn’t have math homework, or need his reading notebook. Doesn’t matter – it stays in the acronym. In the beginning I’ll have him bring home everything, every day. As he gets more self-aware and stops forgetting materials, he can scale back and only bring what he actually needs that night.

This sounds like more work for the kid, right? Nope. When I explained the new system, a look of deep relief spread over his face. We practiced the acronym several times until he knew it by rote. M-BRAN, M-BRAN, M-BRAN.

At the end of our session he happily walked me to the door. He usually does this, but there was extra spring in his step. He now had a system, a way of doing something every time that would create consistently excellent results and didn’t require him to remember anything other than a word. A simple acronym for all that he needs to bring home frees him from the frantic, chaotic searching of his mind and organizes his approach into a clean, methodical checklist. If all checks out, he’s good to go – and he knows it.

He opened the door and held up his hand for our usual high-five.

I slapped it. “M-BRAN!”

He giggled. “M-BRAN.”

I walked out into the cool San Francisco night, but not before checking my pockets. Keys. Wallet. Cell phone.

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The Catching Machine

I’m not all tutor. I’m part big brother, part friend, part cheerleader, part teammate.

One of my students needed to imagine a machine and write about how it would serve a need. The kid’s a great kid – smart, hard-working, courteous, but beyond all that, good. The kind of kid you’d want your kid to be. He’s got great parents, but like most fathers his works a lot. His younger siblings are too young to play ball with, and his mom’s….well, his mom. So Dan invented a catching machine.

It’s big and broad and has eight arms. It catches fastballs, curves, sliders. It’s got legs and brings in long, arcing spirals down the sidelines. I suppose it can dribble and shoot, but it can definitely pass. It doesn’t tire and is available every afternoon after school.

I was raised by a single mom; I had a catching machine too. Mine was the garage door, and in the center of the chipped baby blue paint I had crafted a 2’x2’ square – a tattered, masking tape strike zone. The pitching mound was the edge of the speed bump that slowed our apartment complex traffic. I served as the entire pitching staff. I opened, relieved, and – my specialty – closed high-pressure games with down-to-the-wire, clutch performance. I was Brian Wilson before Brian Wilson was Brian Wilson.

I handled the infield, too. At third I’d backhand one-hoppers down the line and hurl them across the diamond with major league accuracy – to myself, waiting with outstretched legs and a glove that never failed. If a mean grounder threatened to break through with a man on first, somehow I’d glove it, give a sweet underhand toss to second for the force, and wing it to first for the double.

Sometimes Dan and I play catch. We’ll toss a football as I quiz him on whatever it is that needs quizzing. Memorizing poems is aided by catch. Discussing debate topics for humanities is aided by catch. We throw the football across the classroom as we shout out multiplication tables.

“Eight times seven.” A hard, tight spiral to Dan’s right.
He snags it and wings it back. “Fifty-six!”

And this, too, is high-pressure: one errant toss or missed catch and something gets broken. We silently acknowledge this and respect the pressure.

Most days I like my job. I help boys grow into competent, confident, intellectually curious young men. Some days I’m a math tutor, some days a giver of advice. Some days I’m an editor going over the finer points of our English language, and some days I correct poorly drawn Chinese characters. When it’s needed I’ll share my own history of struggles in school, or lend the needed energy and encouragement in the final throes of a brutal assignment. But some days I love my job. Some days I’m a catching machine.

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The Joy of Test Prep

The year I took my SATs the Spice Girls topped the charts, Cuba Gooding, Jr. shouted, “Show me the MONEY!”, and Ted Kaczynski became a household name. That was also the year we upgraded to a 28.8 modem to better navigate the information superhighway. Oh, AOL….

And of course there were the events not destined for our cultural timeline – first love, epic varsity wins, wisps of facial hair (finally!), speeding tickets. There wasn’t much time for SAT prep. Besides, only kids who did poorly had to study. If it wasn’t broken, why fix it?

Our timeline has clicked onward. The Spice Girls are staring at 40, most of Cuba’s work goes straight to DVD, and The Unabomber is serving life without parole. That superhighway has exploded to unthinkable proportions: “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.” And nobody blows off the SAT anymore.

In fact, for many students the SAT is the second high-pressure test they’ll take to gain entrance to a prestigious 4-year school. The first is the SSAT – the Secondary School Admission Test.

The pressure surrounding this test can be intense, and is both unfortunate and unfair for the 8th grade students who have to take it. However, there are some marked benefits to the test prep – especially for middle school boys – that can bring some silver lining to a process that feels both developmentally inappropriate and increasingly insane.

Many boys, and this is particularly true for the more intelligent ones, have not developed methodologies for handling the complex academic tasks that they’re asked to do. They’ve been coasting on talent. They don’t know how to study, how to craft an approach to multi-step assignments, or how to persevere through not understanding a concept and work at it until they do. Test prep nicely handles the first and the third of these issues; not so much for multi-stage assignments, but you can’t get everything.

There are five sections on the SSAT. The writing section is the only one that is not graded, however the essay is sent along with the scores to the school to which your student is applying. Here are the sections, the methods to employ, and how they help improve student performance outside of the test.

Writing Sample – 25 minutes
This is typically one of the most baffling sections for students, and therefore the one with the largest potential for student improvement. Usually students are given a prompt, such as “Imagination is more important than knowledge” or “The apple never falls far from the tree.” They’ve got to interpret the quotation and show whether or not they agree with it. Every now and then they’re asked to explain the most meaningful moment of their lives, or something equally open-ended.

The break-down is this: Introduction should have a hook, an explanation of what the quote means (even if it’s stupidly obvious), and their opinion. Next come the four pillars on which to draw: Arts, History, Self, and Community. Ideally, students should come up with an example for each of these that supports their claim. If four is too much, three will suffice. Arts draws on books, plays, poems, or movies, though that’s the tourniquet option. History is history. Self is about them – personal examples from their own lives that have informed their opinions. Community is more broad. This can be a tight community like soccer, or a larger community like the US (current events would fit into this category, as would family). The conclusion should reference the supporting evidence. The closing sentence is the most important sentence in the essay.

I have my students outline their responses to practice prompts by creating a large square with the four areas, then filling them in. They also write their interpretation, opinion, opening sentence, and closing sentence. Initially I’ll give them 25 minutes to make one. Then we move to 20. Then 15. Then 10. I encourage them to use 10 minutes on the test to create their outline. The takeaway here is that preparation is everything. Great outlines make the writing easy and the process fun. Employing a structure focuses the students and frees them up to work on actual ideas, rather than floundering about for some thread of coherence.

Math – 2 sections (which are different)
Both sections have the same principle – do as little math as possible. This means eliminating answers BEFORE real math is done.

Quantitative Reasoning – 25 problems, 30minutes
This is basically a section of word problems. Some are easy; some are not.

If Sam can do a job in 4 days that Lisa can do in 6 days and Tom can do in 2 days, how long would the job take if Sam, Lisa, and Tom worked together to complete it?
a) 3.2 days
b) 1.09 days
c) .78 days
d 1.98 days

My favorite students are the ones who wonder, “What random, unnamed job is this? Why are they working together? If they are working together, maybe they’re distracting each other and now they’re even slower than if they were working alone. Wouldn’t Tom resent Lisa for taking three times as long? Or would Lisa resent Tom for making her look bad?”

The SSAT is a hard test, but a simple one. (Answer: 1.09 days, or 12/11 of a day. Answers “a” and “d” should be eliminated immediately because if Tom can do it by himself in 2 days, with help he’ll get it done faster.) There is no room for thinking outside the box. I tell my students that in life, those questions are vital; on this test, they’re crippling.

There are too many math techniques involved in this section to explain, however the overarching principles are: draw diagrams, figure out what the question actually is, and eliminate obviously wrong answers. A mantra that I use for both math sections on the SSAT is this: There’s no math in math. The intent here is to get the students in the habit of working most efficiently to answer the question. This is different than solving the problem. Once all wrong answers are eliminated, the remaining option must be the right one. Trust in Sherlock Holmes and move on. The lesson on quantitative reasoning is how to determine the actual question and move towards the answer in the cleanest, most efficient way.

Calculations/Arithmetic – 25 problems, 30 minutes
If your student gets to use a calculator (as an accommodation), this part becomes much easier. For the rest of us, it’s just working out the math. Example:

Which of the following is less than 2/3?
a) 6/9
b) 3/4
c) 5/8
d) 7/10

This section is part intuitive, part math. If they’ve been working on fundamentals (and they should have been), answers “a” and “b” get ruled out immediately. 6/9 is equivalent to 2/3, and noticeably so. 3/4 is higher and again, noticeably so. That leaves 5/8 and 7/10. This is a tricky question because neither of the remaining answers are easily converted with 2/3 (4/9 would be – 2/3 becomes 6/9, and we only had to change one fraction, rather than both). So because there can only be one correct answer, it follows that the lowest one is the correct one. Now the question becomes “which is lower – 5/8 or 7/10?” Getting inside fractions with fundamentals is important, because most of my guys should know right away that 5/8 is lower. (They should know this because 5 is three away from 8, and 7 is three away from 10, and 7 is higher. That concept is easier to see in extremes – which is larger, 1/4 or 997/1000?) Note that we answered this question without converting a single fraction. There’s no math in math.

Here’s the wrong/laborious way to do this problem:

Compare all fractions by converting to common denominators and you get:

a) 6/9 vs. 2/3 becomes 6/9 vs. 6/9
b) 3/4 vs. 2/3 becomes 9/12 vs. 8/12
c) 5/8 vs. 2/3 becomes 15/24 vs. 16/24
d) 7/10 vs. 2/3 becomes 21/30 vs. 20/30

C is the only one that is less than the modified 2/3. The reason this is poor form is that it requires converting 7 fractions into equivalent fractions (6/9 doesn’t need to be converted). For some students, this would have taken 5 minutes, or more.

The take-away with calculations is that so much of the mental math that’s required on the test – and in daily life – can be made easier by logical thinking, obviating the need for complex calculations. Again, there’s no math in math.

Verbal – 60 questions, 30 minutes
This section consists of 30 synonym and 30 analogy questions. The basic strategies are similar: cover the options and write the answer, then match up the written answer with the options given.

Synonyms
These utilize the least technique – they either know the word or they don’t. If they do, they write what it means and check out the given answers for the best fit. If they don’t know the word, they circle it and come back to it. Later, they’ll scan for roots and prefixes, and try to remember if they’ve heard it in context. If they can eliminate at least two wrong answers, they should guess.

Analogies
Dawn is to Dusk as ….
…Begin is to Finish

That one was easy, but they get much harder.

Threat is to Hostility as….
a) plea is to clemency
b) promise is to benevolence
c) lampoon is to raise
d) capitulation is to malice
e) compliment is to admiration

Strategies: cover answers, come up with a “linking” word or phrase that joins the analogy given, and use that in each of the options, eliminating the faulty ones.

Threat is a “way of showing” hostility as
a) plea is a “way of showing” hostility — NO
b) promise is a “way of showing” benevolence — not quite, maybe I’ll keep it in contention
c) lampoon is a “way of showing” raise — doesn’t even make sense
d) capitulation is a “way of showing” malice — nope
e) compliment is a “way of showing” admiration — that works well.

The take-away with this one is that there is often a structure we can put over seemingly unstructured problems. This mirrors school well, because there are so many easy tasks (like easy analogies) that don’t require sound structure, but it really pays off when faced with legitimately tough questions.

Reading Comprehension – 40 questions, 40 minutes
I am not alone in liking this section least. I’ve struggled to find a real-world application for the skills that this section requires, and the best that I can do is that it reinforces the benefits of a structured approach, and that the inference questions require solid reasoning skills. The rest of it I find useless, but since it’s not going away, here are some tips.

Break questions down into 5 types:
M – Main idea
D – Detail
V – Vocabulary in context
I – Inference
T – Tone
and practice labeling questions. On the test (and in practice), questions should be labeled (M, D, V, I, or T) before the passage is read. If a passage looks too hard, skip it entirely and save it for last. The same holds true for certain types of passages that the student identifies as consistently frustrating (poetry comes to mind…..).

Main idea questions often ask what the best title of the piece would be, or what is coming next. I ask my students to title the piece after they read it, which helps them think about the main idea.

Detail questions ask specific questions about some aspect of the text, like “according to the text, which of the following are not amphibians?” A scan of the text should give an answer, and it requires no reasoning.

Vocabulary questions are often the easiest. A word will be used in context, and the question will ask what it means. I have students circle unknown words when they read so that finding the word will be easier.

Inference questions can be tricky. These require students to draw on their own knowledge base to make conclusions. Reasoning is huge for these, and it takes practice. Practicing different ways of eliminating wrong choices is the best way to path to success.

Tone questions relate to the author’s tone, and can sometimes be confused with inference questions. “The author believes…” is an example of a tone question. The key here is looking for adjectives that identify a point of view or bias, like “in her masterful painting…” or “Though Germany was wrong…”

And that’s it, end of test.

Most of my students end up enjoying the prep process, partly because I try to make it fun, but mainly because they can receive direct feedback on how their hard work is paying off. As they start to get good at the methods, their scores rise. They get good at the test, and being good at stuff is fun.

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The Gift of a D

One spring morning in 1991, my mom marched down to my middle school, a recently graded essay of mine in hand. She smoothed out the essay before the teacher, commented on the lack of red marks, and demanded to know why it was given a “B”. It should have earned, in my mother’s expert opinion, no more than a “D”. The teacher was shocked, confused, and then won over. The following week, at my mother’s request, I got my D.

This is not a contemporary problem.

Marin in the early 90s was one of the breeding grounds of helicopter parenting, following on the heels of the soccer mom phenomenon. I’d been given a good grade on a bad paper because the teachers had lowered standards to accommodate the increasing barrage of complaints from parents whose brilliant children were not receiving straight As. This was 20 years ago. It’s now worse.

In her informative and cautioning book A Nation of Wimps, Hara Estroff Marano describes the new generation of helicopter parents. The hovering is done; they now bulldoze. “Lawn mower” or “snow plow” parents attempt to smooth over obstacles for their children on the almighty quest to attain Ivy League acceptance. Marano argues that this smoothing over, rather than aiding, is actually preventing the development of emotionally stable, competent, intrinsically motivated young adults. The elimination of obstacles instead produces fragile, risk-averse adult children incapable of solving real-world problems.

Dr. Leonard Sax makes a related argument in Boys Adrift, attributing some of the modern young man’s apathy to a lack of concrete challenges – and failures – due to overprotective parenting. Lack of failure negatively insulates boys (and girls) from life and its many vicissitudes, but it also robs them of life’s greatest joys. As Aldo Leopold wrote, “Of what avail are 40 freedoms without a blank spot on the map?” Parents who eliminate obstacles also eliminate possibilities. They pave over the crevices of life where inspiration and serendipity dwell, and much is lost in that paving.

When I begin work with a new family, I make it clear that grades are not a top priority. In fact, they’re not even in my top three. My priorities when working with a student are work ethic, organization, and passion for learning. When these three are in place, good grades follow.

I’m ill-suited to give parenting advice, as I’m not a parent. However, I do know that strength is inherent in humankind, and that like anything, it grows with use and atrophies without. We’re a hardy lot; we can handle failure. But more than that, we deserve the very thing that makes this life worth living: surprise.

My middle school life has irretrievably faded into an increasingly jumbled past. The 90s, for better or worse, are gone, replaced by a time of excitement, confusion, and a future unknown. And now, as an adult navigating the real world and its real problems, I’ve never been more thankful for that D. Surprise and all.

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A Wee Mistake

Not too long ago, one of the boys I tutor was kicked out of third grade. He’s a sweet kid, but school administrators felt it would be best if he were at a school that could better accommodate his behavioral needs. It was a strange and difficult process, and one in which I had no control. I was able, however, to console the boy’s mother by telling her that I, too, was kicked out of elementary school. Once upon a time.

My first grade career began at Oxford Elementary, a K-2 school tucked snugly among the Berkeley hills. We had just moved back to the Bay Area from San Diego and were living at my grandmother’s house. Each morning my grandma would walk me to school, three short blocks that held all the mysteries of childhood. Unseen dogs barked from backyards; over-ripe avocados drooped low over a stained sidewalk; my grandma’s hand and the bright, carefree screams of the playground guided my way.

School both bored and fascinated. The boredom was confined to the classroom, where we learned how to draw stars and write the letter “o” properly. The lessons lacked excitement and energy, and I found myself constantly yearning for the freedom and thrill of recess. There are few adult joys that stand against this rapture. It is a frontier, with games, chase, slides, the license to yell. Girls became girlfriends in exchanges like this:
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
“Okay, but just ‘til lunch.”
For us boys, adventure beckoned from everywhere. Behind the large bush we’d swap baseball cards and lunch items, concealing from our teachers what we assumed to be illegal activity. Loosely organized baseball and football games dominated lunch. The overgrown ivy enveloping the far corner of the yard held innumerable secrets and forgotten tennis balls. I was on top of the world.

And then came the pee contest. Word had spread that I could pee farther than any other boy in the first grade, and as customary when such allegations were presented, someone challenged my standing. The contest to decide who would lay claim to this title took place in the boys’ bathroom, at a long, trough-like urinal.

The entire male half of the first grade crowded in. My opponent and I stood at opposite ends of the metal urinal, preparing ourselves, while our classmates pressed in around us. The bigger boys jockeyed for space alongside the trough – the pee contest equivalent of courtside seats. After some rustling, a silence settled over the bathroom.

One of the boys urinal-side started the clapping and it caught on instantly, a loud, rhythmic beat that gave our humble contest a gladiatorial feel. My opponent and I sized each other up. In the gray chasm between us, several urinal cakes lay scattered. Though rules were never discussed, we both knew how victory would be determined: by comparative level of dryness.

The de facto referee screamed “Go!” and the clapping changed to screams and shouts. The throng of boys pressed further in and, fearless and without compunction, we commenced.

I’d like to say that it was close, that this forgotten boy from my childhood had dueled admirably, that he had put up a decent and formidable fight, but I can’t. I destroyed him. By the time our teachers finally discovered and disbanded our bootleg match the damage had been done. The kid was soaked with urine and shame, and I was in big trouble.

I considered it a kind and loving gesture that my mom never brought it up. Life up to that point had been a series of misadventures, and “conversations” regarding my behavior were a frequent part of my existence. It seemed a clever parenting tactic to highlight my bad decision by the absence of discussion, and it worked. We quietly moved to Marin, where I started up at a different school and was careful not to mention my micturatorial abilities to my new classmates. When they asked why I had changed schools, I told a convincing lie.

I completed my academic career without peeing on anybody else or getting kicked out of any more schools. Though I omitted the cause of my leaving, the mother of the boy that I tutor was relieved to know that my expulsion from elementary school hadn’t permanently damaged my academic career or my self-worth. It felt good to be a source of hope and commiseration, especially during a time of such trial, and I was glad that my missteps could be of some value to the family of the boy.

Recently I had my mom over for dinner and was catching her up on my work. By the second glass of wine I got around to my conversation with the distraught mother.

“I told her about how I was kicked out of Oxford, and that really put her at ease. I didn’t mention the pee fight, obviously.”

My mom laughed and picked up her chardonnay.

“Honey, you weren’t kicked out of first grade. We moved because I wanted you to go to school in Marin.” She took a long sip and looked at me quizzically. “But what’s this about a pee fight?”

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