space
I went to high school back in the Dark Ages. It was a long time ago in what must have been a galaxy far, far away. I went to Pleasant High School. If it sounds like it might have been in Hooterville, Smallville or Mayberry, it was what it sounded like. We had a dress code and a hair code (which I completely hated). Nobody ever addressed a teacher -- or any other adult -- with disrespect. When people swore, and that happened in Hooterville, it was certainly never in class or even in the hallways. I know kids drank at my high school and a very few smoked, but I never knew anyone who used drugs. There was no smoke filtering out of the bathrooms. It wasn't a problem back in the Dark Ages.
That was then.
This is now. And, now took place at some unmentioned school that shocked the socks off this Hooterville graduate. I knew going in that it was a school in an economically depressed area. The freshmen class of perhaps 175 students would slowly dissolve to about 40 by the time graduation rolled around. Some of those students would be lost to gangs, drugs, teen pregnancy and even death. There was a killing at school the previous year. In my brief visit for the project, I heard students discuss prostitution in front of their homes. I learned about a couple of parents who sold (hopefully past tense) drugs. And, I even overheard that crack was for old people. I never asked what was for young people, but a certain musky, "herbal" smell in the art supply room filtered up from the girls' bathroom on the floor below.
Still, in all my murals, 54 around the planet, I've never faced apathy. I've never been treated with disrespect. My art has never been criticized. I've never been called a racist. Well, I can no longer say that.
For my first day in school, I created a PowerPoint to share with the class and introduce myself. I never finished sharing it. I tried to brainstorm with the group for ideas for the project. It was one of my most frustrating classroom experiences ever. I felt like I was floundering and I don't flounder, ever. Instead of participation, at least half the class was more interested in personal conversations among themselves and whatever they found on their smartphones. There were no smartphones in the Dark Ages, but I'm quiet sure that they would not have been allowed in class. To their credit, I guess, the teacher said for that class they paid pretty good attention to what I had to share. I never had a clue that that was the situation. And, I didn't want to see their regular class participation.
Instead of painting on the wall, students worked in four groups on panels that would later be mounted. It was an easy way to get around 24 students involved all at the same time. I've worked with enough mural projects to know that each mural panel should have been pretty well painted by the end of four periods. After that, it would be time for touch ups. Well, that didn't happen. It didn't come close. The only thing to nearly get done -- or done in -- was me with my blood pressure.
Something had to change. I could not continue any longer with the way things were going. Somehow, some way, this situation full of lemons needed some lemonade. Instant, frozen or homemade, I didn't care as long as it was sweet. And, thankfully, the inspiration came to save the day . . . and my life.
I told the teacher that I had two options. I was open to any others he might have as well. My Option B was to drop the class and go on to an easier group. It really wasn't the option I wanted, because the teacher specifically stated that this group needed some kind of positive experience to bring them together. Option A was to stay with the class and work with groups individually. I would take one panel for two days and work with those students while the teacher worked with the rest of the class. It would require a whole lot more time, but I thought it might work.
We went with Option A immediately.
It worked better than I could ever have dreamed. Every day I worked with a small group went just fine. Kids who didn't want to participate didn't come to the back table to work with me. I only had students who wanted to paint on the project.
Working with the entire group was truly impossible. I couldn't talk to kids individually and keep the rest on task. I simply couldn't keep the rest on task any way. But, in the small groups, I learned some names. Interest and pride in the project was sparked within some students who had never been inspired by anything else in their art class. I had students volunteer to come in extra who didn't normally do anything like that. Believe me, I did my best to lavish praise and appreciation every chance I could. And, after the praise, I asked the students if they understood why I said it. They knew it was because they were actively participating. I'm certain that that kind of positive attention was needed in the lives of each student, more than I could ever imagine.
I started off telling you about an artist not being very appreciated. Well, I was in that class for about three weeks. On my last day with the kids, both the classroom teacher and I had to agree that the group of students were working better than they had three weeks earlier. Still, it wasn't what I would have wanted, but you must appreciate progress and lemonade when they present themselves. And as for respect, well, I heard over and over from a whole lot of high school students that my work was beasty.
Do you know how hard it is to impress high school students? Savor that lemonade.
I went to high school back in the Dark Ages. It was a long time ago in what must have been a galaxy far, far away. I went to Pleasant High School. If it sounds like it might have been in Hooterville, Smallville or Mayberry, it was what it sounded like. We had a dress code and a hair code (which I completely hated). Nobody ever addressed a teacher -- or any other adult -- with disrespect. When people swore, and that happened in Hooterville, it was certainly never in class or even in the hallways. I know kids drank at my high school and a very few smoked, but I never knew anyone who used drugs. There was no smoke filtering out of the bathrooms. It wasn't a problem back in the Dark Ages.
That was then.
This is now. And, now took place at some unmentioned school that shocked the socks off this Hooterville graduate. I knew going in that it was a school in an economically depressed area. The freshmen class of perhaps 175 students would slowly dissolve to about 40 by the time graduation rolled around. Some of those students would be lost to gangs, drugs, teen pregnancy and even death. There was a killing at school the previous year. In my brief visit for the project, I heard students discuss prostitution in front of their homes. I learned about a couple of parents who sold (hopefully past tense) drugs. And, I even overheard that crack was for old people. I never asked what was for young people, but a certain musky, "herbal" smell in the art supply room filtered up from the girls' bathroom on the floor below.
Still, in all my murals, 54 around the planet, I've never faced apathy. I've never been treated with disrespect. My art has never been criticized. I've never been called a racist. Well, I can no longer say that.
For my first day in school, I created a PowerPoint to share with the class and introduce myself. I never finished sharing it. I tried to brainstorm with the group for ideas for the project. It was one of my most frustrating classroom experiences ever. I felt like I was floundering and I don't flounder, ever. Instead of participation, at least half the class was more interested in personal conversations among themselves and whatever they found on their smartphones. There were no smartphones in the Dark Ages, but I'm quiet sure that they would not have been allowed in class. To their credit, I guess, the teacher said for that class they paid pretty good attention to what I had to share. I never had a clue that that was the situation. And, I didn't want to see their regular class participation.
Instead of painting on the wall, students worked in four groups on panels that would later be mounted. It was an easy way to get around 24 students involved all at the same time. I've worked with enough mural projects to know that each mural panel should have been pretty well painted by the end of four periods. After that, it would be time for touch ups. Well, that didn't happen. It didn't come close. The only thing to nearly get done -- or done in -- was me with my blood pressure.
Something had to change. I could not continue any longer with the way things were going. Somehow, some way, this situation full of lemons needed some lemonade. Instant, frozen or homemade, I didn't care as long as it was sweet. And, thankfully, the inspiration came to save the day . . . and my life.
I told the teacher that I had two options. I was open to any others he might have as well. My Option B was to drop the class and go on to an easier group. It really wasn't the option I wanted, because the teacher specifically stated that this group needed some kind of positive experience to bring them together. Option A was to stay with the class and work with groups individually. I would take one panel for two days and work with those students while the teacher worked with the rest of the class. It would require a whole lot more time, but I thought it might work.
We went with Option A immediately.
It worked better than I could ever have dreamed. Every day I worked with a small group went just fine. Kids who didn't want to participate didn't come to the back table to work with me. I only had students who wanted to paint on the project.
Working with the entire group was truly impossible. I couldn't talk to kids individually and keep the rest on task. I simply couldn't keep the rest on task any way. But, in the small groups, I learned some names. Interest and pride in the project was sparked within some students who had never been inspired by anything else in their art class. I had students volunteer to come in extra who didn't normally do anything like that. Believe me, I did my best to lavish praise and appreciation every chance I could. And, after the praise, I asked the students if they understood why I said it. They knew it was because they were actively participating. I'm certain that that kind of positive attention was needed in the lives of each student, more than I could ever imagine.
I started off telling you about an artist not being very appreciated. Well, I was in that class for about three weeks. On my last day with the kids, both the classroom teacher and I had to agree that the group of students were working better than they had three weeks earlier. Still, it wasn't what I would have wanted, but you must appreciate progress and lemonade when they present themselves. And as for respect, well, I heard over and over from a whole lot of high school students that my work was beasty.
Do you know how hard it is to impress high school students? Savor that lemonade.