One week ago today, I sat poised in open air, close to 224 feet above the ground, amid expectant silence overlooking Santa Clara, California. I watched as a moving shadow that measured our ascent slowed and then stopped, telling me it would happen soon. Then, suddenly, I fell. I fell sixty-two miles an hour to a waiting hydraulic braking system (or what seemed that way) that cushioned me and the others into the beckoning safety of terra firma.
This was Drop Tower (formerly known as Drop Zone) at Great America, and I had conquered my fear of heights, again. It wasn't the first time I'd ridden this stupid ride, and given the fact that our eighth-grade students attend Great America at the end of each school year, I'm sure it won't be the last. I had to ride it. I had to show myself that I could still look Heights squarely in the eye.
The transition from the school year to summertime is like this ride, in a way. As the year progresses, students and teachers "ascend" academically. Their reading and writing abilities improve, slowly at first, then much more quickly; then, slowing down, they finally come to a gentle but very distinct academic stop. Likewise, the teachers start the year easing students into their procedures and rules, their classroom management and teaching styles. Once these are learned, they then begin to move the students at a faster speed, assigning homework at a regular, and sometimes increasing pace. As the year winds down, so does the amount of homework, and while the behavior expectations placed on students remains, the productivity does not. Things slow down, until finally, at the end of the year, academics stop.
Once teachers and students sit poised at the top (or end) of their school year, they wait expectantly-- even tensely-- for the "fall." Then, when the final school bell rings, that fall comes. Summer arrives, and they experience a sudden and complete drop in responsibility. They think back, wondering at their own anticipation-- this is specific to students, but it happens to teachers, I'm sure-- asking themselves why they were so excited (in the case of the ride, scared) in the first place.
Surprisingly, they get back in line, looking forward to the same experience again. What they don't know is that it will be different next time. It always is.
This was Drop Tower (formerly known as Drop Zone) at Great America, and I had conquered my fear of heights, again. It wasn't the first time I'd ridden this stupid ride, and given the fact that our eighth-grade students attend Great America at the end of each school year, I'm sure it won't be the last. I had to ride it. I had to show myself that I could still look Heights squarely in the eye.
The transition from the school year to summertime is like this ride, in a way. As the year progresses, students and teachers "ascend" academically. Their reading and writing abilities improve, slowly at first, then much more quickly; then, slowing down, they finally come to a gentle but very distinct academic stop. Likewise, the teachers start the year easing students into their procedures and rules, their classroom management and teaching styles. Once these are learned, they then begin to move the students at a faster speed, assigning homework at a regular, and sometimes increasing pace. As the year winds down, so does the amount of homework, and while the behavior expectations placed on students remains, the productivity does not. Things slow down, until finally, at the end of the year, academics stop.
Once teachers and students sit poised at the top (or end) of their school year, they wait expectantly-- even tensely-- for the "fall." Then, when the final school bell rings, that fall comes. Summer arrives, and they experience a sudden and complete drop in responsibility. They think back, wondering at their own anticipation-- this is specific to students, but it happens to teachers, I'm sure-- asking themselves why they were so excited (in the case of the ride, scared) in the first place.
Surprisingly, they get back in line, looking forward to the same experience again. What they don't know is that it will be different next time. It always is.
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