I’ve mentioned my hall to you guys before. There’s one aspect that I haven’t touched on yet. At one end there are glass doors that lead outside, and we use them as our fire exit. Where it goes to I call The Weeds due to the fact that it’s got a collection of shrubbery, and it’s the place where class-cutting stoners congregate.
My favorite part is when they try to get back in. Their brains are so fogged that I can’t help but be tickled. First they bang on the door until someone shows up, and it’s usually me. Then, when I show up, they point to the handle, letting me know that they want in. This is where I have to give them a hard time.
“What? What’s that? I can’t hear you. You want in—inside? But you are inside. I’m the one who’s outside. Can you let me in?”
With the time they spend trying to wrap their heads around what I just said and pulling on the doors to let me “inside,” security has shown up, who I called when the stoner knocked on the door in the first place.
I got my overhead back. Astonishingly, it’s the same one. I know this because it has the same graffiti on it—“Flagship.” A couple of years ago a kid had marked “Fag” on it, and with some whiteout I altered the tagging to something more acceptable.
I mention this because our department meeting included the term, “overhead bulb account.” Borrish kept reminding us to be aware of our “bulb accounts.”
“Don’t exceed your bulb accounts.”
“If I were you, I’d keep tight records on your bulb accounts.”
What account? When did I sign-up for an account? When did this become the First Bank of Office Supplies? I don’t remember getting a toaster for it.
One of the teachers in the next hall has left a student’s desk out in the hall the past two weeks. It has no desktop for a student to write on. How does one lose the top of a desk? They’re not hubcaps!
Actually, I’m not that worried about it. I only bring it up because seeing the thing gave me an idea.
I’m thinking of snagging it for myself. Then, I would get a sledge hammer and charge teachers a buck for three swings. It could be quite cathartic. I can just hear them now:
“No…”
BANG!
“…YOUR mom’s…”
BANG!
“…terminal velocity!”
BANG!
Or:
“It’s graded…”
BANG!
“…when…”
BANG!
“…it’s graded!”
BANG!
I’m sure the school wouldn’t mind, seeing how they’re in no hurry to pick the dang thing up.
I had one of my Juniors come up to me yesterday with a question. She informed me that she was trying to graduate early, and she was needing some suggestions on how to do so besides going to summer school “because that’s a big, fat ‘No’.”
While sharing that her having early release probably wasn’t proactive, I couldn’t help but remember that this girl was a repeater. On top of that she’s 20, so graduating “early” isn’t really an option. That’s like quitting a job after getting fired. Still, I offered some ideas because to honest, I really do get jazzed when my kids take that step towards maturity. Even if that step is an awkward baby one.
If I may mangle a saying, “It’s not when you start a race that counts. It’s that you started.”
My Bible Scholar has moved on to another activity—writing. He came in early this morning and asked me to proofread his letter of apology, which is court mandated, to the proprietor of the liquor store that he “allegedly” tried to break into. That was his word—in the letter. I suggested that he remove it, seeing how the letter was part of his conviction.
On the bright side, at least he’s reading and writing in English class. Who knows? He may be doing other criminal-related activities with his other courses. He might be drawing up escape plans in art or laundering money in economics.
If you teach, then you’ve had this request made of you by a student:
“Can I go see my coach?”
It’s usually during a quiz, but this time we were having silent sustained reading. The Crucible is just so difficult to fit in on an already hectic grading period that I’ve got a lot of SSR going on at the first of the year.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to him about the game tonight.”
“When we had a test earlier this week, did you leave practice to come see me?”
After looking down at the floor and mouthing the question presented to him, he volleyed back a “No, and I’m sure I failed that test. So, see—you should send me, so we’ll win tonight.”
“Specious, but touché all the same.”
He gives another glance to the floor. This time he mouths, “touché.”
It’s pronounced, “touch down.”
He raises his arms straight over his head and repeats with enthusiasm, “Touch Down!”
Do you guys remember me talking about that teacher who gives candy as a reward to her students, and in turn, they leave the remains on my floor? Well, she took the open associate principal position that became open during the summer. For the past few weeks she’s been calling down her portion of the alphabet to get to know her new kiddos, which is fine. Being a personable AP is a good thing, but she’s giving them candy, and they’re bringing it back. So, I’m still getting the trash from her little gifts. I tried e-mailing my concerns to her, but I guess the administrator transformation has completed because she has ignored it to this day.
Before, I never followed through with my idea to stick the wrappers in her mailbox because, well, it meant I had to handle them. Now, I've got something different. Whenever she summons a kid from my class, I’ll just have them take my wastebasket with them and drop off the contents at her office. Either she’ll get the hint and stop, or at least I’ll reduce my trash problem.
I’ve talked about TV shows in the past here and there. Tonight is the premiere of a show called Kid Nation where a TV crew follows a bunch of kids who start a new society in a ghost town. Allow me to pass judgment over a show before it airs.
Are you kidding me?! Didn’t we establish laws generations ago that kept us from exploiting children? I guess things change when it’s brought to you by Sprint.
Who puts their kids on such a thing? I can’t help but to have those scenes from Gene Wilder’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory where the kids are winning the golden tickets. You know, they’re rotten children and the less than stellar parents are in the background enabling them. Again, I know that I am passing judgement on something I haven't seen. It's just something I can't imagine my parents doing. Oh well, it's a great big world out there.
Oh, and I’m sure the whole thing will be predictable and upbeat like any other reality TV show. Anybody who makes a living that revolves around cramming a bunch of kids into a small space at once knows that’s not possible.
I’m going to pass on this thing, but you guys can let me know how it goes. Let me warn you, though. If there’s a fat kid with glasses, then don’t get too attached.
I was waiting until the whole ordeal was over to comment on this, and it looks like today is the day. Before today, the fire alarm has gone off—from day one. Every time, Hammer has gotten on the PA and instructed us to ignore the alarms.
I swear that they’re doing psychological tests on us or something. How does something as important as a device that helps save people from burning alive malfunction all this time without being fixed? Isn’t that important? So that’s why I believe the whole thing is contrived.
I’m already seeing the effects on my students. Every time the alarm goes off the kids start to mimic the sound like it’s a popular song on the radio. You know what I mean—where you hear a song and sing along, half under your breath.
So while the alarm goes WHAN-WHAN-WHAN-WHAN-WHAN…
I’ve got a rag-tag choir of students going Wha, Wha, Wha…
I should be recording my findings. Maybe I could get a grant for further study. Maybe something that involves the strobing of a touch lamp.
That was uttered by one of my students today as I went over the weekend's homework.
As I furrowed my brow, most would assume that I was trying to comprehend what she meant by that. Does she think that I don’t have a job? If I don’t, then what have I been doing all these late nights with the grading, calling home and designing assignments that cause my students to bellow such statements as, “Some of us have jobs, you know”? This can’t be a hobby, or I would have picked something a bit more appealing—like scab collecting.
Have I been doing charity all this time? It could be. I mean charity work is usually the less glamorous kind of stuff, so maybe this is it. I could certainly mistake that check I get as pocket change of a passer by; it seems that small at times. Charity work is also done for good and not for accolades. Lord knows I’m not getting those.
Well, if you were assuming that I was thinking that, then you’d be wrong. I was actually trying to guess what her job was. By the way she was dressed, I would have guessed streetwalker.
Great, it’s progress report day. There’s nothing like the first progress report of the year to reveal nothing on how a student is doing. With all of the first year procedures, switching of schedules, and what-not, you’re lucky if you can give three daily assignments, grade them, and record them by now.
Sadly, this will be the three week mark until I get a mess of parent phone calls demanding to know why their child, who had an A at progress report time, failed the grading period even though I wrote, “Note: Only three daily grades have been recorded to date,” at the bottom of each.
I should tell them that their kid failed because of genetics. Who doesn’t take that message into consideration? It’s not just an obscure quote like the ones you get in people’s email signatures. I write stuff on there for a reason.
On top of that, I will send home a more accurate report next week and I always call home when a student is in danger failing, but there’s still time to turn things around, so don’t tell me you weren’t aware. Of course, if my calls are never returned, then I guess they can always claim ignorance.
We’re thirteen days in, and I’m already getting that question from a student. That must be some kind of a record.
Instead of calling that kid a jack-a-ninny, I decided to ignore her and daydream about edutainment videos that target teens and teach them lessons on how not to be, well, jack-a-ninny.
You know the ones I’m talking about. They’re usually for Pre-K kids. They provide lessons on, say, tying your shoes or washing your hands, and they do it set to a song and dance. I say we up the ages on those things and show them to my kids.
Maybe there could be one on how not to ogle girls, while stroking a ruler, or not to come in to the class while on a cell phone. I’d be happy if they just did one explaining that you don’t have to say everything that’s on your mind.
Wanna say something that makes you a prick? This little lesson should do the trick
Have you noticed that I haven’t said anything about my Freshmen yet? Last year I was all worried that I wouldn’t be able to relate with them. Now that I’ve got a year under my belt, they’re not so bad. Besides I realized that it is just as tough to relate to Juniors.
Perhaps another contribution to my comfort level is familiarity. I got a kid back, who failed my class last year—good times, good times. Yesterday, he came up to my desk and asked for any work from last year that he turned in.
“Why?”
“’Cause when we have to turn it in, I can just turn it in again.”
“Do you remember what your grade was last year?”
“Nah.”
“A 36”
He responded with a blank stare.
“Do you know how one gets a 36?”
The staring continued to the point where I think that he may be a zombie.
“You do it by not turning in assignments.”
Zombie groan.
“And trust me, what you did turn in was given back to you. You adorned it with cannabis, left it on my floor, then I threw it away.”
He turned and shuffled his zombie self away. Hopefully, he was off to eat some brains. Maybe they’ll take.
Seventh Period let out yesterday, and as I did my usual clean up of the floor for treasures left behind, I found something extraordinary. Normally, I come across my handouts, which I stress are important to keep. They typically have graffiti all over them—weaponry, their names in bubble writing, and classic rock band logos. This time, I came across a creation between the two aisles in the opposite corner from my desk. I call that place Samoa for good reason. It’s the farthest location of my jurisdiction, thus the most difficult for me to govern.
What I found was a structure of some sort that consisted of various supplies found in my classroom. There were A-frames made out of note cards, pencil turrets, paperclips marking the road leading up to the thing, and all other kinds of amenities. It was like some kind of office supply Shangri-La.
How did they do this? I’m not asking because I can’t comprehend the laws of physics nor do I under appreciate the aesthetics of architecture. I’m asking because for two weeks now I’ve been begging these kids to do something as simple as returning the student surveys that I give out at the beginning of the year, and nothing. But a sturdy model for a lodge, with guest quarters mind you, is no problem. You can see why I am frustrated.
It’s gotten to the point that I don’t even care what condition the surveys come back in. I’d even take them with their jack-a-ninny responses. I’d just like to get them back.
Favorite food? Your mom
Where do you see yourself in ten years? Ass
Favorite motto? Life’s not gay, so stop being a fag.
Of course it looks like many of the surveys were contributed to the homestead that I found. It’s probably the closest thing that I’ll get to have with a pool.
I’ve got a kid this year, and he seems to be a repeater—a repeat 11th grader and a repeat offender. When a teacher saw that this kid was on my role sheet, her pupils dilated, and she began to fill me in on his exploits when she had him TWO years ago. It seems that his escapades landed him in jail, and his time served has him returning to school just now.
The only comment that I can make about him at this point is that he doesn’t do his work. Instead, he reads and highlights from his Bible. I’ve got no problem with a religion enthusiast; it’s just I’ve got to give grades, and I haven’t assigned anything remotely close to color an entire page orange, yet alone color an entire page of ‘Job’ in orange.
Anyway, I see that there are two kinds of ex-cons who fervently read the Bible—those who are born again and those who are looking for something cool to carve into their next victims. As long as I keep a fresh supply of highlighters, I should be okay.
Last year I had my first pregnant student. Actually, there were multiple students with child. Well, this year I’ve already got my first one showing. Who knows, I may get to throw my first in-class baby shower this year. That would be another first. Maybe I could turn it into a learning moment, tie some literature to it.
Create The Crucible themed mobiles.
Provide an analysis on how The Life You Save May Be Your Own reflects the contemporary view on the role of marriage in society.
Write lullabies that summarize the elements of Transcendentalism.
They’re not the greatest ideas, but I’ve got months to flesh them out. By the looks of things, I’d say about a trimester.
You know how you’ve got those kids who remind you what it is that you like about teaching? A senior I had last year is one of those. He’s sharp; he’s a hard worker, but more importantly he’s respectful. He always made fifth period more bearable. I think he was the only one who didn’t have the urge to spout a sentence that started with the mention of one's mother.
“Your mom’s a GPA.”
“Your mom gave me the answer last night.”
There was never a “gay” uttered under a cough by him, nor a fake flatulence delivered.
Unfortunately, while I was walking to lunch yesterday, I saw campus security hauling him off to their office. Oh well, maybe he’ll need a character witness.
Calculus had a new adornment to show me yesterday—a tongue stud. She handed me note as she walked in (10 minutes after the tardy bell) that said, “Do you mind if I don’t say anything today? I just got my tongue pierced and it hurts to talk.”
As I look up from the note, she presented the evidence to me.
“Aahhh…”
I know that these things are common, but I must say that I do find it uncharacteristic of Calculus. What bothers me is that she’s starting to behave to where a tongue piercing will be exactly what I expect.
It turns out that she didn’t show up until the fourth day of school because she didn’t want to end a vacation she took to Mexico. Which turns out her mother didn’t even give her permission to go on in the first place. She met a guy who’s “totally cool, even though he’s like ten years older.”
Little by little, she’s been revealing her time south of the border. Maybe a stab to the tongue is just the break I was looking for.
Well, it’s the day after Labor Day, and I wish I could say that all the teachers are back and rejuvenated, ready to take on educating after the three-day respite. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.
When I turned on my computer this morning, there was an e-mail from Borrish asking if we knew of any good English teachers to replace Ms. Schnell, a World Literature teacher. She did not show up today and left a phone message informing Borrish that she would not be returning to SLHS.
Wow! Phoning in that you quit—who knew? I imagine that my last day will involve turning over a filing cabinet and starting a memo fire in a trash can, all with a crazed laughter. I guess quiet is an option too, but it does lack that final say quality.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That's our story and we're sticking to it.
