A Literal Student-Teacher

Tariq is the cutest kid ever. He is perpetually good-natured. Most middle school boys FLIP OUT whenever they're called a name, looked at the wrong way, bumped up against, or otherwise "mistreated." They are so defensive and quick to attack. Not Tariq. He just sits there and radiates kindness and patience all day long. Can you teach me how to do that, Tariq?

Monday Rashee "bops [i.e. takes]" Tariq's new pencil and throws him his dull one. Instead of retaliating, Tariq wordlessly gets up to sharpen it and resume working. Infuriated, I rip the pencil out of Rashee's hand and give it back to Tariq.

"Chilll, Ms. M! Tariq don't care!"

"It's OK, Ms. M," Tariq reassures me. "It's just a pencil. Not worth getting upset over. I can use this one just fine."

I examine it for a second. "You're right. Rashee DEFINITELY needs the one with the eraser much more than you. Thanks for sharing."

But that was mild compared to last week's incident. As we were leaving class for an outside lab, Will and Rashee, the last ones out, close the door with odd expressions on their faces.

"What?" I ask accusingly. "What is that look for? What did you do?"

"Nothing, Ms. M! Come on, let's go!"

I don't trust them. I unlock my door and scan the dark room. Nothing seems to be out of place.

BAM! BAM! The large metal storage cabinet reverberates loudly. I open its double doors to find poor Tariq sitting in the bottom.

"Oh my gosh! Tariq! I'm so sorry! Did they push you in here? If I'd have left you in here while we went outside I would have never been able to forgive myself!!"

"I would've gotten out," is all he says. Will and Rashee are long gone.

Tariq is a big Florida fan. We bet each other about who would win the SEC championship. He wanted the loser to paint his/her face the opposing team's colors, but I said administration might not be so fond of that. We instead decided that a small face tattoo would suffice. When he came in Monday, he was upset. "I'm MAD," he announced first thing, brushing by me. I automatically knew what he was referring to Alabama's butt-smacking of Florida. I wasn't going to mention the bet, but before I could even respond he reappeared at my side, cheek towards me and red marker in his hand. "Go ahead," he said sadly. He wore that Alabama A on his cheek all day long.

"Mann, Tariq, why you wearin' that ugly thing for?" all the other kids asked.

"I'm a man of my word," he kept replying.

Today, when Rell was giving me attitude, Tariq finally turned to him. "Why you talkin' all spicy to Ms. M? Don't talk to her like that! She's your teacher!"

"SHUT UP TARIQ!! Look at Tariq, everybody! He got a FAT nose! He look like a duck! He got a duck nose!!"

I look up from my attendance to see Tariq smile that same good-natured smile. "Naww, it's an Ernie nose. Like Bert and Ernie."

"Whatever it is, it's good looking!" I tell him. Why is he SO NICE?? I imagine myself in one of these classes as a middle-schooler. I would go crazy. I would hate all my classmates. I would be angry all the time. Tariq takes it all in stride, letting the bad roll off his shoulders and the good soak to his bones until it overflows to everyone else he's around.

What a lesson I can learn from that sweet fourteen-year-old boy.

At least he's self-confident.

Da'Juan (the most inappropriate 14-year-old on earth--yes, the one who called me "kinky" on the first day of school) left a wallet-sized football photo of himself on my desk. I found it there after school and flipped it over.

"To: K. M.
From: Da'Juan Bell
This is dedicated 2 you because I am your favorite student and your my favorite teacher."

I wrote him up in class yesterday after he strolled in 20 minutes late, jumped up on a table and started humping the air. Glad there's no hard feelings.

Thanksgiving?

I am physically nauseated thinking about returning to school tomorrow. I'm not even HALFWAY through this year. How am I going to make it 'til June alive? The good news is that this job is going to make whichever one I have next (be it stocking shelves at Wal-Mart or cleaning septic tanks) sound like paradise.

I feel like a failure. I'm getting observed tomorrow, so TFA can witness my failure and tell me how my failing fails students who can't afford to be failed, so I need to focus on failing to fail in the future. I'm teaching Chemistry. I almost failed Chemistry myself in high school had it not been for a certain lab partner who pretty much re-did all my classwork on a daily basis. I hate Chemistry. I hate constantly feeling guilty because there's always SOMETHING else I could be doing. I hate how RMS smells when you walk through the doors. I hate being walked all over by 14 year olds. I hate the way I feel when I leave school. I hate disappointing people. I hate not living up to expectations.

Most of all, I hate feeling sorry for myself when I know there is much to be thankful for.

HAHA

This is the picture text I received from Rashee last night circa 1:12 AM. The accompanying text read:"Look at Big Buckley! M this is just to funny."

Desperate Times Call for...Poor Decisions?

So, I just did something that may or may not have been a wonderful idea. I entrusted my sweet dog into the care of none other than Rashee Malley for the next four days.

Apparently, in order to board a dog for the week of Thanksgiving, you have to reserve a spot, oh, TWO MONTHS before you leave. Considering I'm still not sure exactly when my flight leaves out tomorrow morning, it's very unlikely that I will ever, EVER think to book a spot for Buckley weeks before I leave town. Which brings me to my current dilemma. After I called about 293476 kennels across town only to be rejected (leaving me feeling much like Dennis the Menace's mom in that scene where she's trying to find him a babysitter), I found myself 20 hours before my flight with no clue what I was going to do with my dog.

At lunch, I half-jokingly asked which one of my students I could pay to watch my dog for me. I saw several eyes light up at the word pay, but no one really seemed ready to commit. Except Rashee. "I keep him, Ms. M! I keep him for you! Lemme call my mama right now on yo' phone and see!" I hesitantly pulled my phone out of my pocket.

"I'm not sure about this, Rashee," I said slowly. Rashee jerked the phone out of my hand and dialed.

"Mama, my teacher want me to ask you can we k--" I shot him a look. "OK," he started over. "Can I keep my teacher's dog for her 'til Sunday for $100? She said it has to be OK with you first....you wan' talk to her?" Rashee thrust the phone in my face, and his mom assured me that it would be fine if they kept Buckley for a few days.

I was still hesitant. Rashee is a nut. He can't sit still for five minutes. Does he have the responsibility to take care of the only man in my life? I made it clear that I had my doubts, and Rashee continued to persist. Ms. D passed us in the hall and heard our conversation.

"You're going to trust a student with your dog?? You MUST be crazy! Ask Mr. L if he can keep it; I think he's staying here!"

Rashee tossed his head back. "Why you gonna DO me like that, Ms. D!? That's sheisty! Mr. L don't need that money!"

During fifth block, Rashee came and found me. "Ok, we talkin' business for real. Let me keep your dog, M. I promise I take good care of it."

I kept walking down the hall. "You know this is my baby. This is like my CHILD. I don't know if--"

Rashee stopped and grabbed my arm. "Forreal, Ms. M," he said solemnly. "I promise I treat him better than how I act at school." I cut my eyes, expecting sarcasm but instead saw an earnest smile.

"Oh...All right," I said. "But I don't want a HAIR missing from his head when I get back or that's one hair I'm plucking from yours!"

"I know, Ms. M! You can trust me."

That night, I followed google maps to the north side of town and pulled up to a small house with an empty driveway. Most of the lights were off, but I could see the bluish glow of the TV flickering through the front windows. Before I could make it up the steps, the front door swung open and Rashee stepped outside, smirking. It was funny to see him outside of school; just as my students think I exist only in a world of dry erase markers and power-point presentations, I seldom stop to picture my students beyond the classroom. He looked different without his school uniform of khaki pants, blue polo, and super-hero backpack with the bright-yellow trimmed straps. Standing in the door frame with his silhouette black against the soft light behind him, he looked...small. For a second, he was to me what he should be anyways but never really is: a kid. A thirteen-year-old boy.

You see, my kids live in a culture where they are forced to grow up way too fast. Most of my boys are the men of their households, so they develop this tough exterior and a sort of "couldn't care less" attitude. It's for survival and protection. If they hide their fears and their hurt, it's almost as if they don't exist. That's why when I catch them talking about SpongeBob Squarepants or Tom and Jerry I am a little caught off guard; they almost have me convinced that they're little men too.

Where was I?

Buckley jerked me across the lawn, straining against his leash.

"Daang, Ms. M! You ALREADY havin' problems with him!" Without his band of rowdy followers, Rashee almost seemed a little shy.

"He's your problem now!" I retorted. Buckley trotted right up the front steps and into the living room. "You see? Already making himself at home!"

Rashee studied Buckley. "Oh, he like a Air Bud dog!" Buckley excitedly explored his new territory, pausing to sniff a basketball in the corner. "Straight for the basketball. See? Just like Air Bud." The wooden floor was slick and shiny, and Buckley onboxiously slid from room to room.

"You SURE you can handle him, Rashee? I'm going to get him back in one piece?"

Rashee smiled at me. "I ain't gonna do nothin' to your dog, Ms. M!"

"I know you aren't going to DO anything to him, I'm just worried you're going to...lose him or something."

Rashee glanced at Buckley's 65 lb. frame. "I don't think I'm gon' lose him nowhere, either." He picked up all of Buckley's things and took them to his room at the end of the hall. Through the door, I could see him carefully laying out the dog bed right at the foot of his own. "Where his brush at?" he called over his shoulder.

For some reason, the though of Rashee dutifully giving my dog's coat one hundred strokes before bedtime made me laugh out loud. "I didn't bring one. He should be fine without!"

I took a look around. The house was sparsely decorated and very tidy. Some chili sat cold on the stove. Did Rashee make it for himself and his sister? Or did his mom fix it before she left for the late shift? I thought about how different their after school lives looked from mine. I came home and did my homework while my parents cooked together and debriefed each other on their days. I ate piles of home-cooked food around a table with the rest of my family, then watched the news sleepily cuddled up on the couch with everyone. Rashee and his sisters got home to an empty house and went to sleep many nights without even getting to see their mom. But they were pretty fortunate compared to some of their classmates. They had a permanent home and a parent who could support them.

Buckley and Rashee returned, interrupting my thoughts. I showed his sister and him how to make Buckley sit, stay, give high fives at the command "ROLL TIDE!" (which Rashee found hilarious), and balance a Cheez-It on his nose and catch it in his mouth. "He know how to fetch?" they asked. I threw the ball and let them watch Buckley retrieve it. "Oh we gon' have FUN! How you know when he through dookie-ing? He gon' get in my trash?" I went over the details quickly and handed Rashee a note with instructions and my contact information on it. His eyes scanned it quickly, then rested at the bottom.

"Aww, Ms. M, I TOLD you I'd get that number fo' the year was over! I told you I would! Mann, it ain't even DECEMBER yet and I already got it! I thought you was gon' drag this out at LEAST 'til April and make me work for it! That was TOO EASY!" I rolled my eyes. His sister giggled.

"Somehow I knew that was coming."

I kissed Buckley's head and stepped out the door. "Thanks, Rashee. Take good care of my boy."

"Oh I will. I promise. Or I get a F!"

I'm sure some interesting stories are going to come from this. Until then, say a little prayer for my dog. And Rashee's family for that matter.

Just an obs

[ervation]

My huge, tough, hood boys LOVE Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (but then again, who doesn't?). They constantly beg me to play it for them in class.

Classroom Management Woes

How do you teach the difference between physical and chemical changes when there is an all-out paper ball WAR going on in front of you?

This is the issue I dealt with today. Classic case senario: whenever the teacher turns her back to the class to write on the board, paper goes flying. Then, when the teacher turns around to see what all the laughter is about, the floor is littered, but the air is clear and no one is guilty.

After about round 3 of this (not so) amusing game, I am frustrated and no one knows what a physical change is. I briefly consider physically changing their bone structure to more clearly illustrate my point. Instead, I scrawl this sentence on the board:

Throwing paper balls wastes class time, my time, my peers' time, my teacher's time, and trees.


I then proceed to count all the paper balls on the floor. "Twenty-seven. So you will all write this sentence 27 times and turn
it in for a quiz grade." After a whole lot of grumbling and wasted time, I collect the sentences and continue with the lesson. Believe it or not, ten minutes later another paper ball goes flying. This time, the target LEAPS out of his desk to punish the perpetrator. Around the classroom they go, paying no mind to the fact that I am standing in front of a powerpoint presentation trying to EDUCATE. As they lap the lab tables, I see them getting closer and closer to me until WHAM, Rosamuel pushes Andre straight into me, sending me flying into the projector cart.

The class falls silent. I slowly straighten back up, wincing in pain, fury in my eyes.

"OUT!!! OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!!!"

Fast-forward to the bell. Apparently, word of the incident has spread. Just as my classes are about to transition, the two guilty parties show up at my door, sheepishly. Unfortunately for them, they are immediately hemmed in by about five guys--Will, Norman, and Rashee block the door from the hall and DJ and DeAngelo approach from the front.

"You hurt Ms. M!?? Andre, Ro, you finna get BOOMED. We finna STEAL you. YOU HURT HER!!"

I can't see much over the cluster of boys, but I do see Rosamuel and Andre get forced to the floor and get mildly abused. I quickly look away and began straightening desks.

"Ms. M? You jus' gonna let them bully them like that?" Chris asks.

"Who's bullying whom? I guess I missed it." I turn my back to hide my smirk.

"Welcome Back, Ms. M!"

That's what my kids said this morning as they ran to me, beaming, and threw their arms around me.

"Did you have fun in Tuscaloosa? We're so glad you're back safely! What are we learning about today--I can't WAIT!"

OK, so not really. They were sure to tell me how lucky Alabama is, though, seeing as we won yet again with absolutely no talent.

"Alabama booty. They booty just like RMS. 'Cept RMS don't got no money, AND they booty. At least Alabama got lights on the field and don't have to stop at halftime just 'cause can't nobody see!"

Will greeted me at the door. "Ms. M, you was in my dream last night."

"Oh, really? Tell me about it."

"Well, it was time for school and I was walking down the hall but I was just going to socialize (like I always do) so I walked right past your room and you made eye contact with me like, "Get yo butt in here!" Just like you always do. And I kept walkin' past you anyways (just like I always do) then all the sudden BAM!! You was right in front of my like Superman or somethin' and you was grabbin' my collar and jerkin' me all the way down the hall!"

Is it odd that I'm flattered by this? Number one, it shows that I make enough of an impression on at least someone that his subconscious mind thinks about me, and two, it shows that that subconscious mind also sees me as somewhat of an authoritative figure.

Then again, last night I dreamt that David Beckham and I eloped, and I'm pretty sure that is based on no premise of reality whatsoever.

I take up Rashee's football today and he throws a fit. Cussing, accusing me of taking my feelings of bitterness (from the breakup) out on him, beating on the closet door that I locked it in...Minutes later, he's sitting at the front of the room (not doing his work).

"Rashee, you're lazy. That's all there is to it. Because you're smart and very capable but you REFUSE to do anything productive. Now how are you going to get that law degree making Cs in class? One of these days I'm going to be paying you the big bucks to get me out of legal trouble. But that's going to require more of you than just writing down three slides worth of notes!"

"Ms. M," he says softly, smiling now, "you don't get in any kind of trouble!" Then, louder: "I could NOT be a teacher. It is just NOT for me."

"Why?" I'm smiling too.

"Because I might have a bad student...you know, one like me. And I would PUNCH him in the face! BAM!!"

Last block, everyone kept making "black" comments. "Quit being so black and give me back my pencil! Get your black self over here! Shut up, black people!"

Finally, someone made the brilliant observation: "Shut up! We're ALL black in here!"

"Ahem," I said, raising my hand.

"Ohh, please, Ms. M. You basically one of us!"

WIth that being said, I'm going to get my black butt in bed. Wednesday is Veteran's Day, which means tomorrow is BASICALLY Friday. Woohoo!

Call me Mrs. Delhomme

All my kids think I am dating Jake Delhomme (the quarterback for the Carolina Panthers).  It started a couple of months ago on a Monday.

"Ms. M, what'd you do this weekend?"

"Oh, the usual.  Teacher stuff--you know, knitting sweaters, playing Bridge...OH and I went out with Jake Delhomme."

"Naww--you playin me? You went out with JAKE DELHOMME!?"

"I mean...it's no big deal.  We just went out to eat, nothing serious."

"Well...then tell him he SUCK! Tell him quit throwin' all them PICKS."

"Oh I do," I assured them.  "I'm only dating him for his money anyways."

"OHH!! Ms. M playin' Jake Delhomme!!"

By third block, girls were claiming that they had seen Jake pick me up from school a couple of times in his Lexus.  The other teachers insisted that I was telling the truth, and before I knew it, my name had changed from Ms. M to Mrs. Delhomme.  At lunch one day, Will was looking through my phone and noticed I had a Jake saved in my contacts.  Before I could stop him, he was calling the number and shushing everyone around him.  Funnily enough, the Jake he was calling is actually a teacher in a similar situation as I, and he DID play football at Alabama.  The voicemail picked up and a deep voice announced, "This is Jake.  Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."  Will's eyes became wide as dinner plates.  "I JUST TALKED TO JAKE DELHOMME!!"

Not a day goes by without the kids asking me some sort of question about my relationship with Jake.  Apparently, the guy is married ("Ms. M--you know he's married, right?" "He is!?! Well then he's got a lot of explaining to do!").  No matter.  They pretty much believe everything that comes out of my mouth.  They all want me to bring him in as a guest speaker, or to score them tickets to a game, or to bring pictures of us together.  It's mildly amusing.  I think maybe tomorrow I'm going to stage a huge break-up.  Stay tuned...

I sent Will and Rashee out of first block today after they just walked out of class during the morning announcements.  During the announcements, they showed a clip of the last RMS football game, where--by the way---we got KILLED.  I mean, MURDERED.  They showed a clip of RMS getting picked off, then the other team running it back for a touchdown.  Why? I have no idea.  All the boys on the football team were up in arms.

"Mannn, why they SHOWIN' this?! They coulda at LEAST shown our field goal! Mann, they trynna burn us! They flamin' us bad!"

I had to agree, but I wasn't OK with anyone walking out of my class to go to the office to "do something about it."

Anways, I sent the boys out with instructions to write ten sentences and bring them back to enter the classroom.  Here are the sentences Rashee returned with, verbatim:

1. School is over rated

2. Class is over rated

3. school is boreing

4. Your class has turned boring and lame.

5. We should get married

6. Dump Jake delhome

7. I will stay in my seat. (LOL J)

8. This is wack

9. I will never do this Agin (write senteces)

10. Never Agin.

I'm aging about a decade for every week I do this.

Annnd DJ didn't do his work today.

So much for my romantic thoughts about changing people's lives.  Sorry.  I know none of you wanted to hear that. But that's how it went.  He at least had his notebook open and pencil out, though--which is an improvement I GUESS.  Anyways, he pinky-promised he would tomorrow.  So we'll see.

In other news:

1.  I got observed by some people who were reviewing our school.  It was mass chaos--we were playing a "review game."  There were like 5 of them in there for half an hour, staring at me and marking on their clipboards.  I wanted to vomit the whole time.  Some kids were cursing.  Some were jumping around the room.  Some were sitting in their desks with their heads down.  Some had Smarties in their nose.

2.  I thought this job would toughen me up.  Instead, I find myself constantly on the verge of tears.  I think it's due to tiredness and stress.  I seriously cried looking at someone's facebook pictures of the Grand Canyon.  Sure it's beautiful, but SERIOUSLY?  It was a facebook picture, for goodness sake. I also cried when:

-I found out the line at the DMV was three hours.

-The board of education wouldn't give me my paycheck because it wasn't between the hours of 3 and 4.

  -I saw a particularly poignant Olive Garden commercial.

-I opened my cell phone bill.

-I passed by all the little kids dressed up and trick-or-treating.

-I listened to a voicemail from my grandfather.

-I realized my coupon for Staples had expired a week ago.

Just kidding about that last one.  But I briefly considered it.

I've never thought of myself a high-stress individual, but these kids are wearing me out.  It's funny to step back and think about how much these FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLDS are affecting me.  I mean, they're little kids.  (Oh, no, Ms. M!! We GROWN!) I need therapy--or at least a massage.  I said this out loud in my first block and Rashee's eyes immediately lit up.  "You need a m--"

"NO!" I shouted.  "I know what you're about to say and just...just don't."

As I sat by myself in the back row of church on Sunday, I listened to a sermon on the story where Jesus heals the leper.  "If you want to, you can heal me," the leper pleads as he lies prostrate in front of Christ.  For the 283746 time that week, tears welled up in my eyes.  I need to be healed, and it's not a question of whether or not Jesus can heal me; it's whether or not he wants to.  And Jesus' reply to the leper? "Of course I want to.  Be healed!"

Comforting.  And so true.  So many times a day I sit there asking myself if I can really do this.  Can I really teach these kids anything?  Can I measure up to the incredible pressure placed on me?  Can I love my students well?  The answer, as you and I both have seen a million times is a resounding "No!"  So easily I forget that I needn't rely on or measure success of my own efforts.  Instead, I need to lean on the ability of One far more capable.  I'm the leper, hoping for a miracle.  The question is not can the Lord perform one, it's will He.  I hope he answers me like he did the leper.

The truth of the matter is, I'm a lot like DJ.  I don't know what's best for me, so I do what I want to in the moment and seldom stop to ponder the consequences.  I ignore the commands of my Teacher because He requires a lot out of me and it's hard work.  I fail to understand that the things He requires of me are things that will benefit me in the long run.  I sometimes show a glimpse of promise or a sign of change, just like when DJ did his work the other day.  Then I turn around and mess up again.

Jesus never gives up on me.  His patience and love for me never run out.  That is my charge: to love DJ and all my other students with the incredible love and patience that my Father shows me.  Is that an impossible charge for me? Yes.  But thankfully I don't have to depend on me.

Fleeting Hope

Let me tell you about DJ.

DJ is definitely one of my kids with a 'street' side to him.  He is a little rough around the edges.  Despite the endearing dimples on either side of his up-to-no-good smirk, his face is riddled with a kind of cold hardness, and his eyes are shadowed with thoughts too heavy for a 14-year-old.  His upper arms are covered in bizarre carvings--ropes of puckered-up scars twining down his biceps.  On his left forearm, a sizeable chunk of flesh is missing.  He says a neighborhood Rottweiler attacked him.  I almost hope that story is true, for fear of how else it could have gotten there.

He likes to pick on other kids.  He makes them take his tray at lunch or give him their pencils and pens.  He'll bow up on other kids when they make any kind of joking comment directed towards him.  Several times I've caught him slapping people on the back of their heads or "booming" them to the ground.  Never without his dimpled smirk.  

For some reason, DJ always has to sit by me at lunch.  I don't know why; it's not like he actually talks to me once he's there.  He'll respond when I make fun of his team (USC) or brag on mine, but other than that, he pretty much eats his lunch in silence.  If for some reason I sit on a different side of the table or down a couple of seats, though, he'll change his seat too.  If someone else is sitting there when he comes to the table, he commands them out of "his" seat.

DJ never comes to class prepared.  Every day I have to provide him with paper and pencil.  The other day, I was in the middle of allocating his daily materials when he jumped up and slapped another kid on the head.  I'd had about all I could take that day.  I slammed down the notebook I had just retrieved from my cabinet and yelled at him.  "I'm in the act of giving you a brand new notebook so you can have one for my class and you get up and do this??! SIT DOWN. DO YOUR WORK.  SAY THANK YOU!!"

"You gon' buy me a backpack too?"

"NO I'm not going to buy you a backpack!!"  My voice dripped with sarcasm.

I forgot about this little exchange until the next day when I was calling roll.  The computer screen was being projected on the wall, so all the kids were watching as I scrolled down the roster.  

"DJ's birthday was yesterday!" they noticed.

"DJ, was it your birthday yesterday??"

I turned to look at him.  His head was down, embarrassed.  The smirk was still there, but it was strained.  "Naw, man," he said, shaking his head.

"Yes it was! It was!" they all laughed.

A stab of guilt.  Why had I snapped on him yesterday? True, he was not doing what he was supposed to.  I had been frustrated with him because he never brings anything to class.  But honestly, if your mom never buys you class materials and you don't even own a backpack to carry them in, how can I really expect you to come prepared? Then to answer him so mockingly when he asked if I would get him what he needed...

It was his birthday, but instead of being excited and telling me first thing (like most of my other students would have), he was embarrassed for people to find out.  Embarrassed, because nobody else made a fuss over him.  I thought about going through my whole birthday day without a single person knowing or caring that it was my birthday.  Not a single card, not a single candle, not a single song.  Not even a single "Happy Birthday!"  I would be a little sad, and I'm a grown woman.  Then again, DJ might be used to it.  Which is even sadder.

Yesterday I pulled DJ aside in between classes.  "DJ," I said, "I'm looking over your work from today--first of all, I'm in shock that you actually did it.  But as I'm going over your answers, I'm noticing that they're all right.  You only finished half of them but they're all right.  A lot of people were having trouble with this today, but you got them all.  So now I want you to tell me why you don't do your work--because I know it's not because you can't."

DJ looked down, shrugging.  "I don't know.  I just don't.  I already know this stuff, I don't need to."

"You already know this stuff?" I asked, doubting.  "What's an index fossil?"

"Um...you know.  It-it's that fossil of an animal that only lived a short time or somethin'"

"Okay...what does the Law of Superposition state?"

"That the oldest rocks, they on the bottom."

Back and forth we went, me asking him questions, he responding to them all correctly.

"What, Ms. M--this like a pop quiz or somethin'?"

I asked him what he did last year in his classes.  He said he failed them put passed all the End of Grade tests.  I asked him how long he'd been performing like this in class, not doing any work.

"A long time."

"DJ, you are obviously very smart.  If I thought you were dumb, I wouldn't be bothering you.  I'd let you sit in the back and sleep all day because it wouldn't matter.  But you're not.  Far from it.  You could have the highest grade in this class.  But you're failing.  In fact, you're failing all of your classes, and that is unacceptable.  Because you are going to leave here next year and you can't make it through high school like this.  You DEFINITELY can't graduate without doing your work.  And DJ, you could really make something of yourself.  You've got what it takes."

He nodded his head, not looking at me, but listening.

"So, what I want you to do starting tomorrow is to complete all your work in this class.  I want your grade in this class to reflect what you know--which is a lot.  But in order for that to happen you have to do your work.  And I almost forgot..." I walked to the cabinet and unlocked it.  "I can't believe you didn't tell me the other day was your birthday!"  I took out a backpack from the cabinet.  "Now, no excuses for not having your work--promise?"

DJ grinned--a real grin now--and nodded his head before running out the door.

Today DJ came in and immediately started on his contour map analysis.  He didn't stop until he was through.  He came up to me and put it on my desk. "Here," he said gruffly and returned to his seat.

I just graded it. 100%--the only one of the class.

"So, how are you liking it??"

I got asked that question a lot this weekend while I was in Tuscaloosa.  It's a tough one.  People pretty much expect you to say, "Oh, I love it! The kids are so inspiring, and I really feel like I'm making a difference in the world."  After all, instead of sitting behind a desk all day crunching numbers, I'm influencing young lives and using my gifts to help the underprivileged.  

Riiiight.

What I want to say is, "I hate it.  It's a thankless, miserable job.  I'm terrible at it, and half the kids I teach wouldn't blink if I died in the middle of class. I work my tail off and never see any fruit from it.  If I'm ever going to catch up with all the work that is required to get these kids on track, I will have to forego sleeping entirely."

But no one really wants to hear that.  And I don't really want to say it out loud.  Not to mention most of the time people ask out of cordiality and want the short, simple answer.  So I just think it. 

"It's....hard.  Never boring."  That's my little sound byte.  And I'm sticking to it.

Today, Trevell was making it impossible for me to teach (which he makes his main goal every day).  I ordered him out of the classroom.  

"F***ing bitch.  You bitches are crazy, always gettin on my for something, I f***ing hate this place.  Why don't you go cry to Mrs. D [the dean of students] like you always do."

"OUT!!!" I said.

"Gladly.  On my way.  What, you going to cry? Cry, just like you always do."

"I'm not bothered by petty insults from little boys," I replied.  "I just want you OUT!"

Of course I'm bothered.  Maybe not as much as I would have been at the beginning, but still.  As he left, I noticed my lesson plan folder taped to the door also had 'BITCH' scrawled under my name.  I guess he has some company in his opinions.

If I weren't afraid of quitting, I would have done it weeks ago.  Because the truth is, even though my job is 'exciting' and 'meaningful,' I am jealous of the people who are sitting behind desks crunching numbers all day.  I'm jealous that they get to go home and forget.  They don't have young, conflicted faces haunting them everywhere they go and the uncomfortable knowledge that failing personally is failing others that can't afford to be failed anymore.  I drive past the glittering skyline as the sun  is rising and I envy the receptionists, accountants, and bankers that work there.  I'm not saying their work is easy and void of stress, but it seems so much more appealing than what I do every day.  I guess the grass is always greener...

My heart will mend eventually.

Rashee broke up with me today.

"Ms. M, we done.  We over.  First you go cheatin' on me with Mr. K [whom he saw me talking to at lunch].  Then, I see you over there with L [whom I was talking to in the hall].  I mean, you get AROUND. You two timin' me.  Then you be wilin' trynna make me write all these notes. I ain't DOIN' it no more!"

"Aww," Will said.  "I kinda liked what y'all had going."

I rolled my eyes (but not without a little laugh).  "Somehow I'll get over it."

"Yeah you'd better be gettin' over it 'cause you'll be signing those divorce papers TOMORROW!"

"Oh, so we're married now?"

"Not anymore! You was always my second-string girl anyways. We gettin' a DIVORCE."

"Well, that's fine Rashee but that means you're going to be paying me a monthly sum for 'emotional damage.' You can talk to my lawyer about it.  I'll also need half of everything you own."

"Yeah you forgot you signed that PRE-NUP!!"

You know you're a teacher when...

...you reach in your pocket to put on your chapstick, realizing a little too late that it's a glue stick.  Then, as you're getting ready for bed you find a paperclip in your bra.

You a Duck.

Duck.

That's what the boys call unattractive girls.  "You a duck." I hear them say it all the time.  "The cheerleaders, they all ducks."  "Ooh, you talkin' to that girl Nala? She a duck."

"Shut the duck up!" I finally told them. I explained how that was a sensitive issue for me, how I never wanted to hear my boys talking about girls that way.

Today they learned why. We are studying the geologic time scale (yes, again), so I asked them to bring in pictures of themselves as babies and children.  During their warm-up, they were to write about how they/things had changed since then.  As a little plug to get their attention, I put a couple of my own on a powerpoint.  Included in the presentation (called "The Evolution of Ms. M") was the worst picture ever taken of me.  Which is saying a lot.  It was at the peak of my awkward era--6th grade.  

Picture if you will a girl of slight frame--71 pounds to be exact.  Her hair is ashen blond and cropped just above her ear lobe--only an inch or so difference below her choppy bangs: essentially, a glorified bowl gut.  Her smile is radiant, if not full of metal, and her skin is colorless except for the liberal smattering of freckles across her nose.  The early-nineties style plaid dress that she chose for picture day is reminiscent of a Christmas tree skirt.  This IS the girl that is constantly at the butt of middle-school boys' jokes.

If I had ever thought my classroom was noisy before this, I was dead wrong.  The second I clicked over to that picture, the noise erupted into wails of laughter that echoed down the hall and alarmed Mr. Anderson enough to come in and check on us.  Kids were literally falling out of their desks.  Looking over my shoulder at the poor girl projected behind me, I had to join them.

"Ms. M--you UGLY! You was a DUCK!"

"Ms. M I wouldn'ta made fun of you, I'da just felt real sorry for you and probably not talked to you at all."

"Well, you come a long way, Ms. M."

After they had calmed down, I continued with my lesson. Ralph (the 6'2" trouble-maker) felt the need to talk over me the entire time, and I had to stop on several occasions to chastise him. Finally, I was nearing my conclusion:

"The earth is constantly changing, just like you.  Think back to my 6th grade picture.  Would you have recognized me? ("No.") Do I still look the same? Everyone shouted "NO!" in unison except for Ralph:

"YES. You STILL ugly!"

Without turning from the board I unthinkingly shot back, "Whatever. Your DAD thinks I'm cute!"

The class laughed almost as hard as when I showed the picture. Inappropriate? Probably. Satisfying? Most definitely.

 The more days go by, the more I realize how badly I suck at this.  So many people have tried to convince me otherwise:

"K, I find that hard to believe. I'm sure you're GREAT at it!!"

"I'm sure you're just hard on yourself.  You are probably WONDERFUL."

You're wrong. I'm not saying these things so that I can get my ego stroked, I'm saying them because they are true. Hopefully they won't be true for the whole year, but they most certainly are now. Pray that I will begin to focus on the positive and that I will learn to enjoy this job and these kids instead of hating my life Monday through Friday. Pray that the Lord will equip me to do this job well so that these kids get what they need.

I'm going to Tuscaloosa this weekend! Not before getting my ass kicked by a bunch of 8th graders for another five days though!  

There's Always Somethin'

My mornings lately have been less than ideal.  First, there was the speeding ticket.  The next morning, my car wouldn't start.  I got that fixed in time to drive to work this morning and get in a wreck.

Ok, not a bad wreck.  But a wreck bad enough for Mrs. Sally Dickins of Greenville, SC to file an insurance claim that will leave me with a sizable deductable, I'm sure.  

The funny thing is, I've fantasized about having a wreck on the way to school several mornings. Please don't take this the wrong way.  I'm not suicidal (yet).  I just like to act out in my head all the little scenarios that might prevent me from stepping over RMS's threshold and committing my day to chaos and anxiety.  A little stream-of-consciousness to illustrate (just for you, Mrs. Hawkins):

Did I get everything at Harris Teeter for our density column lab? Got the syrup, vinegar, and food coloring--oh gosh did I remember to feed Buckley before I left? Food col--this is a terrible idea.  The day will end and I'll be stuck cleaning up syrup from every surface.  They'll get into the food coloring and dye everything blue and someone will without a doubt drink the apple cider vinegar on a dare...maybe I should change the lab...school starts in fifty minutes.  Too late.  Fifty minutes.  Fifty minutes 'til my day starts. I wish the drive were longer...7:05?I'm never going to get the lab set up before 8:15! I wish the drive were shorter...Did I save the power point to my jump drive? Shoot! I forgot to print out my lesson plan to turn into Mr. E...so much for getting on his good side early on...Ok if I didn't save it to my jump drive I'll just put everything on the dry erase board and make do.  Am I really talking about the lithosphere today? I didn't even know what that was until last night and I'm supposed to be teaching it? If the kids ask me any question outside of the paragraph I read, then I'm just going to have to tell them I have no clue.  Or make something up. Oh! I did feed Buckley because I noticed there was only a little left in the bag--should've gotten some more at Harris Teeter...poor lonely Buckley...who am I kidding?! Poor me! He's probably still asleep.  I wish I were still asleep. I wonder what would happen if I accidentally ran into that telephone pole? It would probably mess up my car pretty bad.  I'd have to get it towed.  That would definitely rule school out for the day.  But then I'd have to pay for it to get fixed...A tornado would be better.  Not one bad enough to kill me.  Just, you know, mangle me bad enough to put me in the hospital for at least a few days.  Insurance would probably cover everything. Yeah, tornado would probably be best.  That or the swine flu.  That way, I could miss school and people wouldn't even be mad at me! In fact, they'd feel sorry for me!  They'd bring me soup! Surely the swine flu isn't that hard to contract when you work at a middle school...at least I have options...

As I was complaining to my mom that not only do I have a stressful and all-consuming job, but also an increasingly difficult life outside of work (what with money worries and licensing requirements and residency claiming...), she told me something I sort of already knew but definitely didn't want to hear: Welcome to the rest of your adult life.

Shoot.

Today at school was no better, no worse.  All my classes are now mixed up and switched around, as we had to take on new students to relieve another team and even out our numbers in the process.  The result is that I have all the same boys, but in different mixtures.  Plus seven girls in 3rd block.  I can't really tell yet, but I think this is how the rest of the year might look:

1st block: awesome.

2nd block: not so great.

3rd block: horrendous.

4th block: bad, but might have potential.

It should be interesting to watch the class with the girls.  I'm glad I have a little more estrogen in the room now, but I can already tell those boys are going to spend most of the class trying to get the girls' attention.

My assistant principal came in and observed me 4th block.  Luckily, he came in right when the whole class was screaming at each other to "SHUT UP!!!"  He basically couldn't have chosen a worse moment (whatever. yes he could've.).  He probably thinks I'm incapable.  He's probably right. We have formal observations coming up.  That means that the administration come in and basically grades us.  If we're not where they want us to be, we get put on an improvement plan.  Or fired. 

I've got to stop being Negative Nancy.  Here's the funny of the day.  My kids have recently pointed out that the angrier I get, the more southern my voice becomes.

"Chill out, brah! She gettin' dat ALABAMA accent!"

"Ms. M, you know that when you get mad you get dat ALABAMA accent on!"

"Brah! She at like ninety five percent Alabama voice! You playin' too much! She fixin' to get all ALABAMA on yo ass!"

Apparently, my being passionate and southern have something to do with one another. Although I never considered myself much of either before coming here...

Shades of Gray

Today in our "moment of silence" I prayed for my kids.  I prayed that I would love them for that 75 minutes they were with me--no matter how impatient I got.  I prayed for patience with them, compassion for them, and kindness towards them.  

And you know what? Today I actually had a good day.  I'm not saying that every day I pray that prayer I'm not going to have issues or get frustrated, but it definitely changed my attitude before I even began teaching.  Which needed to take place since on the way to work I got a $145 ticket.  Yeah, that happened.

Today we learned about plate tectonics. To start out, I had them crack the chocolate layer of a Milky Way and maneuver the candy bar to mimic convergent, divergent, and transform boundaries.  Before I passed the candy out, I told them about my morning and how they were essentially eating $200 chocolate; if I hadn't gone to the grocery store before work I wouldn't have gotten a ticket.  They were amazed that white people got pulled over too.

The best thing about it was I think they actually learned something.  Other than how to piss off a "country" girl. 

Far be it from me to go a day without getting myself into some sort of a mess, though.  At least this one was funny.  As I was explaining convection currents, I made the analogy of a hair dryer blasting hot air upwards to split the plates apart.  To illustrate my point more clearly, I actually drew a hair dryer on the board with air shooting out of it.  First of all, that was a dumb analogy in the first place (but again, I'm an English major, not a science person).  Secondly, and unfortunately for me, the hair dryer looked more like a penis than anything else--a fact I realized as I grandly finished the last stroke of my "air current."  I could not control the class for a solid five minutes.  And to tell the truth, I couldn't really blame them.  I was having to turn my face to the board to keep from laughing right along with them.  My maturity level has dropped since I've graduated from college.

Let me back up.

Last week was the worst week I've had by far.  I'll skip the day-to-day drudgery and get directly to Thursday--the day I'll likely remember forever as the day I realized I didn't know what the hell I was signing up for when I accepted this job.  Third block came in, rowdy as always.  I spent 75% of my instructional time explaining how to go to the bathroom (in a line, quietly, in the restroom six at a time, no loitering in other classrooms' doors, no pushing, shoving, wandering, etc.).  I did this because we've tried to go several times, only to have our bathroom privileges taken away for the rest of the week because they can't do it.  Well today I was determined that they would go and that they would do it correctly.  After I wasted 10 minutes lining them up, I let them out of the door to watch them scatter and run, laughing, pushing, and shoving all the while.  They weren't in the bathroom for two minutes when Ms. D came out of her room.

"Ms. M, I'm sorry.  But every time your boys go to the bathroom, they beat on the wall adjacent to my room and we can't get anything done."

Before the words were completely out of her mouth, I was standing beside the boys at the urinals.  "IN MY CLASS. NOW."

After I got them back in their seats, I unleashed my wrath.  A solid month of pent up frustration.  I don't remember much of what I said except for something along the lines of "No wonder you're failing if you can't even go to the bathroom without me holding your hand blahblah I feel more like a babysitter than a teacher in this block blahblah."

When the bell rang, I walked the first half of the line out into the hallway, where I remained until the last of the class was out.  Then I walked into my room and saw it.  I saw the binders from my other classes that had been knocked onto the floor, papers ripped out.  I saw the trash can that had been overturned.  My eyes followed the paper ball trail to the lab sinks, which had all been turned on and were splattering the textbooks.  As I walked towards my desk, I noticed that all the tests I had just graded had been ripped up and scattered.  

All my anger had been purged minutes before.  This was a different emotion; frustration, helplessness, and hurt mixed with pure exhaustion.  

"Don't ever cry in front of your students.  In their culture, it is a sign of weakness; a sign that you can be walked all over.  They see you cry and they know what gets to you.  They WILL use it." 

I've heard this repeated over and over, and I began to say it to myself. "Lock it up, Ms. M."  I couldn't.  I stood at the door, back to 4th block students (who were looking around in shock and slowly picking up the mess) and started sobbing. Uncontrollably.  The more I tried to hold it in, the faster the tears flowed.  

"How can I continue to do this? Why am I working so hard for a group of people who hate me so much? What am I doing differently than anyone else to have this happen? What do I do now?" The thing is, I've been in difficult situations before.  The difference is that in the past, I've at least had some inkling of what to do to make it better or to get out of it.  

Not now.  I have no clue what I'm supposed to do, and no one else does either.  It's not something that anyone has an easy answer to, or else they'd have shared it with me a long time ago.

Ms. F appeared at my door, concern on her face.  "Who did this?"  

"I-I-I d-don't knowww!" 

"Go into my room.  Sit at my desk."  Ms. F gathered my students and ushered them into her classroom.  Now 40 pairs of eyes looked at me as I pathetically hiccuped in the corner. Ms. F walked in and calmly delivered a sermon on how teachers were people just like them--people with emotions.  She explained that I wasn't a weak person, I was just a person who cared about them--evidenced by the fact I hadn't jumped ship after something like that.  She then told my class that they'd be eating with hers while I "collected my thoughts." 

"You know," she told me when we were back in my room.  "RMS is a tough place, even if you're not a first year teacher.  Keep your chin up.  You'll get up tomorrow and be stronger for this.  Just know: when you're through here, you'll be able to teach anyone.  And I mean anyone."

I knew she was right, sort of.  But that didn't stop me from spending my entire "collecting my thoughts" time sitting in the corner, hugging my knees, and crying noisily.

I also knew this was going to be hard.  I just don't think I knew what "hard" meant yet.  I haven't ever really had it "hard." I've been blessed with blue skies and smooth sails for most of my life.  It's easy to trust God during those times.  It's also easy to forget your need for Him then, too.  I've seldom been more keenly aware of my depravity than these days.  Even though I'm supposedly doing this job to serve those in need, most of my thoughts concerning my job are self-centered.  I can't do what I need to do with these students on a day-t0-day basis.  Nor can I find it in myself to love these kids who've grown up trying to protect themselves by acting completely unlovable.  

Thank you so much for all of you who've already told me you are praying for me and for my kids.  Know that you are a powerful part of this, right alongside me.

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

Newton, help me.

Today was picture day.  It was funny getting all the boys ready; they are just as concerned with their appearances as the girls.

"Ms. M, you gotta mirror?"

"Maaann, wish I'd known today was picture day."

"Why, Jemon? Why does it matter?"

"Mann, 'cause I'da gotten up earlier and fixed my hair, THAT'S why."

"Jemon, you don't have any hair."

"You wrong for that, Ms. M."

Our school requires that we line the middle schoolers up to go everywhere.  They are to walk in the halls silently in a single file line.  Do you know how difficult it is to get them to do that? It is the bane of my existence, and theirs.  No, I don't know why it's the rule, but please just freaking do it so we don't have to walk back out and do it all over again. And again.  And again.

Ohh, the line.  Teachers judge you by it.  Students test you with it.  If your class is out of line, you suck as a teacher.  If your class is silent and single-file, you could be teaching them how to google porn in class and they'd still think you were the best teacher on the planet.

Unfortunately, my line usually falls in the former category.  It zig-zags and curves, often with several gaps, always accompanied with noise and pushes and shoves.  Ms. F raises her eyebrows as we pass by.  My assistant principle notices and makes eye contact with me.  It's sad that I might very well feel more pleased with myself if at the end of the year we had a flawless line than if they knew they steps of the scientific method.

Today we created a geologic timeline (the earth's entire history).  I started off by having them create their own lives' timelines.  I asked for volunteers to share.  Here are the highlights:

Me--"JORDAN. Get away from the window. Quit watching the girls play ball. Come read us your timeline."

Jordan--"Aright. I wuz born October 12, 1995.  Then, in 2000, I went to kindergarten.  In 2005 i started growin my hair out, August 2006 I got dreads, and now (September 16 2009) I have long dreads."

Me--"Jordan, you're right. You really do belong with the girls.  Your whole life's timeline--centered solely around your hair"

Jordan--"Yeah, see I TOLD y--wait, wait.  Naw Ms. M you dirty for that."

Rashee--"Well, I was born December 2, 1995, I moved to Charlotte April 15, 2000.  My grandmother died October 28, 2003.  I graduated elementary school in May 2006, and on August 28, 2009 I met the love of my life.  That's you, Ms. M.  You really on my timeline, you can come check."

Then when we actually got into the discussion about the history of the earth:

"How did the humans not get eaten by the dinos?"

Me: "The whole history of earth is cut into two Eons."

"How did they cut the earth in half??"

Me: "...and the rock layers tell us about the history of earth, even before humans existed."

"Ok well how do all the rocks stick on the earth's core?"

Me: "Gravity.  Anyways, the enviromental ch--"

"Well how do gravity get IN the earth?

Me: It doesn't get in the earth.  Or anything.  It's just there. It's a physical force. But like I was saying, environmental changes inf--

"Ok right but there ain't no gravity in space, am I right?"

Me: "Yes, but--"

"Ok so HOW DO GRAVITY GET IN THE EARTH? HOW DO IT GET IN THERE?"

"What did the first person do? Wasn't he just bored just sittin around there? Did he just wake up and there he was or how did he get there? How did he have more humans?"

Me: "Well there had to be more than one for reproduction."

"Yeah but how did they learn how to have sex?"

Most of my students failed our first test.  Apparently, I'm an awesome teacher.  And how does gravity get in the earth, anyway?

And another rap...

"Ms. M know I love her; she my baby girl.

She ain't just my teacher, she my whole wide world.

I love walkin to her classroom every single day;

Without her in my life I just might turn gay!"

Stop this train, I want to get off and go home again!

Today sucked.

I promise I don't write this blog to air out my complaints or solicit sympathy.  I know very well that no one likes to read a laundry list of "reasons my life is miserable today."  I honestly started it so that people could keep up with my teaching adventures.

Well in order to keep up with my teaching adventures, you need to know that it sucks.  Today I had an M&M lab planned where they used the different colors of M&Ms as their data to create graphs.  Sounds fun, right? Sure was nice of me to buy them chocolate with my FAT paycheck, huh? Especially when they are so kind to me every day; it's only what they deserve.

I will admit on my part that I probably should have planned a little better.  But who could have guessed that six hours into my day I would be sitting at the front of the room with my head in my hands as candy flew around the room, fights broke out over stolen M&Ms, and 1/4 of the class was engaged not in my graphing activity but in a freestyle rap about how this class sucked.  If I were feeling inspired as opposed to furious-slash-exhausted, I would have added a couple of verses myself.  After they left my room in complete disarray (which I left untouched to deal with tomorrow), I stared at a stack of 18 calculators that needed to be returned to the math teacher down the hall.  He had loaned me 20.  Great.  

They don't respect me, that's all there is to it.  I don't know if it's because I'm not even a decade older than them, I don't know if it's because I'm new.  "MOVE, Ms. M!" Norman says playfully to me in the lunchroom.

"I don't take orders from 13-year-olds."

"And I don't take orders from 23-year-olds!"

There's no way he could know that (I told them I was 40), but I kind of see his point.  They see me as almost an older sister they can mess around with. "Snow BUNny!!" they all call after me down the hall.  Whatever the hell that means.

I took up my first note today.  It was pretty much the highlight of my day (which, granted, isn't saying a whole lot). It happened to be between Rashee and Kia.

"So I was spittin game to Precious last nite but then I got back and said sumthin about Yasmine in my status and Precious saw and was like why you actin foney? I was like no Yasmine my girl.  Then Yasmine textin me mad cuz I was with Precious before. She just

mad cuz I said I didn't want nothin serious."

"Dam. Dats fckd up. You gon break up wit Yasmine? What did Precious say bout u HA?"

After I took it up ["Mannn, Ms. M--Chill! Why you takin my stuff?"], I kind of forgot about it until lunch.  I read it in the cafeteria and made an immediate beeline to Rashee and Kia.  I put my arm around Rashee.  "Rashee, man. You KNEW Precious was going to see what you put about Yasmine in your status.  That was just STUPID.  You were ASKING for trouble; I don't even feel sorry for you!"

His eyes got wide. "Man, Ms. M know about Yasmine! Where you get that information at?? KIA! She know about Precious! Where you get that information from, Ms. M?"  Realization flashes across his face. "Ooh you read my note! She read the note, Ki! Ohh, you WRONG for that, M. You wrong. WHATEVER. It ain't nothin.  It's all good and I'm still talkin to BOTH of them!"

It's 11:15. I've got a study guide to create and grades to calculate. Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday.

Missing you.

I went to the Alabama game in Atlanta this weekend.  I was so excited to go to the game, cheer on my team, and see my friends and family.  I did all of those things, but I left sad.  Instead of traveling back home behind the team bus, I'm headed the opposite direction.  I think that seeing some of the people I miss the most just reminds me of what I'm so far away from now.  And then my friends who weren't there but should have been made me feel like I was missing something the whole weekend.  I kept checking to make sure I had my ticket and my purse...

I missed a call long distance call from East Asia from Susan and Lyndsey.  I can't remember the last time I didn't talk to Suey on a game day!  The whole weekend I wanted to turn to her and tell her something or ask her about the stats for the game.  It was weird wandering around East Andrews without her.  I sound like I am talking about a significant other.

The thought of going back to school tomorrow has painted my day off a shade of gray.  I'm not ready for the week ahead, even if it's a short one.  I already feel so behind as far as work; like I should have been doing stuff for school all weekend.  But that would have been miserable and exhausting.  How do I balance it all?

I keep asking God to show those kids to me through His eyes.  I need to love them like He loves them, but that requires me to see them in a completely different light.  And I need patience--patience like I've never needed before.  It's funny, the more I try to meet these students' needs, the more I realize I need myself.  

Good night, good night.  If you're reading this, know that you're missed.

Rashee's song for me today...

(as we are lined up waiting for the bell and the rest of the class is giving him a beat)

in the spirit of Biz Markie's "Just a Friend"

"Ohh Ms. M, you--you got what I need

 But you say I'm just a student,

 You say I'm just your student

 OOOOHHH Ms M..."

Is this real life?

So I'm a teacher now.  And of all things I don't have time for, it's definitely blogging.  But I'll thank myself later, and right now it sounds much more appealing than grading papers or thinking about behavior management strategies.

A lot of things are competing for space in my head right now, but the most prevalent thought these days seems to be "What am I doing??" I have never in my life felt so unprepared or unqualified for a position. I've been through training.  I'm a good public speaker.  I can plan pretty good lessons.  I care a lot about kids.  All of these things fly out the window the second I enter my middle school.  Instead of remembering all these things about myself, I am overwhelmed with a sense of desperation.  

"How did I get here?"  That's another one of those thoughts that keep surfacing.  Just nine months ago I was living in Tuscaloosa surrounded by friends and family.  My days consisted of sleeping late, reading for class, and deciding where to eat for dinner. The most stressful thing on my agenda was maybe a research paper or deciding what in the hell you wear to a 35 degree football game and still look cute.

Now look at me.  Actually don't.  The bags under my eyes might be roomy enough for even Susan to pack a whole weekend's worth of clothing in.  My hair looks like a schoolgirl's because I haven't had time to get it cut in three months.  I am breaking out from lack of sleep or surplus of stress--or both.  My days are spent lecturing students on how NOT to flood the room with the lab's eye washers, my nights laboring over worksheets I know will be wadded up on the floor in mere hours. 

My last block is a nightmare.  It is the reason I wake up when it's still dark outside with a pit in my stomach.  I've tried everything--only to be laughed at, rebelled against, or otherwise ignored.  Every. Single. Day.  I don't think I've taught them one thing yet, and I don't know how I'm going to.  I plead with them to care, plead with them to become invested in the systems that have worked for all my other classes.  I'm sorry, though.  I have a kid in there that started a full-force riot at school last year when he taxed the other kids for money using threats.  I mean, ambulances, police cars, an injured teacher...This kid has been to jail--more than once.  He doesn't give a crap about my raffle tickets or behavior point deductions.  I know I'm not supposed to say those things but that's how I feel. You tell me what to do with him and how to make him care.  Yesterday I couldn't even hold in my tears before the last two kids were gone.

"What's wrong, Ms. M?? Is it 'cause you didn't eat lunch?  You know, you don't really need to go on a diet."

Thanks DeAngelo.

People of authority actually put me in this position.  I almost laugh out loud every time I look around me.  I am in charge of 83 students' educations.  I call their parents and their parents call me ma'am.  Don't they know I just finished school myself? And that "responsibility" to me meant merely "remember to take the trash out on Tuesdays (or was it Thursdays?)?" One of our unit plans is entitled "Hydrology." I haven't the faintest clue what that is, excepting that it probably has something to do with water.

It's not all that bad.  I just feel so disconnected from most of the people I love, and so disconnected from my former self.  Some moments make me remember why I moved and took this job in the first place.  My first two classes were sent from heaven.  Take Ontario.  He's so cute I can't stand it. When I first saw him, I thought for sure he was the younger sibling of one of my students, judging by his size.  That's the funny thing with middle-schoolers.  Some of them look like babies while others tower over me.  I digress.  Ontario sits in the second row and just grins at me all day.  I make all my students shake my hands when they walk in the door, and Ontario was late today.  When he came in, he walked directly over to me.  Assuming he was coming for our handshake, I reached my hand out--only to be surprised when he threw his arms around me for a hug.  Then, after lunch (he had been out of my class for two blocks already) he caught up to me in the hall.

"Ms. M?"

"Hey Ontario!"

"Ms. M! You made me get a 95 on Mr. K's test instead of a 100!"

"Now how did I do that?"

"Well, the last question was 'Who's your favorite teacher?' and I put you.  But I was supposed to put him, so I got it wrong!"

Thank you, now maybe I can survive 4th block without crying today.  

When I call parents last night, someone picks up at Elijah's house.  Elijah is another one of those faces you just want to pinch. 

"Hello?"

"Hey! Is this Elijah's mom?"

[can't understand response, sounds affirmative]

"Oh, well, hey! This is Ms. M, Elijah's science teacher. I just wanted to call and let you know Elijah had a great week his first week of school--"

"No, Ms. M! This is Elijah!!"

"ELIJAH! Are you trying to be sneaky and intercept my calls?"

laughter. "No, Ms. M! Here's my mama."

After I'd talked to his mom for a while, I hear him begging his mom to give the phone to his dad so I can give him the good report too.  Then he takes the phone away from his dad and asks me all about school the next day and tells me all about the shot he just got for his physical. He didn't want me to hang up.

So there's that.  And the endless supply of funny stories or dinner conversation starters.  Teaching all boys is about the funniest thing that could have ever happened to me.  I consider myself a fairly girly-girl, so it has been interesting to be surrounded by so much testosterone all day, every day.  Burping, flatulence, sexual innuendos...these are all common daily occurences.  I ask them several times a day what I did to deserve it all.  The second day of school, I asked them to tell me the negative impressions they had of me when they walked into my door (a lead-in to our discussion of stereotypes).  Top responses included "aneorexic cheerleader" and "country" before Da'Juan (who'd been giving me eyes from the moment he sauntered in) chimed in with "kicky."  I'd never heard of that one, but I figured it meant "peppy" and fit alongside the cheerleader part, so I wrote it on the board.  

"No, Ms. M.  I said kinky."

How do you respond to that? I didn't.

Then there's Rashee--the one who, when I asked if anyone had questions the first day, immediately asked for my number.  He is a handful to deal with in class, but gosh he's funny.  It's hard to discipline him when I am cracking up.  At lunch, he was making fun of Brett, saying he couldn't get any girls.  

"Latoya! Brett says 'wassup.'" [Latoya rolls her eyes] "DAMN, bra! I told you you can't pull no female!"

"It's ok, Brett," I say.  "Just ask another girl the same thing about Rashee and see what happens."

"Do it, Ms. M!" Rashee says.  "I can pull ANY. GIRL. In here! Do it!" 

I look around, seeing only the cafeteria ladies.  He notices.  "Yeah, Ms. M! Even the lunch ladies! Hey--lunch ladies!"

He runs over to them as I watch, amused.  At first they shake their heads. "Sit down, chile!" But he continues to approach them, smiling.  He nearly knocks them down with his hug.  Sure enough, their disapproval quickly melts into laughter and returned hugs.  He returns triumphant.  "See? I told you! Even the lunch ladies."

"Rashee," I point out, "It's one thing when the ladies approach you.  It's another when you force yourself on them!"

"Ohhh, Ms. M you'd better hush--I'll pull you too!"

I start laughing.

"Why you laughing? 75 minutes is a loong time, Ms. M. That's how long you got me for.  I can talk for 75 minutes! Yeah I'll pull you--you just watch.  How 'bout you go ahead and make it easy for me and just give me yo number.  I gotta bike you can ride on the back of.  I'll take you someplace reaal nice."

It's going to be an interesting year.