Merry Christmas, Dad!

I bet you thought I forgot about you. Instead of a tie or a pair of cuff links, you get....My 100th blog entry. I didn't even do that on purpose!

My dad is the most difficult person to buy for, for a number of reasons. First of all, if my dad really wants something, he simply goes out and gets it. He doesn't really mention it to anyone until it's already in his possession. Second of all, anything you could possibly think of as a reasonable option for a gift, someone else has already gotten it for him.

Par example: My dad loves food and wine. Cute wine stoppers? Got 'em. Wine stem charms? Hundreds. Garlic press? Check. Frank Stitt's latest cookbook? Two copies. Electric cheese grater? Yes. I could go on forever.

Thirdly, my dad has expensive taste. He's going to hate that I put that out there, but I guess it's not like it's some big secret. I have expensive taste too, I just suck it up because I can't afford to do anything about it. Case in point: I'm wearing leggings from Target with the Marc Jacobs earrings I begged for for Christmas. Also I carry my own beer to the bar in my purse so I can eat a decent dinner beforehand.

ANYWAYS. Dad. Hard to buy for.

The past few years I have written things for my dad in place of a gift. It works out pretty well because he enjoys that a lot more than anything I could buy him. I've written out memories from vacations and family memoirs--some funny, some sappy. The problem this year? I had no clue what to write. I felt like I'd exhausted the obvious topics and was stressed the entire week preceding Christmas trying to figure out what vignette would be the perfect gift for dad.

And there I had it: the perfect gift. My Dad gave me a perfect gift one time, and I think it reveals a lot about him, so that's what I'm going to write about this year.

It was February 21. I was turning eleven years old. Most eleven-year-old birthday parties consist of some combination of musty skates, cake with neon icing and noisy arcade games. Not mine. I spent my birthday at an antique auction in Asheville, North Carolina, listening to an old auctioneer drone...

"Collection of 19th-century charcoal sketches, we'll start the bidding at $125, do I hear $125?"

I had accompanied my dad on the premise that it would be a fun "father-daughter weekend, just the two of us;" a line that could convince me to go to Siberia in the middle of winter. I was definitely a daddy's girl, and as a new sister appeared like clockwork every two years I became increasingly resentful of the fact that I had to share him. Even if it meant skipping out on a birthday party, I'd willingly be his bidding buddy if it meant leaving my sisters behind.

I'm sure we did some fun things in between auctions, but that's not what sticks out in my mind when I look back at that weekend. What sticks out in my mind was being the youngest person in that huge, florescent-lit room by at least 20 years. Trying to figure out where in the world the bathroom was. Attempting to calculate how long it would take to auction off a thousand antiques if each one sold at an average of four minutes. I remember feeling a little sorry for myself as I sat still and silent in my folding chair.

What other kid spends their birthday watching a bunch of old people buy a bunch of old crap? Why can't they just buy it and get on with it? Why does it have to take soooo long??

I entertained myself by walking around and deciding what I'd buy if I had to choose only three things. I'd usually select the tacky stuff that no one else really wanted--a stuffed bird collection in a shadow box, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry, a framed monarch butterfly...

On the way home, I sat quietly in the passenger seat as we twisted through the mountains. "Kiley," my dad broke the silence. "Reach into the back and pick up the brown velvet box in that sack." I did as I was told. "I wanted to go ahead and give you your birthday present. Open it."

I opened the box and let out a little gasp. Inside was the most delicate, beautiful necklace I'd ever seen. Its chain was as fine as a strand of my hair, and at the bottom hung a silver teardrop with three diamonds in the middle, each one a little smaller than the one below. "This is for me?" I asked.

I lost everything when I was in middle school (some things never change). Homework, permission slips, shoes, glasses, jewelry. Definitely jewelry. And here was my dad, trusting me with a real necklace. Not just a real necklace, but the prettiest necklace in the world.

"Yes it's for you! Did you see it when I was bidding for it?"

I had been so busy with my framed monarch that I hadn't even noticed. I put the necklace on right there in the car and vowed that I would only wear it on special occasions and that I would never, ever lose it. I would be so careful with that necklace I'd never wonder where it was or what I'd done with it.

When we got home, I rushed inside to show my mom my present. My dad laughed while my mom protested, "That's not for her! Is that for me? That is NOT for her!!" I let her try it on, but not for long.

I pranced around to each of my sisters, "Look what Daddy got me for my birthday!" Unfortunately, they were too wrapped up in Spongebob Squarepants to give the wildly jealous reaction I'd been hoping for. That just goes to show they're not old enough for their tastes in fine jewelry to have developed like mine.

I sat in front of the mirror and stared at the precious stones sparkling against my crummy T-shirt. Even then I knew that it wasn't the beauty of the necklace that made it so special to me. It was the fact that my Daddy had picked it out for me. Though his hard work made it possible for us to get presents on our birthdays, he was never a part of the actual gift selection. But this one he had hand-chosen, just for me!

I wore that necklace every picture day from 6th-12th grade. I wore it on my first date. I wore it to prom and I wore it to graduation. For every milestone event there's pictures of, if you look closely you'll see those diamonds gracing my neck. And true to my promise, every time I took it off I'd put it in the same cushioned box on the same spot on my dresser.

The summer before I went to college, I noticed one day that the necklace wasn't in its place. I shrugged it off initially; one of my sisters had borrowed it, or this once I'd put it somewhere else. However, after weeks of it not turning up, I began to worry. I would never just put it down somewhere reckless, so where WAS it? I finally told my mother, despite being terrified of her response. Together, we turned the entire house upside down. We lifted every piece of furniture and even emptied out and sorted through the vacuum bags. No necklace. In fact, I only discovered more of my jewelry missing. I thought of the look that would be on Dad's face when I told him.

"Mom, I know I lose things a lot. But not this necklace. You know I always took good care of it."

Mom had a funny look on her face. "No, no. I know you did."

Long story short, we later learned that a housekeeper had been taking jewelry from our house for weeks. Ours was one of several homes she had stolen from. Though I was able to get a ring back, the necklace was not returned. My mom even called the lady one day.

"Listen. I'm not trying to get you into any trouble. I just want to know where the necklace is. If you sold it to a pawn shop, I just want to know where. That necklace is worth far more in sentimental value than it could be sold for."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I was devastated. Even thinking about it now, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. So many times during college, I'd put on a dress for a formal and think how pretty that necklace would look with it.

The day I graduated from Alabama, my family came to our house after the ceremony. We ate cake and drank champagne and I tried to be happy. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why this was cause to celebrate. For me, it signified the worst day of my life thus far: the day my college career officially ended. I was on the verge of tears the entire day. My parents gave me a watch. My grandparents gave me some graduation money, my sisters gave me hugs. Then before they left, my dad came up to me with one more box. "Proud of you," he said as he kissed the top of my head. I unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was a necklace that looked very familiar. I looked up at my dad, unable to hold the tears back now. "We got someone to replicate it," he said. "We tried to remember what it looked like the best we could; does it look right?"

It looked perfect.

Dad likes to joke that he'll never be as sweet as his dad (my grandfather is hands-down the sweetest, most gentle man on earth). He'll say, "Oh, if I only end up half as sweet as my dad, I'll be good." We always joke back that there's not a shot in hell.

I'll say it now, Dad, because you probably don't hear it very often: If we're going to be completely honest, you're off to a pretty good start. Give it twenty years and I'll think you'll give Dada a run for his money!

I love you Dad. Merry Christmas.

Is this bad?

The highlight of my day:

Watching Devonte Jefferson take a lunch tray full of macaroni and cheese to the face.

He pissed off the wrong girl and paid for it. Apparently, he had thrown his bread on her tray to get on her nerves. It had worked. Now, noodles and cheese sauce poured down his glasses and cheeks and rested in the folds of his plump neck. If I could have seen his eyes, I'm they were wide with shock. I turned on my heel so no one could see me laugh.

All right, that sounds terrible. Does this make it better? Devonte is the biggest bully ever. He is so mean, especially to my Hispanic kids, my disabled kids and my gay kids. NOT OKAY. I've tried to turn him in to administration for months, but nothing he did was severe enough in their eyes. Until this "food fight." Apparently, we can make fun of people's race and call kids "faggots," but tossing a yeast roll across the table is a no-no.

Whatevs. Bye-bye, Devonte! See you in ten days! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!!

Side note. I really love my boys, despite the tone of this post. I'm starting to realize how much I'm going to miss them when this is over. I think it is easier to love them this year because I don't get as frustrated with them. I already know the worst it can be, so I let things go more easily now. The ones that are still little and cute, I want to scoop them up and hug them to death. The ones that are big and bad and way too old for their age...well, I want to scoop them up and hug them to death too.

I watched their basketball game yesterday and screamed 'til I was hoarse; I was proud of them like they were my own boys. When someone would ask who just made the goal (shot? I'm not a basketball person?), I'd puff my chest and and answer, "Khalil. He's one of mine!" They'd make quick eye contact with me from the court, then act like they didn't see. But they did. I know because even though they are waaayyy too cool for school in that moment, the second they walk into my classroom the next day they are little kids again.

"Ms. M did you see that rebound??"

"Ms. M you saw me when I blocked that shot!?"

"You gon' be there again Thursday?"

I wish they'd keep that little kid face on all day instead of the grown face they assume most of the time. I like it much better.

Staff Christmas Party

"Umm, so what are you wearing to the staff Christmas party?" I asked Mrs. M after school on Friday.

"You're GOING to the staff Christmas party??" She responded.

"You're NOT!?!" In my mind, there was no question.

Fact: black people are way more fun than white people. I realized this in high school, where I was actually a minority student. Our core-study classes were pretty segregated, unfortunately, but I found myself much preferring the company in my elective classes. Who else had the balls to lock the ornery Mrs. W in her lab closet or offer Mrs. L weed in exchange for an A?

In college, I found myself missing that culture; I was surrounded by a pretty homogenous (learned that word last year when I was teaching Chemistry) group. Thankfully, God soon led me straight through the front doors of RMS, where I'm never at a loss. My co-workers are crazy and hilarious and probably some of the most fun people I know. I went to a mid-afternoon jewelry party hosted by Ms. L last year and had more fun than I'd had in months.

Which brings us up to date. I had been looking forward to this party since I got the invitation in my box a month ago and the thought hadn't even crossed my mind that anyone would consider not attending.

"Mrs. M," I said. "When else in your LIFE are you going to have an opportunity to attend a staff party like THIS? I mean, if our co-workers are as fun as they are at work, think about what they'd be like outside of RMS' walls!"

This assumption was confirmed when Mrs. D and Mrs. J stopped me in the hall about 5 minutes later. "Ms. M. We gon' get our husbands to drive us an' we gon' bring enough moonshine for you too, so you'd BETTER be there!! We gon' turn that place OUT!"

"Wouldn't miss it for anything," I said, and meant it. I was actually pissed that I had a tacky Christmas party hosted by TFA friends to attend later that night. I was NOT going to cut this one short.

Ms. D picked me up at 7, and we arrived at the home of Mr. O shortly after. I flung open the door. "The white girls are here!!"

The whole place burst into laughter. "SHE SAID, 'THE WHITE GIRLS ARE HERE!' HAHAHAHAH M, YOU A FOOL!"

"HAHA yeah, but she know she right, though."

As I'd carefully planned, I chose this moment to take out a Bud Light from my clutch and put a camouflage koozy around it. If I was going to represent 50% of the white population there, I was going to take it and run with it. Again, laughter flooded the room. I was a hit!! A novelty, even.

Mrs. J eyed my beer. "She even got a cover for it!! Looks like I came with the wrong folks!"

"Yeah, Mrs. J. You shoulda been rollin' with the white girls!"

"Yeah I shoulda been rollin' with the white girls!! HAHAHAHA!!"

Highlights of the night included but were not limited to:

1. teaching/performing of the Toot it and Boot it dance

2. the women talking about their husbands in ways I cannot repeat because my grandmother reads this blog

3. Mrs. A forcing me to play christmas carols on the piano while Mrs. J sang along

4. our rich, white, usually no-nonsense principal slapping herself on the rear end while the entire staff chanted "GHETTO BOOTY!"

5. a collaborative reciting of "white people rules" vs. "black people rules" (which deserve a post in and of themselves but begin with "I'm very sensitive, please don't make me cry," and "Don't touch my f***ing food," respectively).

I laughed so hard I cried and am still laughing as I sit here recounting it. Most people go to their office party out of obligation; mine was probably the best time I'll have all year.

The other party? Would have probably been fun if I hadn't set the bar so high early in the night. Let's face it, though. It never really stood a chance.

Cameron

Cameron is a mess.

A big, hot mess.

He is soo needy. He has to have my complete attention 100% of the time or he gets moody. He's like that with all teachers; I don't think he gets enough adult attention at home or something.

At the beginning of the school year, I had to pull Cameron aside and have a conversation with him about being appropriate. He liked to call me "sweetie," "baby," etc. and announce to the class what we had done the previous evening or how he had picked out the outfit I had on that day. He thinks he's smooth, but I've yet to see him with any girls on the 500 hall.

Today after school I was grading papers in my room. Cameron flung open the door and was at my desk in a matter of about 2.5 seconds. "Cameron. You're in my female-only zone," I said, holding up my palm and nodding toward the taped-off borders around my workspace. Cameron rolled his eyes and continued to approach me. "You have no conception of personal space. None at all. You're like a shadow, only worse because you talk!"

Cameron began to thumb through the papers on my desk and pick up all of my personal items. "QUIT BEING NOSY! Go back to tutoring. I've already put in my time with you today."

Cameron wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Ughhh. Go away." He picked up my scarf and wrapped it around his face.

"Ms. M dis smell good. You always be smellin' good when you first come in. You smell like the mall or sumthin." He fixed the scarf around his neck and began strutting around the classroom teaching the empty classroom in his best Ms. M voice.

"Oh my goodness. Put my scarf down. You are not funny." I said with an ill-disguised laugh. He was now studying my scissors.

"Ms. M can I have a lock of your hair?"

"Whaaatt??? What in the world do you need my hair for?"

"Now see you be axin' too many questions."

"CAMERON THAT IS THE WEIRDEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD. YOU ARE REALLY STARTING TO FREAK ME OUT AND I NEED YOU TO LEAVE NOW."

Cameron threw my scarf down and huffed toward the door. "Ugh Ms. M. You always be ruinin' things. See here I come tryna be nice to you and develop dat teacher-student relationship. You know where I be feelin' safe to come to you and axe questions and get help with science and axe you on dates!!"

"Ask me on dates?"

"Whoa Ms. M see now I didn't say that, you did. But we can talk about workin' sumthin' out if you want. What's that burnin' smell in here?"

"It's a student that crossed me one too many times. Got on my nerves, so I used him as a lab experiment."

"Ms. M you LITTLE. You can't even lift these lab tables. How you gon' get one of yo students into a beaker??"

"Now see, YOU'RE asking too many questions! Get out of here or you're next!!"

I heard his laughter fading all the way down the hall.

A Day of Hookie in Pictures

hookie.

because i need a break from children of the corn.

and my car wouldn't work yesterday.

and i burned myself during a lab.

and said a bad word in 3rd block.

whoops.

cinnamon rolls. coffees.

bucklies.

christmas-y aromas.

dips on decks.

overly dramatic tvs.

holiday crafts.

Erin was off of work today, and we had so much fun being bums. She was responsible for aforementioned crafts, I just watched and murmured approvingly. She was also responsible for that DANK breakfast spread I woke up to at 9:30. The only time I thought about school or students was when I was eating the corn dip (see paragraph 1, line 2).

Playing hookie wasn't nearly as fun when I was actually IN school! Hope your day was as lovely as mine.

Love, Ms. M

*Thanks, Mrs. S-K M for the wonderful advice!

Oh na na, what's my name?

You know the song.

If you don't, you should. It's my JAM. I was playing it during class ("Whatchu know 'bout some Drake, Ms. M??"), which got us into a discussion on names.

"What's your middle name, Ms. M?"

"Shaniqua."

"No it ain't."

"Yes it is."

"No it ain't."

"Why would I lie about something like that? And why is it so hard to believe?"

This is where my kids started to beat around the bush. They wanted to let me know Shaniqua was not a typical white girl name without bringing up race.

"Well...it just don't FIT you. You know?"

"Tell that to my Mom; she's the one who picked it out. In fact, before my sister was born, I went by Shaniqua."

The looked at each other. Smirked.

"Naww, that is NOT yo middle name. Look at you."

"I can't imagine being named anthing else. Guess I'm just used to it."

"Ms. M. Lemme break it down for you," Anthony offered. He motioned to my Asian kid, Chy Ching. "It'd be like if my name was Anthony 'Ching' Washington."

I shrugged my shoulders. "So? I think that would make for a good name. What's wrong with Anthony Ching?" Chy laughed.

"Ok," Raquon finally gave in. "Ms. M, 'Shaniqua' ain't just a black name. Shaniqua a GHETTO name. It jus' don't...GO."

"What are you talking about Raquon? I'm the original G."

At this point, the class was in hysterics.

"MS. MMMMMMM!!!! NO YOU NOT!!!! YOU LIKE THE WHITEST PERSON WE KNOW!!!!"

"I'm like the ONLY white person you know!" We are all laughing now.

"Whatchu gon' name yo kids?" They want to know. "I bet she gon' name them sumthin' like...sumthin' like 'HEIDI!'"

"Naw, naw she gon' name her son somethin' like 'Connor!'"

They continued with the whitest names they could come up with.

"Landon!"

"Carly!"

"Logan!"

We had seven minutes left of class. I had lost control, had no hope of getting it back and no desire to try. So I just laughed along with them.

TWO POSTS IN ONE AFTERNOON?!?!

I'm going crazy with these posts.

The long and short of it: I had a rough day today. As in, I had to walk outside of the classroom three times to get my composure. If one more child had yelled at me, disrespected me or even gave me a bad look, I MIGHT have done something to get myself fired. I found myself on the verge of tears for only about the 3rd time this year (see, haven't we come a long way!?). Not tears of sadness. Tears of anger and frustration.

Over it.

But then: As I'm standing at my outdoor duty post watching kids walk to the bus lot AKA herding cattle (really rude cattle with attitudes), I quickly realize I should have brought my coat. It is COLD! I clutch my sides and keep the lines moving with violent head nods. De'Queius pauses to tell me goodbye.

"Ms. M! You look freezing! You want my jacket?" He begins to take off his backpack and tug at his sleeves.

"De'Queius, stop! You're going home! You need your jacket!

He continues. "I can just get it tomorrow. You gon' freeze out here!"

I assured him that I was tougher than I looked, but that he was a true gentleman for offering. So sweet. Doesn't take much to make my day at that place!

WHOOPS. My B.

Jeffrey (yes fish sticks Jeffrey) won't stay in his seat in the morning. That's the thing with boys. They always wanna be UP and DOING SOMETHING. I like calm. I feel much more in control of the sitch if all my boys are seated. They could be rolling blunts at their desks and I'd still feel more at ease than I do when they bounce around the room to steal pencils.

I kid. Sort of.

I hate the half hour in the morning where the kids are in my classroom but class hasn't started yet because breakfast is still being served in the cafeteria. None of my boys go to breakfast, but I can't start until the bell has rung. Thus, 25 boys with unfathomable energy for that time of day are held captive in a room where they have no desire to be and nothing to do. Cool.

My blood pressure shoots through the roof before the bell has even rung due to the stress of getting them IN THEIR SEATS. This is what happens when they refuse to comply: I walk in and see Jeffrey (surprise surprise) standing sheepishly in a pile of glass shards AKA today's lab experiment. Annnnnnnnddd I've lost it. "Here we go..." Je'Corey says.

My B #1:

I call Jeffrey's dad after school and tell him how Jeffrey has been lazy ever since he got his arm out of his cast blah blah...still won't do his work, got in the habit of not writing since he was temporarily handicapped, blahblah....uses his classroom to do the OPPOSITE of what I say, doesn't follow directions, broke science equipment BLAH. Jeffrey's dad: "Thanks for calling, I'll definitely have a talk with him."

The next day, Jawon comes up to me third block. This is Jawon.

Yup, my little "GUCCI SWAG" DREADHEAD SHAWTY. I do love the dreads, must admit. But I hate how they shroud his face when it's plastered to his desk as he sleeps all through second block. He won't do much of anything in class except wander. He loves to wander toward the door and think of reasons to walk through it. I get irritated with him, but he's so good natured and goofy-smiley all the time, I can't not like him. Anyways, he approaches me with his usual grin. "You talk to my dad last night?"

"Nope."

"Yeah you did." Grin.

"Oh. Ok. What did I say?"

"I broke some science equipment?"

I clap my hand over my mouth. "Oh my goodness!! I forgot your real name was Jeffrey!! I must have put your dad's number in my phone at the beginning of the year! I called the wrong Jeffrey's dad!!"

Jeffrey shook his dreads back and forth. "Mann, Ms. M. You 'bout ruined my Christmas!"

"And your dad must think I'm crazy talking about your arm being in a cast!" I said.

"Well...it was in a cast like a long time ago. Like in fourth grade." (??)

"I'll call him back and tell him wrong Jeffrey. You've broken no science equipment--you'd actually have to be awake to do that!"

Jawon grins again. "Yeahhhh you can leave off dat last part!"

My B #2:

Get ready. This is bad.

Wednesdays are our staff meetings. We rotate bringing snacks by grade level. Yesterday afternoon, the thought crossed my mind that it might be 8th grade's turn, so I sent out a mass email to the entire 8th grade staff and administration:

Is it our turn for snacks tomorrow? I'm not really sure but I feel like we haven't done it in forever. GOOD THING IT'S PAYDAY!!

Went to the Teet (Sorry, non-Carolinians. That's my term for our major grocery store chain, Harris Teeter), bought some chips and salsa. Checked my school email hours later and found several replies:

Yes, it was our turn. Thanks for the reminder. What is everyone bringing? I'm bringing chips and salsa. I'm bringing chips and dip. I'm bringing chips. I'm bringing cookies. I'm bringing chips and dip what are you bringing?

I respond:

Whoops. Just now checking this, but I already went to the grocery store and I, too, brought Tostitos and salsa. Looks like we'll have CHIPS AND DIP ON DECK!!!

Well, that's what I meant to type. What I ACTUALLY sent:

Whoops. Just now checking this, but I already went to the grocery store and I, too, brought Tostitos and salsa. Looks like we'll have CHIPS AND DICK ON DECK!!!

I have nothing more to say for myself. The End.

Thanksgiving Deux

So, this was what I was writing at exactly this time last year.

Pretty tragic, yes? I read it and kind of shudder for two reasons:

1. That really was a terrible, horrible time in my life.

2. I'm a spoiled brat.

I'm a brat because I am waaayy better at feeling sorry for myself than feeling sorry for other people or being thankful for what I have.

Which, by the way, is a lot.

So I'm going to tell you what I'm grateful for--in no particular order. Thanks, Megan for inspiring me with your sweet list!

1. Again, reading my thoughts on paper (screen?) from last year reiterated what better perspective I have now. The Lord has grown me a lot this year and made me stronger for all the struggles that came with graduating and becoming an adult and taking on a difficult job.

2. Speaking of struggles, my "struggles," though painful at the time, are pretty minor. Let's be serious. Paul was asked to endure prison, being stoned, being whipped within a lash of his life, starvation, persecution, exile...I think I can handle the rude comments of a 14-year-old.

3. I'm not going to say my family is the best family in the world per se, but that's only because I haven't met every family in the world. My mom and dad love Jesus and have always encouraged us in our faith. They also love each other, very much. I have maybe two students out of 85 that could say the same.

Oh, and my three sisters are like built-in BFFs that have to love me no matter what. HA! I can't write much more about them right now or I might get a little misty-eyed. I suppose that one day I'll love my husband more than anyone else, but right now I really can't imagine loving another human being as much as I do those girls.

4. Yes, my job is stressful and draining and CRAZY, but I have one. For the second full year, I'm providing for myself! I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!? I know that's just what you do when you get to be a grown-up, but it's still a little exciting to me. Oh, and another thing about my job: I'm never bored. Never, ever. AND I get a lot of paid vacation. At first I was pissed because we only get 8 days off for Christmas, but I still get eight. days. You probably get like 3 and you are silently hating my face.

I digress...

5. Ms. M is another teacher at RMS who began with me last year. She has prayed with me countless mornings, prayed FOR me more than that, laughed with me, cried with me and encouraged me. Not only is she a dear, dear friend, she is a living reminder of God's faithfulness.

6. I have been so blessed in my friendships. SHOUT-OUT TO ALL MY PEOPLE!!! Y'ALL ARREADY KNOW WHAT IT IS, YA DIGG??! But no seriously. No matter where I've gone, the Lord has surrounded me with kind, fun, interesting, encouraging and hilarious people. I know everyone says that their friends are the most amazing people on earth blah blah. And I guess I'm just going to be another one of those people. But I know the women I was around in college challenged me and sharpened me in countless ways (and continue to do so today!).

7. I'm probably leaving off a lot, but it's bedtime. Which brings me to my final acknowledgement of gratitude. Buckley, my two-year-old golden retriever is blinking sleepily at me from the foot of my bed. Oh, if only everyone were that excited to see me when I walked through the door! He is the best and most cutest little dude ever. Wonderful company, if you ask me.

Which you didn't.

But now you totes think I'm a crazy dog lady.

What if I told you I was?

Would you still read my blog?

Ok. I'm done with this cheesy post. And I meant every cheesy word.

Three things...

Ok, so a while back I did "Three Things That Make Me Want to Leave my School and Never Come Back." I figured I should balance that out by compiling a list of the "Three Things Currently Assuring Me That Despite my Daily Sufferings, This Year is Better Than Last."

1. My rolling chair is sitting behind my desk. That may sound like a big "DUH" to you (isn't that where rolling chairs live??), but don't be fooled. Last year after week 3 I had to lock it up in the storage closet to prevent children from rolling around the classroom in it at high speeds.

2. Nothing has been stolen from inside my desk. Again, last year by week 3 they had bopped me for all I was worth. Staples, tape dispensers, stickers, white-out, erasers--nothing escaped their grasp. This year, I still have zero pens/pencils, but that is due to me handing them out to the daily 24 people who forgot them and failing to get them back. My drawers have remained closed and undisturbed.

3. Remember this post? Yeah. Nothing near that has happened. Thank the good Lord. No one has attempted to pick me up off the ground, I haven't been threatened, and I can't recall at the moment a time where anyone has loudly and clearly cussed me out in front of the class. Notice I had to put a few qualifiers in that last one!

In other news, I went on a field trip Friday with our "good" kids and had a blast. I played giant Jenga (and DOMINATED), let them take turns wearing my ballin' big-assbutt watch, and taught them this dance, which we later recorded and put on youtube because we are that cool. GOSH they're funny. If I only I didn't have to teach them, being around them would be so entertaining and enjoyable.

A tall, stuffy white dude came by our lunch period for a fund-raising event. I could see him watching me as I supervised my table. At one point, he came up to me and asked me how long I'd been teaching.

"Two years."

"How is it for you...teaching all boys in only your second year?"

I gave him this look in response.

"Yes, yes." He paused here to survey me more closely. "I imagine it would be difficult for you."

Because I'm young? Because I'm a girl? Because I'm white? Because you can smell my weakness? What exactly are you getting at, BRUH? Because I'd like to see you try.

"Well, I taught all boys last year too, so really it's all I've known," I said with a smile.

"Hmm. Seems strange that they'd do that to a first-year teacher. I've taught for years on the south side of town."

The south side of town? Congratulations. I can already tell you that your worst behavior problem is the boy in the back who drifts off to sleep after lunch. I've got kids smuggling in tequila in their water bottles (yes that happened last week, for reals).

I don't know why I felt like one-upping this dude. As I was fumbling with my sweater under his intense gaze, Leontay broke the silence from across the table. "MS. M, THAT GUY TRYNNA GET FRESH? TELL HIM TO BACK UP OFF OR WE'LL TAKE CARE OF IT FOR YOU!" He grinned broadly. I turned to Mr. Fundraiser to shrug my shoulders, but he was already gone.

shut the front door.

My parents and grandparents have both recently brought up their concerns that I cuss too much in my blog posts. They don't know how to politely tell my adult self that they don't approve of the foul language I use regularly to express my thoughts and experiences.

They've tried to be joke-y about it: "Well K! We're just gonna hafta wash yer mouth out with soap, aren't we? Heh, heh!"

Then they've tried to act concerned: "You just seem so...frustrated in your posts! You know...that's probably why you say things like 'ass.' Because you're frustrated."

Both comments really translate to: "Didn't we raise you better than this? You were brought up to be a polite young lady who blushed at the mention of these offensive words! What happened to you? Where did you pick these things up? Certainly not us! We disapprove wholeheartedly and wish you'd stop!"

They seem to believe that I have millions following my blog, and that every single one of them happens to be a Puritan matron.

Relax.

1. About 10 people read this regularly.

2. You make up 4 of them.

3. The other 6 know me, know you, and will not judge your parenting based on my vernacular.

Feel better? Then how about this: Considering the fact that I lived in the sorority house for one year and have been teaching at RMS for a year and a half, we're lucky my vocabulary doesn't consist solely of obscenities.

Besides, if I started censoring my thoughts when I was writing these things, they wouldn't be very fun to read.

But since I realize that it's an unattractive and unladylike habit, I'll try to refrain unless it's absolutely necessary to convey the appropriate emotion.

GREat.

So, I took the GRE Saturday.

I probably should have studied, but now that I'm not in the routine of studying habitually, I've kind of forgotten how. If I'm going to be totally honest, as an English major I never really had to study a lot to begin with. Instead of memorizing formulas and practicing problems, I basically just read and wrote all the time. So why, I thought to myself, would I start studying now for this test that I'm only taking to get into school to read and write some more? You don't have to know the Pythagorean theory to analyze Shakespeare, and you certainly don't need to know how to solve for * if x*y= 1/2x + y-4 when (-3) (1/2) * (*) (28%^&$) + * (@3786!#$) in order to be a decent writer!

Besides, when I got home from school every day, the last thing I'd want to do was open up a GRE study book and do math problems. I'm going to be real honest with you. It's a struggle for me to even long divide. The rules for cross-multiplying escaped me right about the time I got my braces off. Math has never been my thang.

Which is unfortunate, because the test I took yesterday contained a whole lot of it. I might as well have been reading Chinese for the quantitative portion, and let's just say that when I received my scores, I drove home feeling like an idiot.

This may sound presumptuous (GRE word), but if you're talking about school smarts, I'm not used to feeling like an idiot (by all other accounts, I feel like an idiot multiple times per day). I graduated with a 3.9, was a member of several meaningless honors programs, was usually in the top whatever percent from elementary school through college, etc. etc. I know I'm not Harvard material, but I guess up until yesterday, I thought I was intelligent compared to the average joe.

Apparently, I'm not.

Here's how it went down. I got to the testing place and stood in the line to get signed in. First of all, if our airports had half the security this place had, Osama and all his homies would turn in their resignation letters now. Before I'd even gotten my bearings, I had to sign in and basically copy an entire canon (GRE word meaning "set of sacred rules") in cursive. You know, so they could compare it to my driver's license signature. There are a lot of people out there who pretend they're me, and you can never be too careful.

Yes, I promise I'm not going to leave here and tell everybody the questions on this test. It's going to be really tempting to bring up in casual conversation or as an icebreaker in awkward social situations, but I'll refrain. I also swear I'm the same blonde who's smiling at you from the driver's license you are so carefully studying with your black light. And FINE, I won't leave here and immediately write down everything I remember from the exam and mass produce it for profit. Not gonna lie, that one WOULD be difficult for me but luckily for you I don't remember what I had for breakfast, much less have the capability to recall those word problems once they're not in front of my face.

After I'd crossed-my-heart-hope-to-die'd and been affirmed as the real Slim Shady, I was passed on to the SECURE AREA where I had to turn over all my worldly possessions to a large black man. He asked me to turn my pockets inside out, turn around and do the same with my back pockets, then hand over my jacket and watch. I began to nervously wonder what underwear I had on just in case they required a strip search. He took my picture and motioned me over to the HERE'S-WHERE-YOU-SIT-IDLY-FOR-TEN-MINUTES-SO-YOU-CAN-GET-EXTRA-EXTRA-NERVOUS-WAITING-AREA. This is where I really began to question my ability to perform well on the test. I looked around the room to size up the people who would be testing with me. Hopefully I could make myself feel better by judging their intelligence.

The woman seated to my right had to weigh at least 350 pounds. She was wearing baggy jeans and breathing heavily. She had a grease stain on the front of her shirt. Obese people with grease stains on their clothes are probably not as smart as I am.

Another woman was being photographed now. She had on a black windsuit circa 1992. Her hair was pulled back into a plastic claw. People who wear windsuits and clippies in their hair are probably not as smart as I. She probably didn't study either because she likes to spend her time jogging in brisk weather.

An Indian man smelling of musky cumin sat two seats over to my left. Shit. Indian people are really smart.

A girl younger than I was sitting across the room, hair in a messy bun. She had on sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. She was carrying a cheesy canvas bag with her sorority letters on it. No way she's as smart as I am. She's probably still hungover from that kegger. Yup. That's why she didn't bother to put on real clothes or brush her hair. At least I'm going to do better than she is.

I began to wonder what these same people were thinking about me. I could hear it all too clearly. That girl MUST be an idiot. She probably spent more time this morning getting dressed and ready to get here than she did preparing for the test. Where does she think she is with those boots and that dress? Look at her, biting her nails and nervously scanning the room! Did she really write down the website directions telling you where to go once you got in the building?? HA! HA! HA! Good luck, sweetie. You're going to need it.

By the time I got to my cubicle I was "sweating bullets," to use a hackneyed phrase (GRE word meaning "overused, stale"), I had completely psyched myself out. Even the verbal section, which I'd assumed I'd do well on, completely caught me off guard. I stared at the little countdown clock in the corner and watched the seconds tick away instead of answering the prompt on the screen.

Most of my allotted time for the first essay was spent trying to remember how to formulate a coherent topic sentence. 15:49, 15:48, 15:47...the seconds blinked in unison with the cursor on the blank page. GET A GRIP, K!!! YOU DO THIS ALL THE TIME! YOU LOVE TO WRITE!! YOU ARE PRETTY GOOD AT IT!!

15:35, 15:34...

Or maybe you aren't....

14:59, 14:58...

Nope. You're definitely not.

2:20, 2:19, 2:18

Oh my gosh! I forgot that I'm on surveillance right now!! I probably looked really dumb when I started chewing my hair and slapping my face with the scratch paper.

:05, :04, :03, :02, :01

When I finally finished the test and received my score, tiny tears pricked in the corners of my eyes. I'm not sure if it was because of the number I saw or out of relief that I was actually done.

Well, if grad school doesn't work out I can always teach a third year at RMS. NOT!

Three things.

Three things that made me want to walk out of RMS's doors today and never. return. ever.

1. Someone grabbed my ass today. And by someone I do mean a student. He was a punk about it and did it when about 25 kids were pushing past me so I couldn't tell who it was. I just about lost it then and there, and the clock didn't even show 10:00 yet. I mean SERIOUSLY!?!

2. I spend 75 minutes teaching about isotopes. I give them notes. We practice diagrams, we do examples, we look at pictures, we read articles, we answer questions. As they're packing up, I tell them to draw an isotope on a post-it and put it on the door on the way out. Three kids simultaneously: "What's an isotope??" Seriously?!? Seriously.

3. I brought cookies for my 3rd block class--not because they deserved them, but because they had improved from worst class in the universe to just worst class in North America. Made the cookies myself after school yesterday. Bought the damn ingredients off my two-dollars-and-fifty-cents-an-hour paycheck. Passed them out during warm-up. "Man, Ms. M dese cookies harder than a BRICK. Why you can't warm them up 'fore you bring em to class!?" I considered throwing both a cookie and a real brick at the genius who made this comment and asking if he felt a difference.

I'm getting to a dangerous point. The point where I'm finding it difficult to care about anything school-related. The point where I'm saying things I shouldn't during class, slacking off on the things I know I should be doing consistently. I can't care enough for 85 people, and I'm burned out from trying. Is it June yet??

One, two, three...boards up! BOARDS DOWN.

Got observed today for my evaluation.

Probably shouldn't have planned my first go-around with individual white boards for the same day...

The idea is that each kid gets a mini dry-erase board to record their answers on so when they hold them up, I can get a whole-class summary of their understanding (or lack thereof).

The assistant principal was sitting in the wings, clipboard in hand, pen poised above her paper.

"Ok, I need to know the number of protons in an atom of Lithium.........One, two, three...BOARDS UP!!!" Among several 3s, there was also a "u sexy," an "i love u," a "Merry Christmas!" and a "ANTHONY IS GAY."

Thank you, Anthony. Thank you, Willie, Quadarius and Jonathan. I'm sure you'll be among the many "concerns" brought up at my post-obs debriefing.

Saddle Up, Cowboys

This is going to be a long one.

So, this past weekend some of my friends and I went to Knoxville for the Alabama/UT game. We got there Friday night, stayed with the team at the Airport Hilton, got up and tailgated all day Saturday, then enjoyed a good old-fashioned ass-whooping that night.

*Mrs. Alley, I hate to be the one to break this news to you, but your daughter did not stay on a houseboat last Saturday night. If you'd like to just leave it at that, stop reading now.

The Plan:

The game ended at around 11, and Susan, Erin and I called our resident Knoxpert Jaime. We were going to meet up so she could give us the Grimsley Nighttime Tour of her college town. Local food sampling, late-night carousing and smack-talking were on the agenda. After we had gotten our fill of pretending like we were still students, we would head back to Jaime's houseboat. There, we would lay our weary heads to rest as the game-night's revelry waned and the Tennessee River rocked us to sleep.

Real Life:

The game ended at around 11, and Susan, Erin and I called our resident Knoxpert Jaime. Unfortunately, instead of ringing it went straight to her voicemail. Apparently, it had died and alas, she had no charger. We had no idea of her whereabouts OR the whereabouts of said houseboat. OK. New plan. I called the other friends we were with to catch them up to speed. Maybe we could all split a hotel room again and call it a night. "Hey!" My sister answered. "We decided to drive on back tonight! TTYL!"

12:00

No big deal. We decided to go to a place where we could clear our heads and devise a brilliant plan. A place where we could rest our definitely-NOT-students-anymore bodies and revive our spirits. A place of calm and inspiration. And so midnight found us: sitting silently around a table at Moe's diving headfirst into a bowl of nachos.

Maybe that was just me.

"Who do we know that's here?" Suey asked.

We rattled off four names and immediately ruled them out of the People-You-Know-Well-Enough-To-Force-Yourself-Into-Their-Sleeping-Arrangements contingency.

"Let's go to the car and start calling hotels," Erin said.

12:45

"Heyy! I'm calling to see if you have a vacancy for ton--"

"No, we're sorry but we're booked."

This is the conversation I had with all of the familiar hotel names/chains within a 20-mile radius. On to the "Valu-Sleeps" and the "Cheapy Sleep-Es." On the 3rd try ("Executive Hotel"), I finally got good news.

"Yup," a raspy voice confirmed. "We got say-veral vacancies tonight. I'll wait up on you!"

"Great!!" I said, flashing Erin and Susan a smile. "How much for one room?"

"Fifty-five dollars."

"WONDERFUL!!"

Wait a minute. Was it wonderful? I'm not an expert, but that seemed awfully cheap. And why did he say he was going to wait up on me? Don't most hotels have a 24-hour concierge? Whatevs. It was a place to sleep. We backed out of the Ronald McDonald House parking lot and proceeded to wait 45 minutes for a break in traffic to pull onto the strip.

1:45

A blinking sign flashes "Executive Hotel!" ahead. Home sweet home. But as soon as our headlights sweep the premises, our worst suspicions are confirmed. We have shown up at the skankiest roach motel Knoxville has to offer. You know the kind that I'm talking about; you've seen them in horror movies and dotting the side of the roads in the middle of nowhere. The kind with triangle-building lobbies that aren't attached to any of the rooms (so THAT's why phone guy had to "wait up" on us). "Susan! What would your MOM say??" We gather our belongings and make our way to the A-frame shack under the flickering glow of the street lamps.

1:46

Relief: Outside the door, a scarecrow sitting on a bale of hay and surrounded by various-sized gourds smiles welcomingly at us. Not scary at all. One of those personal touches that keeps you coming back.

Seized by panic again: Door is chained and locked. As is the other side door. The three of us nearly jump out of our skin when we hear a RAP-TAP-TAP! on the window. A man who we later refer to as "Meth Santa" beckons us toward him with his gnarly finger. His sallow skin is almost the exact same color as his white, stained beard that rests on the counter below him. His eyes are narrow slits nestled in the folds of his paper-thin eyelids. "Theeerrree you are!" he cackles, revealing a jumbled mess of caramel-tinted teeth. Through a series of convoluted hand signals, we gather that we are not to enter the building, but to communicate with him through the glass.

Susan and Erin look to me, silently electing me liaison. "Uh...hey there! Yes, we're here. Thanks for waiting on us!"

"You want one bed or two?"

"ONE, king-sized," I reply immediately as Susan simultaneously blurts, "Two." I turn over my shoulder to glare at her. I wasn't about to be the lone wolf in the bed by the door, no sir. If a rapist entered our room tonight, it was going to be equal opportunity, fair and square.

Meth Santa raises his bushy eyebrows. "Fer three of yous?"

"We're small."

He glances over us. "Awiueiuwh."

"Excuse me?" I say, leaning closer.

"And yer cute."

"Oh."

A wave of nausea sweeps over me as I take the key from under the glass.

"Jest drive up yonder, enter the doors and it'll be the third door on yer left. Sleep good!" He gives us a little wink. Was that a subtle threat? I decide quickly that the three of us could take him. I squint in the direction he pointed, seeing the dark outline of a building illuminated only by the light of a "Ye Olde Steakhouse" billboard. Sweet, breakfast.

1:52

We unlock the door and open it slowly, afraid of what we might see. Before our eyes adjust to the darkness, a wave of cigarette smoke hits us like a brick wall. We fumble for the light. It doesn't work. Feel my way to the bathroom, flick the bathroom's switch on. Dim light floods the doorway as the fluorescent bulbs hum their warning. "Weeeedddoooonnn'tttthhiiiinnnkkkyyouuuuwannnnttttooooseeeeeewhhhaaatttttweeeeeehaaavvvveeetshooowwwwyouuuuuu!"

The three of us stand silently in the doorway, bags in hand, cautiously surveying our arrangements/counting the potential places a dead body might be stowed. A coffee straw lies on the carpet, kept company by seven pieces of cat food. A suspicious brown splatter mark smiles up at us from the bathroom floor. "What!?" he asks innocently. "I'm just trying to distract you from the pubic hair in the sink!"

I immediately regret watching that "Hotel Insider" special on TLC where they showed the rooms under a blacklight, revealing massive amounts of semen on every surface.

1:50

Erin and I make our way up the the ice machine, where we see a fellow Alabamian about our age. "Are you as scared as we are right now?" Erin asks him.

"Yeah this place is...weird." he responds. "Found it on the internet before we got here, but it looks like we should have done better research. The cabbie refused to take us here. Had to walk part of the way."

1:54

With as much clothing on as possible for sanitary reasons, the three of us huddle together in bed, imagining Meth Santa watching us on his security cameras. He had probably seen us change and even had cameras in the shower. LIKE we were going to step foot in there! We discuss various escape routes, rape-protection skillz and items in our luggage that could double as weapons.

"Erin...did you put a rolling chair in front of the door?" I ask, laughing.

"At least we'll be able to hear the man when he comes," she whispers.

"Can we pray?" I ask.

"Dear Jesus, thank you for providing us with a place to lay our heads tonight, even if it is under mildewed ceiling tiles and in between soiled sheets. We pray that Meth Santa stays in his triangle building for the remainder of the night. Please let our car be there in the morning, and protect our purity from any rapists who might be wandering the premises. If it is Your will, keep us alive to see daybreak again. Give the rolling chair supernatural barricading properties, and don't let the bedbugs bite. We pray that we do not catch any diseases during our stay here, be it STDs or otherwise. Also, we're sorry that we're such spoiled brats. In Jesus' name we pray, amen."

9:13

I awake horrified to find that the covers have shifted during the night and my face is pressed against the bare mattress. Awesome.

Within minutes, I hear Susan and Erin rustling around beside me.

9:15

Erin: "LET'S GET THE F OUT OF HERE."

Time to bid farewell to the Executive Hotel. We jump out of our executive bed, tiptoe lightly over the executive catfood, get our stuff and slam the executive door. Goodbye and good riddance.

This is a very flattering picture.


I think the window adhesives really give it an executive flair, don't you?

Superlong Awesome Post...

...pending on SUSAN. Susan get your ass in gear and send me those photos!

Here is your alternate "Happy Halloween" post.

Tre'vonne's seat is right in front of my favorite place to stand in the classroom, so he is privy to some of my muttered rants and quiet musings. Sometimes, I say really strange things in the middle of a lesson just to see if anyone is listening. Usually, only Tre'vonne is. I know this because he'll catch my eye for a split second, smile faintly, then shake his head.

Likewise, I get to hear Tre'vonne when he talks to himself. He'll comment on the idiocy of a classmate or the quirks of his teacher. At certain points, we engage in these "private" conversations that really wouldn't be private at all outside of my classroom. What I mean is this: even though there are usually no less than 25 pairs of roaming eyes within my walls, the chaos of the classroom shrouds us in a weird sort of isolation sometimes. Am I making any sense? I've often thought that if I picked the right moment during the block, I could change clothes at the front of the classroom without anyone noticing. There's just that much going on in the room.

Anyways.

Today after lunch I was muttering something along the lines of "What in the world kind of place is this? Are we in some sort of parallel universe where this is normal activity for a school? What are these kids ON? They're acting like..."

As I struggled to find an appropriate simile, Tre'vonne (without looking at me) finished my sentence.

"Children of the corn." He looked around the room and shook his head. "I mean I know it be Halloween and errthang but DAMN."

I know what you're thinking. That doesn't look like her group of boys at all! You're right. My boys wouldn't be caught DEAD in those button-downs. Unless they were Polo, of course.

TMI stands for Too Much Information and Terrible Mental Image

I'm helping Tre'Sean and Je'Cory with their worksheet on geologic time. Tre'Sean stands up to re-tuck his shirt/tug up his pants when I catch sight of something strange...

Was that?

Did I just see?

Tre'vonne turns around from the front row and says out loud what I'm thinking in my head: "Bruh. You got on silk drawers??"

I hide my face behind my paper and bite my lip.

"Yeah bruh!" Tre'Sean answers.

"Was dey....RED WIT WHITE HEARTS??"

"Yeah!"

I am now laughing audibly, for indeed; red, shiny sateen boxers are blousing out from Tre'Sean's pants. Like the cheesy ones you see at Wal-Mart around Valentine's Day.

"BRUH. Whatchu doin' wit them things?" Tre'vonne is laughing with me.

"Mann dat silk feel GOOD on your butthole!"

"UMMMM....Excuse me??" I say. "Do you not see me standing right here? Did you not remember that your FEMALE TEACHER was in the middle of helping you with your timeline??"

Ughhhh. There's nothing quite like the charismatic charm of a 13-year-old boy.

B U L L E T P R O O F

During a workshop I was required to attend as part of my teacher inservice, we learned all about how to use music in the classroom. It is great as a "launch button" to tell kids when to get up, move, talk, stop talking, etc. If they know they're supposed to ______ when they hear the music, you don't have to yell over the din; all you do is press play.

A few other advantages they listed:

1. Music can set a positive tone in the classroom

2. Music can be a great way to build culture

3. Music can be used as a reward system

4. Light background noise actually helps today's generation concentrate

5. Using your kids' music during class shows you care about them (although I'm pretty sure playing even the mildest Gucci or Waka song could get me fired in a heartbeat)

That's super. The reason I use music in the classroom:

It improves my mental health.

Last year I played Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" every day during warm-up to distract myself from the fact that I was in living hell brighten my spirits. Eventually the boys sang along and loved it. Today I introduced a new one:

(here)

Picture it, if you will. My speakers are on as loud as they can go. My expo marker is my microphone, and the aisles between the desks are my stage. I may or may not be wearing a cardigan, but you can bet your life I have on teacher flats. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes shift nervously from their questions on convection currents to their semi-crazed teacher. Or is that Lady Gaga? Tina Turner? Stevie Nicks?

These comments:

"UGHHH. Ms. M What IS DIS?!?"

"Turn it off, dis WACK. Play sum Drake or somethin.' Man dat old crap you play in tha mornins is better than THIS mess."

Turned quickly to these comments:

"Aight hey can you play dat again?"

"Man who sings this?"

"Dis my JAM!"

By the end of the day, kids were jogging past me on the bus lot fist-pumping and singing, "THIS TIME MS. M I'LL BE....BULLETPROOF!"

Breakfast of Champions

"Ms. M! CAN I BORROW YOUR PHONE??" Jeffrey asks me as soon as he walks in the door Thursday morning.

"Um. Why?"

"BECAUSE I LEFT THE OVEN ON 425 WHEN I LEFT THE HOUSE AND LOCKED THE DOOR BEHIND ME!!"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah go get my phone from the top drawer of my desk."

Jeffrey returns to the door a few minutes later, phone in tow. "No answer," he said with a shrug.

"Well I hope you don't return to a pile of ashes this afternoon. Just what exactly were you cooking in a 425 degree oven at seven in the morning?"

"Fish sticks."

Duh.

don-tizzle

Mama is ALL TALK and NO ACTION. No secret hideaways or surprise-ambushes. I should have known though. I mean, if Mama was really as tough as she pretended to be on the phone, would her son act like a donkey at school?

Probably not.

Today in third block I asked the kids to draw a bird's-eye view of the classroom to illustrate remote sensing. It was fairly quiet in there for THAT class (meaning only 5 people were talking and the rest were merely making strange noises, beating on the desk, farting and/or humming). "Okay, I want you to draw what a bird would see if he were flying over your heads right now! What would a bird see?"

"A buncha 'special' children," Brandon said under his breath. I bit my lip to stifle a giggle.

I pulled Dontravius out of class while the rest were "doing their work."

Let me give Dontravius some context. He was suspended from days 2-12 for fighting. The day he returned he almost started another fight in my room. The Warm-Up that particular day was to reflect on your performance in science thus far. I found Dontravius' on the floor after he left, balled up. It said, "I haven't done anything well yet. I just got back. I need to change my attitude and my grades. I need to try my best and do good in here."

The next day I returned it to him with a note on it that told him I was proud of him for being honest and I wanted to help him reach those goals; to let me know if there was any way I could help him. When I put it on his desk, he picked it up. "What the hell is this?" He read it, laughed and pushed it aside. For the rest of class he was an ass. He'd smirk when I'd get frustrated, make fun of the students who would comply with my directions, etc. etc. He's been no better ever since.

ANYWAYS. Today he strolled in 15 minutes late sans pencil or paper, plopped down, put his feet up on the desk and went on an expletive-filled rant about how "wack" RMS is. I called him out in the hall and took a deep breath. Was there anything I could say to him that would even phase him? This dude is a notorious "thug" at our school. He's always suspended, always cussing out teachers and starting fights. He's gotten lectured and yelled at more in the past 3 years than I probably have in my life total. What could I say that hadn't already been said--a million times over. I looked up at him and began slowly.

"Dontravius...I read on your student survey that you wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer. Is that right?" He nodded. "Okay. I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before...but that is NEVER going to happen unless something changes. Doctors don't curse at people in the office and start fights with their employees. Lawyers don't push over chairs and throw stuff across the courtroom. You are perfectly capable of being either one, but only IF you start acting right. How can you make good enough grades to get into college when you're acting like a total fool already in 8th grade? It's not going to get easier!"

"How was I acting like a fool?"

Seriously!?

"Well, wandering around the room while I was teaching...refusing to do the work...yelling...instigating things with classmates...I mean....Dontravius do you really not know what you were doing five minutes ago?"

He shook his head.

"Well maybe I'm the first person to tell you, but this shit's not gonna fly in med school. You need to fix this NOW before it's too late." Whoops. I said I wasn't going to cuss this year.

Dontravius marched his happy ass into class and took down every single note I gave them. He didn't interrupt once. Well, except at the end when I was explaining how to chart reflectance curves (kill me). I sat down to let them practice and he came up to my desk.

"Uh, I need yo help."

"Yeah that's funny because I explained how to do it when you were turned around in your chair at the end, talking to Jaequon."

He gave me a blank look, paper still held out. Sigh. How was I going to turn him away when he finally cared enough about something school-related to get out of his desk and walk the three feet to me to ask a question? As the rest of the class fell to chaos, Dontravius and I got our spectral analysis on.

Lord, show me how to love Dontravius with the same patience you love me.

Sweet Home Alamabama

It is embarrassing how devastated I was by Alabama's loss Saturday. I should have just taken the weekend for what it was--a great weekend away to catch up with old friends and relax. Instead, Saturday night consisted of me avoiding TVs/internets, sitting on the coach bemoaning life, gorging myself on delicious/heart-attack-inducing dips (Thanks Megan), and desperately trying to get in touch with people who would gladly join me in wallowing in misery.

If I thought walking down the ramps of the stadium after the game afforded me enough crap-talking to last a lifetime, I was wrong. The taunts and key-jangling I received there were NOTHING compared to what awaited me at RMS Monday. From the time the 8:15 bell rang 'til the kids left at 4:00, there was not a moment where I wasn't reminded of the score, Alabama's record, Alabama's rank, the grim stats...

When I walked into the classroom first block, I was greeted by a mural on my whiteboard consisting of me wearing an Alabama shirt, tears streaming down my face and the score repeated over and over in the background. The banner over the whole scene read: "Alamabama got KILLED by South Carolina!!!"

Yes, you read that right. Alamabama.

"That's really great, " Mr. M said sincerely when he walked in after school and saw the whiteboard.

"Yeah, yeah congratulations on Ohio State taking the lead," I sighed.

"No, no I'm talking about the kids caring so much about your team!"

"Ummm, did you READ what they wrote? Did you HEAR them today?"

"Yes. But that's how they show they care about you. They don't know how to say, 'hey, sorry your team lost' because no one's ever talked to them that way. They just have to show you the only way they know how. I promise it's a good thing!"

Maybies.

Stay tuned. I called about 9287983 parents tonight (man there were some good ringback tones) and one of them is actually going to come to school, hide in the closet to observe her hellion-of-a-son, then surprise ambush him in the middle of class. I kid you not. I'm like a kid the night before Christmas morning; I can't WAIT!

TELL ME WHY...

...the same kid who punched me yesterday showed up at my door second block today???

Apparently, it's ok to hit teachers at RMS. Way to send a great message to the rest of the class.

"Ummm, that would be a NO." I told him, giving him a dramatic "STOP" signal.

"What you talkin' about?" he asked innocently.

"You can't come in here."

"Dis my class. Where you want me to go??"

"That's really not my problem. Bye."

If administration isn't going to do anything with him, then I'm not either.

Off to South Carolina to watch the TIDE play. Deuces.

My classroom? Or WWE Raw?

I got smacked in the head by a student today.

Yes, that is a true statement.

In other news:

Student #1: "Ms. M you be lookin' FRESH today! Dat curly hair a BEAST an you ROCKIN dem skinnies!"

Student #2: "Yeahh bruh you like dat outfit, aye? I picked it out fo her dis mornin.'"

When I showed them my middle school bowl-cut picture:

"She got dat military fade!!"

Back to the smacking of the head.

Let me just say this: I'm tired of boys trying to act all hard by bowing up on their classmates, then just standing there making threats. Um, you look stupid and you're causing a scene and you're wasting my time. Either stop it, or actually hit someone. I've taken to getting in between them (Because they CERTAINLY aren't hard enough to smack a female teacher. I thought.) and shoving one away until another student or two steps in and helps me get one out the door. So here I am, thinking I'm all trill, and I get smacked in the head.

It wasn't intentional. He was trying to hit the other guy. But he definitely missed, and the rest of the class freaked out on him. "MANNNNN YOU JUST HIT HER!!!! YOU JUST HIT OUR TEACHER!!!" Yes. You just hit your teacher.

I should have milked that one for all it was worth. I should have flung myself on the floor and cried and gotten a month's leave with pay. I should have limped and demanded medical attention. Instead, I called security, rolled my eyes and continued my lecture on natural selection.

Homeboy strolls back through to pick up his stuff on his way to ISS and I tell him to "Get your stuff and get out of here NOW." To which he responds: [nasal white girl high-pitched voice] "Git yer stuff and git outta here NOW!"

Kill.

That definitely sealed the deal, though. I marched that referral right up to the princiPAL's office and explained to her that I had gotten violently assaulted by a student. See ya in 10 days, SUCKER. Good riddance.

Want to know my mom's response to this story? "You got hit in the head? Where?"

"Um...on the side?"

"Oh. Goodness. Could you send me Susan's email so I can pass it along to Mrs. Moore?"

I was hoping for more of an, "OH MY GOSH! ARE YOU OKAY?? I CAN'T BELIEVE THE HORRORS YOU DEAL WITH ON A DAILY BASIS!! HOW DO YOU DO IT!?!?! YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THAT PLACE IMMEDIATELY!! I AM CONCERNED FOR YOUR SAFETY!!"

But my mom's never one for big reactions. And besides getting punched in the skull, today was a pretty good day!

Down in the Double Dumps

"Yes, this year might be crazy. But I just have to remember that last year was crazier. And that at the end of the day, it's ok. It's OK that they're crazy because they're going to be crazy whether you're a good teacher or not. The difference between this year and last is that I'm not taking everything so personally. I don't go home upset at the end of school. I haven't cried once this year!"

That was me talking to my dad yesterday. I had had a pretty long day where I timed six children out of the classroom and broke up an almost-fight between two football players. I was on my way home and the weather was pretty and I didn't have much more work to do for the night. I was feeling pretty good. Proud of myself for not letting things get to me like they used to. Yes, that's the difference between this year and last. No tears.

Welll...opened my mouth too soon again, because where did 5th block find me today? Hiding from the windows at the back of the room, sniffling away.

White people are emotional. That's what all my black colleagues tell me. We're too sensitive, apparently. What difference should it make if adolescent CHILDREN disrespect you and say mean things to you all day long? You are an adult...get over it. I guess due to my melodramatic tendencies, it's just wayy easier to indulge in a little self-pity. I work so hard and spend all my time for these ungrateful children who ignore all my kind gestures but can't let go of their bitterness when I try to correct them!

Gosh, that sounds so familiar...where have I seen that before...wait, I've got this one...OH, ME. I did that to my parents all growing up (sorry Mom, sorry Daddy). I do it to my heavenly father on a daily basis. Sorry Jesus.

Also, let's be serious. Even though half the time I tell them they need to ________ (listen/focus/shut up/quit punching each other/stop throwing things/do work/pay attention/wake up/get off the counters) for their own good, mostly I just want them to do all those things for my own good. So I can have some sanity. Not so they can become better people.

I will close by telling you two quick anecdotes--one scary, one funny.

Scary first, 'cause it's almost Halloween: Essa is being a jerk (that's the nicest word I could use here). He laughs when I get upset. He makes fun of my sweet little babies who never do anything wrong. He acts like because he is good at running track he is god of RMS. Oh yeah, and he's twelve. TWELVE!! He is a leedle child. Anyways. I called his dad's number today but he didn't answer. He called me back a few minute later and left this message (in a very deep, very African-accented voice): "Nevah call dees numbah. NEVAH EVAH call dees numbah ageen."

Okay?? I was just going to tell you your son told me to 'fuck off'!? But nevermind??

Funny: "Ms. M. How do you pronounce your last name? Can I just call you double D?"

I laugh, but he clearly doesn't see the humor in what he just proposed. "Ummm...I don't know about that one...I don't know if it...suits me."

"I like it! Imma call you Ms. Double-D."