My Precious Angels

I call my boys that a lot: precious angels. Most of the time, my voice is dripping with sarcasm. I could think of many adjectives to describe the boys I teach, but "precious" doesn't rank in the top 100. Sometimes they surprise me though.

Take this past week, for instance. I would like to preface this by saying that my boys revel in being assumed tough, stoic, and otherwise unaffected. You've heard Kanye's song "Heartless," and this is a title they wear proudly--going as far to advertise themselves as such. I remember one day I came to work sick and without much of a voice. I started every class off by saying, "If you have a heart at all..." That day was one of my worst to date.

Anyways. This week Mr. S was collecting funds for Haiti relief efforts. He started off the morning announcements every morning by explaining a little bit about the devastation there and asking RMS students to contribute each day--even if it was only a nickel. I watched along with my first block, thinking to myself, "Yeah, right." These boys don't exactly come to school with cash falling out of their backpacks. Shoot; half of them don't even own backpacks. They may have fancy shoes, but they're topped with the same pants they wore the day before, and the day before that. Over 3/4 of them qualify for free or reduced lunch. Add this to the fact that their screen names are some version of "dontgivaf***96" and you're going to have a bunch of empty offering baskets.

False. Every day when Mr. S came in with his green bucket, I was overwhelmed by my kids' generosity. Boys that would rather get an F on their lab report than pay 25 cents for a pencil to complete it were emptying pockets and turning their bags upside down. This Friday, 8th grade was coming in second place (after 6th) with over $400 given. I even heard about some students skipping lunch so they could put their $2 in the bucket instead. They may not have much, but they recognized that they were in fact fortunate compared to so many Haitian families.

And yet again I am teacher-turned-student, learning lessons from those crazy boys. I basically got to see the parable of the poor widow played out in real life. Humbling, much?

Also sweet on a smaller scale:

This Friday we had a lockdown. This means that there is some danger present within the school walls and no one can leave the room. When the "Lockdown" announcement came on over the intercom, I had vague flashbacks to RMS training back in August. Something about how I needed to lock the door and slip some card underneath it...Where was that card? For the first time, I felt nervous for my safety at RMS. I ran out into the hallway to lock the door from the outside, shakily fumbling for the right key. By the time I came back inside, my students had calmly turned off all the lights, closed the blinds, and were sitting quietly in the corner away from the door. "Everyone stay seated and silent," I said, trying to sound calm. The directions were pretty unnecessary, though, because my boys had already taken care of all the safety precautions for me. Whenever someone started to speak, his classmates hushed him disapprovingly.

I looked around the room at their dark silhouettes, thinking about how much I've really grown to care about each of them over the past few months. "Ms. M?" Rosamuel asked.

"Yes, Rosie?"

"Imma be real with ya. If they let us outta here, I'm pushing you to the side and runnin' out the door. I just wanted to let you know 'cause I'm selfish."

"No." Norman countered. "I'd get Ms. M out of here safe first." The rest of the class murmured in agreement.

I smiled to myself. My brave little 14-year-old protectors. My precious angels.

Heard at the Lunch Table

There are few kids that I realllly can't stand. Jaquais is one of them. This kid is just a jerk. Every time I tell him to do something or ask him to help with something:

"I ain't ABOUT to walk in a line." "I ain't 'BOUT to pick up that tray." "You don't make the rules and you ain't ABOUT to tell me what IMMA do."

Really? You're thirteen years old and you're going to talk to me like you're grown? How about you learn how to sit in a chair for fifteen minutes without drumming a "phat beat" on the desk, throwing a paper ball at someone, or farting and then maybe, MAYBE I will talk to you like you're an adult.

Anyways, I catch Jaquais in the hall when he's supposed to be in the lunchroom. He claims he's going to wash his hands (but is headed the opposite direction). I tell him to go immediately back into the cafeteria ("I'm not ABOUT to let someone tell me I can't wash my HANDS!"). Once we get there, he sits down (still mumbling under his breath) next to Tariq.

"Tariq," I ask. "Why is Jaquais so angry all of the time? Why does he have so much hate inside of him? Did his momma not give him enough attention when he was little?"

"Naww. His momma ain't give him enough milk."

"Tariq's still on his momma's milk," Jaquais retorts.

Tariq doesn't skip a beat. "I'm on YOUR momma's milk!!"

At this point, I have to turn on my heel and walk away so they don't see me convulsing with laughter. Ohh my life.

You'd think I would have learned by now...

"It is EXTREMELY long and hard."

I was talking about an extra-credit worksheet. My 14-year-old boys didn't take it that way. The rest of the lesson? Didn't happen, due to the hysteria.

Oh, hey there!

So it's been over a month since I've last shared...

I've needed inspiration. Or something.

What you've missed:
It was the day before Christmas break. I basically had three rules: Don't hurt each other. Don't leave the classroom. Don't bother me. They were so wild that day that I wasn't even going to attempt to teach. Unfortunately, all three rules were broken each block. It started snowing first block and Robert decided to JUMP OUT THE WINDOW to frolic in it. Mass hysteria ensued. I closed the window and blinds; if he was agile enough to manage leaping out of the window, he was sure as hell in good enough shape to walk around the building and enter through the front office.

DJ (yes, the DJ I've previously written about) got mad when he messed up a lab experiment. When I turned my back, he hurled his cup across the room, sending it flying into my supplies cart, which held about 92384756 shot glasses brimming with vinegar. My room smelled like feet for a solid week. Actually, I believe Brett put it more colorfully: "Mann, it stank like FROG ASS in here!"

Norman looked at me one day in class with a goofy grin on his face, head cocked to the side. "WHAT?" I finally ask.

"Ms. M put on a little weight since she started teaching at RMS!" Apparently, my face conveyed some sort of horror. "No, no, Ms. M! It's a compliment! You was too skinny!!"

"Yeah," Jemon pipes in (as the rest of the class closely examines my midsection and thighs) "She even gettin' a little booty on her!"

"Jemon, that's NOT OK to say. That type of comment would have NEVER crossed my mind to say to a teacher," I say incredulously.

"Yeah..that's cause you didn't go to RMS!!"

*Disclaimer: I have not let myself go. In my defense, I was wearing baggy pants that day...right? RIGHT!?

On a sad note, Rashee may be gone from RMS for good. I had a heart-to-heart with him the other day, pleading with him to make good choices and use his talents productively. I told him I understood that he hated school and the work it requires, but that sometimes as a man you have to do things you don't like. You suck it up and you do it. I tried to make him see that just because you don't see the immediate rewards of hard work in school does not mean that they're not coming. I told him that if he continued down the path he was headed he would wake up one day and realize it was too late to be a lawyer or an architect. I told him I got on to him because I cared about him and expected a lot from him. He listened. He wouldn't look me in the eye but he was serious for once. He looked so sad, in fact, I couldn't stand it.

"Rashee," I said. "Do you think I give a shit about tectonic plates?"

He looked up quickly and laughed, surprised. "Naww, Ms. M. I guess not."

"OK. Well let's go back in there and get through it together."

In one ear and out the other. Today he got suspended for 10 days and has to appear in court. The court will decide whether he gets to come back to RMS or not. If he doesn't, he'll be sent to an alternative school where he'll be surrounded by kids just like him--kids teetering on the edge. I'm afraid he'll just slip through the cracks there. I may never see him again, but I will never, ever forget him as long as I live.

The way he left was fitting, I guess. A voice comes over the loudspeaker. "Ms. Malley?" Malley is Rashee's last name. The whole class dies laughing, as this is what Rashee calls me from time to time. I look around quickly, but he is out of the room (thank goodness). "MS. MALLEY?" The whole class laughs harder, me along with them. "Ahem--I mean Ms. M, can you send RASHEE Malley to the office for dismissal?" He would have eaten that UP had he been where he was supposed to.

And since I've had a lot of time to reflect...
I've realized this job showcases my weaknesses. And I think the hardest part--yes, even more than getting regularly cussed out, yelling more than I speak, and physically breaking up fights-- is leaving every day feeling like a failure. Everyone needs validation, and to feel like they're good at something. I used to be good at some things, but I don't remember what they are anymore. I definitely haven't been a good friend or daughter or sister since I've taken this job. And I DEFINITELY don't get any validation there.

Duh. You're not supposed to get validation from work, or from any other things on this earth for that matter. I forget so easily.

I've also realized it's silly to think that what happens in the classroom and what happens to these kids is under my control or dependent on me at all. This is the Lord's classroom and his kids; not mine. He cares about them more than I ever could. And every day I come home thinking about how I'm screwing this up is a day that I indulge in a little twisted vanity. To think that I am big enough to stand in the way of God's plan for these kids is ludicrous, really.

Also: this job does not define me. It is a job. Yes, it consumes all my time. Yes, I need to be doing it well. But it is a JOB. Those who love me most do not do so based on my performance as a teacher. Five years from now, this will just be a memory. In the words of my kids, "Chilll, Ms. M!"