Mr. K got punched by a student today.
Like literally hit in the chest. If Mr. K weren't a massive ex-prison guard, and if the kid wasn't one of my skinniest, crying-est boys, it would be scary. But he is. And he is. So really, it's just kind of funny in a twisted way. Ohh, the things I've seen!
I guess if Mr. K presses charges, it will be our fifth reported "violent incident," and we will get audited. Gee, wouldn't that be a shame?
Gee is also a very white-person thing to say.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
FOUR DAYS.
That's how long I have until break. And were it any longer, I might start punching children in the face.
Now. I am not a violent person. In the words of Michael Jackson, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." But these students push me far beyond my limits. I think they get pleasure from watching me have mini anxiety attacks at the front of the classroom. The fact that I have not already physically lashed out against some students is by God's grace alone.
I suppose this kind of confession could get me in a lot of trouble, and it is important to note that I have never actually harmed a child. I'm sure the way I feel is no different than the rage even the most patient of parents experiences at some point. My own mother in fact declared that she never understood how any parent could abuse their child until my sister Davis Ann was born.
My children will have it easy; the patience I am being forced to cultivate in the classroom will cover a multitude of their grievances. After all, what's a little back-talk compared to the discipline issues I deal with on a day-to-day basis?
*Warning: Bobbie, please stop reading here.
Bobbie is my grandmother. And she's still reading.
In order to understand the following, you'll need to know that my school has been dubbed a watch school for violent incidences. If we have one more reported act of violence, we will be audited by the state. In addition to this, our new administration is being paid a bonus to reduce the amount of suspensions at RMS. If you factor both of these things into account, you'll see why harsh punishments are doled out very sparingly and major behavioral offenses are brushed under the mat instead of dealt with properly. I am trying to be understanding of the decisions made by our administration; I really respect the work they do and the renewed effort they've brought to RMS, but I am extremely frustrated with how discipline is handled. Read: Reduced suspensions DO NOT indicate a reduction of behavioral issues. On the contrary, I'd like to argue that it leads to an increase in problems; kids can get away with anything. AND THEY KNOW IT.
Da'Juan skipped my class Tuesday to play outside. Administration caught him, and the only consequence he received was to spend the remaining half hour in In-School-Suspension. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I'm playing outside tomorrow!" Fast-forward to Thursday. Da'Juan wanted to leave class to go call his mom. Again, due to heightened measures to keep violent incidences from occuring, we cannot let any child leave the classroom unattended. I told him no. He argued. I told him no again. He argued. I told him no again.
"FUCK YOU!" he yelled in front of the class before leaving and slamming the door behind him. The assistant principal walked in a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. Is Da'Juan suspended for screaming profanity at a teacher AND walking out of class? Actually, he is escorted back to my classroom, where he is permitted to stay for the rest of the block. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I can curse at the teacher AND leave class without consequence. I wonder what else I can get away with."
Friday. Da'Juan has not been in class for fifteen minutes when he's found another reason to leave. "No."
"YES."
"No."
"I hate it when people tell me no."
"Sorry. And NO."
"You a female, so I might can't beat you, but I'll call my mama up here and she'll beat your ass!"
"What was that?"
"MY MOM WILL BEAT YOUR ASS."
That's what I thought he'd said. I walked out into the hall, where the assistant principal was standing. "Take him." I said, pointing down the hallway to Da'Juan, who was now sauntering into another classroom like he owned the school. "I don't care what you do with him. But he can't be in here now."
What the hell kind of place is this where incidences like these are not only acceptable, they're NORMAL?? After Da'Juan was gone, I tried to get the class back in some sort of order. I say "back," like they were in order to begin with. Ha. Anyways, thirty minutes before the bell, I was still at the beginning of my guided notes. Jose, the quiet Hispanic kid who arrived at RMS only last week got up and crossed the room. I watched him warily as he picked up Jermaine's notebook and threw it in the trash. I was surprised; even though Jose's hands, backpack and papers are covered in gang signs, he doesn't ever seem to instigate things. He just kind of keeps to himself. Jermaine immediately got up and pushed Jose against the wall.
Little tussles always happen in my classroom. The boys are never really fighting, just messing with each other and driving me crazy. This was different, and I could tell immediately. Jose regained his balance and gave Jermaine a forceful shove, and Jermaine responded by twisting Jose in a headlock. Profanity and threats were being spewed from both sides as I darted a glance to the phone in my classroom--someone had clipped its wires a week ago. Now punches were being thrown. I ran out into the hallway, where luckily Mr. A was peeking out of his classroom.
"Um. They're fighting in there."
At this point, I really didn't even care anymore. I certainly didn't care enough to try to do something about it myself and get MY face beat in. I just wanted to go home and get rid of my splitting headache. I wanted to get as much distance between myself and those kids as possible. Instead, I had to collect myself and walk back in room 525 aka the pit of hell.
Trying to teach after the fight was futile. Everyone was so wound up, I couldn't hear my own voice as I tried to get everyone's attention. It wasn't until the tears actually started falling that people began to get quiet. By the time I started choking on my words, my 4th block--for the first time--was dead silent to witness my emotional breakdown.
"I. have. nothing. left. I can't give anything more. I can't say anything else to you, I've tried everything I know how. I can't make you want this. I can't make you care. I can't make you behave, and I certainly can't force you to learn. This--me crying--is not about the fight. It's not because I'm 'weak,' although I know that will be the story as soon as you leave this classroom. This is me past my limit. You've pushed me to that point and I'm at my end. This is my heart breaking for YOU, because you're going to realize one day that you're making a mistake, and unfortunately that day is going to come too late. I already have my education, I already have a job. These tears are not for me. So go ahead and leave when the bell rings. Tell the whole school that Ms. M broke down again and cried in front of the class. Tell them that I'm weak and can't control my class and can't handle RMS. I know what you say about me. If that makes you feel better about the way you treat me--if that's what you need to do to clear your conscious (because I know you have one somewhere) about the way you act in here, go ahead. But nowhere in my job description say I am here to make you behave. That's your mama's job--and if she did it, you are not representing her very well. MY job is to teach you, and at the end of the day I've done that. If I were a weak person, I would have quit a long time ago. But I'll be back Monday. And I'm through for the day."
Exhausted, I sat down at my desk and let my eyes glaze over as I pretended to do something on the computer. The class's silence gradually gave way to casual conversation, until soon it was at its usual level of chaos. I didn't move until after they had all left at the bell, pushing each other, throwing paper balls, and yelling the whole way. In their wake, they left behind a mess of enormous magnitude for someone else to clean up. Not me. I took off my tool belt, trudged to my car, and drove home.
Now. I am not a violent person. In the words of Michael Jackson, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." But these students push me far beyond my limits. I think they get pleasure from watching me have mini anxiety attacks at the front of the classroom. The fact that I have not already physically lashed out against some students is by God's grace alone.
I suppose this kind of confession could get me in a lot of trouble, and it is important to note that I have never actually harmed a child. I'm sure the way I feel is no different than the rage even the most patient of parents experiences at some point. My own mother in fact declared that she never understood how any parent could abuse their child until my sister Davis Ann was born.
My children will have it easy; the patience I am being forced to cultivate in the classroom will cover a multitude of their grievances. After all, what's a little back-talk compared to the discipline issues I deal with on a day-to-day basis?
*Warning: Bobbie, please stop reading here.
Bobbie is my grandmother. And she's still reading.
In order to understand the following, you'll need to know that my school has been dubbed a watch school for violent incidences. If we have one more reported act of violence, we will be audited by the state. In addition to this, our new administration is being paid a bonus to reduce the amount of suspensions at RMS. If you factor both of these things into account, you'll see why harsh punishments are doled out very sparingly and major behavioral offenses are brushed under the mat instead of dealt with properly. I am trying to be understanding of the decisions made by our administration; I really respect the work they do and the renewed effort they've brought to RMS, but I am extremely frustrated with how discipline is handled. Read: Reduced suspensions DO NOT indicate a reduction of behavioral issues. On the contrary, I'd like to argue that it leads to an increase in problems; kids can get away with anything. AND THEY KNOW IT.
Da'Juan skipped my class Tuesday to play outside. Administration caught him, and the only consequence he received was to spend the remaining half hour in In-School-Suspension. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I'm playing outside tomorrow!" Fast-forward to Thursday. Da'Juan wanted to leave class to go call his mom. Again, due to heightened measures to keep violent incidences from occuring, we cannot let any child leave the classroom unattended. I told him no. He argued. I told him no again. He argued. I told him no again.
"FUCK YOU!" he yelled in front of the class before leaving and slamming the door behind him. The assistant principal walked in a few minutes later and I told him what had happened. Is Da'Juan suspended for screaming profanity at a teacher AND walking out of class? Actually, he is escorted back to my classroom, where he is permitted to stay for the rest of the block. If I were his classmate, I'd think, "Hell, I can curse at the teacher AND leave class without consequence. I wonder what else I can get away with."
Friday. Da'Juan has not been in class for fifteen minutes when he's found another reason to leave. "No."
"YES."
"No."
"I hate it when people tell me no."
"Sorry. And NO."
"You a female, so I might can't beat you, but I'll call my mama up here and she'll beat your ass!"
"What was that?"
"MY MOM WILL BEAT YOUR ASS."
That's what I thought he'd said. I walked out into the hall, where the assistant principal was standing. "Take him." I said, pointing down the hallway to Da'Juan, who was now sauntering into another classroom like he owned the school. "I don't care what you do with him. But he can't be in here now."
What the hell kind of place is this where incidences like these are not only acceptable, they're NORMAL?? After Da'Juan was gone, I tried to get the class back in some sort of order. I say "back," like they were in order to begin with. Ha. Anyways, thirty minutes before the bell, I was still at the beginning of my guided notes. Jose, the quiet Hispanic kid who arrived at RMS only last week got up and crossed the room. I watched him warily as he picked up Jermaine's notebook and threw it in the trash. I was surprised; even though Jose's hands, backpack and papers are covered in gang signs, he doesn't ever seem to instigate things. He just kind of keeps to himself. Jermaine immediately got up and pushed Jose against the wall.
Little tussles always happen in my classroom. The boys are never really fighting, just messing with each other and driving me crazy. This was different, and I could tell immediately. Jose regained his balance and gave Jermaine a forceful shove, and Jermaine responded by twisting Jose in a headlock. Profanity and threats were being spewed from both sides as I darted a glance to the phone in my classroom--someone had clipped its wires a week ago. Now punches were being thrown. I ran out into the hallway, where luckily Mr. A was peeking out of his classroom.
"Um. They're fighting in there."
At this point, I really didn't even care anymore. I certainly didn't care enough to try to do something about it myself and get MY face beat in. I just wanted to go home and get rid of my splitting headache. I wanted to get as much distance between myself and those kids as possible. Instead, I had to collect myself and walk back in room 525 aka the pit of hell.
Trying to teach after the fight was futile. Everyone was so wound up, I couldn't hear my own voice as I tried to get everyone's attention. It wasn't until the tears actually started falling that people began to get quiet. By the time I started choking on my words, my 4th block--for the first time--was dead silent to witness my emotional breakdown.
"I. have. nothing. left. I can't give anything more. I can't say anything else to you, I've tried everything I know how. I can't make you want this. I can't make you care. I can't make you behave, and I certainly can't force you to learn. This--me crying--is not about the fight. It's not because I'm 'weak,' although I know that will be the story as soon as you leave this classroom. This is me past my limit. You've pushed me to that point and I'm at my end. This is my heart breaking for YOU, because you're going to realize one day that you're making a mistake, and unfortunately that day is going to come too late. I already have my education, I already have a job. These tears are not for me. So go ahead and leave when the bell rings. Tell the whole school that Ms. M broke down again and cried in front of the class. Tell them that I'm weak and can't control my class and can't handle RMS. I know what you say about me. If that makes you feel better about the way you treat me--if that's what you need to do to clear your conscious (because I know you have one somewhere) about the way you act in here, go ahead. But nowhere in my job description say I am here to make you behave. That's your mama's job--and if she did it, you are not representing her very well. MY job is to teach you, and at the end of the day I've done that. If I were a weak person, I would have quit a long time ago. But I'll be back Monday. And I'm through for the day."
Exhausted, I sat down at my desk and let my eyes glaze over as I pretended to do something on the computer. The class's silence gradually gave way to casual conversation, until soon it was at its usual level of chaos. I didn't move until after they had all left at the bell, pushing each other, throwing paper balls, and yelling the whole way. In their wake, they left behind a mess of enormous magnitude for someone else to clean up. Not me. I took off my tool belt, trudged to my car, and drove home.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sex, Race and Religion
"Good morning, girls and b--I mean, good morning BOYS!!" I said cheerfully Monday morning. I was sitting in my favorite position--indian style on top of my desk. The first time I did that, Tyler just looked at me disapprovingly and shook his head. "You too YOUNG, Ms. M!"
Every Monday begins the same. It is a flex day, which means I have my first block for an entire two hours and fifteen minutes. That's a long time, folks, especially for the hyperactive-fourteen-year-old variety. I can't sit through adventure movies that long, so it's kind of ridiculous that we expect them to remain in their desks and talk hydrology for the same duration. Which is why I was perched on my desk instead of gesturing wildly about the water cycle in front of a power point. "What did y'all do this weekend?"
Usually, we go around one by one until everyone has had their hot minute (or five) of the fame. Answers typically range from "Nothin'." to "Went to the mall, met up with some females..." Occasionally I'll get a random "Ran from the police," but nothing too out of the ordinary for any other average middle-schooler. And so we went around this Monday. Norman had bought some new white shoes and Jaelynn had played video games, so I was half-listening when we got to Will. "Lost my virginity," he said with the same intonation as if he'd responded with "Ordered a pizza."
How exactly do you react to that? I asked myself for about the millionth time in the past seven months. "WILL. I HOPE you're kidding!"
"I'm not." The whole class is laughing, but Will is deadpan, and I'm starting to think that he's definitely NOT kidding. "I wore a condom, though."
Why is he telling me this? "I'm calling your dad right now and telling him!"
"He the one who GAVE me the condom."
Oh.
A guy came to our staff meeting the other day to talk about gang-related activity in our school and did a slide-show presentation of all the graffiti, paraphernalia, and signs he found on RMS campus. Apparently, the rosaries I see everywhere are supposed to signify the wearers' allegiance to some gang I forgot the name of.
Which I guess explains why, when I asked one of my rosary-donning boys where he went to mass, he responded with, "Uh...what's that?"
Other than the rosaries, I see very little sign of religion around school. A favorite phrase around my classroom is, "I don't _________; I'm a CHRISTIAN!" ex. "I don't cuss; I'm a CHRISTIAN!" Of course, five minutes later they're weaving tapestries of obscenities so intricate I have trouble following. From time to time, kids will mention going to church. One time I said something about my church and they asked if I sang gospel music there.
"Ms. M, you go whoopin' and hollerin' and the pughs? You start dancin' and catchin' the Holy Spirit?"
I don't know what was funnier; picturing my little conservative Presbyterian church body doing all these things, or conjuring the image of my "hard," "tough" boys doing the same.
These days are long, but it sure is getting to be pretty around here. The weather has been absolutely beautiful this week, and all the cherry and Bradford pear trees are blooming, casting their petals down in a colorful carpet. Sometimes (more often than I'd like), the best part of my day is walking to my car after school. Wednesday was definitely one of those days. After a long staff meeting, I charged as quickly as I could to my car while still retaining a shred of professional dignity. When I got in, I put down the top and threw the car in reverse. Ms. D and Ms. T, two young, white teachers waved and laughed as they walked by.
"You're so white in your aviator sunglasses and your Volvo!"
I smiled and turned my Lady Antebellum up a little louder. "Yeah, but I still teach at RMS!!!!" I threw up the deuces and peeled out of the parking lot, white lightning on black asphalt.
Every Monday begins the same. It is a flex day, which means I have my first block for an entire two hours and fifteen minutes. That's a long time, folks, especially for the hyperactive-fourteen-year-old variety. I can't sit through adventure movies that long, so it's kind of ridiculous that we expect them to remain in their desks and talk hydrology for the same duration. Which is why I was perched on my desk instead of gesturing wildly about the water cycle in front of a power point. "What did y'all do this weekend?"
Usually, we go around one by one until everyone has had their hot minute (or five) of the fame. Answers typically range from "Nothin'." to "Went to the mall, met up with some females..." Occasionally I'll get a random "Ran from the police," but nothing too out of the ordinary for any other average middle-schooler. And so we went around this Monday. Norman had bought some new white shoes and Jaelynn had played video games, so I was half-listening when we got to Will. "Lost my virginity," he said with the same intonation as if he'd responded with "Ordered a pizza."
How exactly do you react to that? I asked myself for about the millionth time in the past seven months. "WILL. I HOPE you're kidding!"
"I'm not." The whole class is laughing, but Will is deadpan, and I'm starting to think that he's definitely NOT kidding. "I wore a condom, though."
Why is he telling me this? "I'm calling your dad right now and telling him!"
"He the one who GAVE me the condom."
Oh.
A guy came to our staff meeting the other day to talk about gang-related activity in our school and did a slide-show presentation of all the graffiti, paraphernalia, and signs he found on RMS campus. Apparently, the rosaries I see everywhere are supposed to signify the wearers' allegiance to some gang I forgot the name of.
Which I guess explains why, when I asked one of my rosary-donning boys where he went to mass, he responded with, "Uh...what's that?"
Other than the rosaries, I see very little sign of religion around school. A favorite phrase around my classroom is, "I don't _________; I'm a CHRISTIAN!" ex. "I don't cuss; I'm a CHRISTIAN!" Of course, five minutes later they're weaving tapestries of obscenities so intricate I have trouble following. From time to time, kids will mention going to church. One time I said something about my church and they asked if I sang gospel music there.
"Ms. M, you go whoopin' and hollerin' and the pughs? You start dancin' and catchin' the Holy Spirit?"
I don't know what was funnier; picturing my little conservative Presbyterian church body doing all these things, or conjuring the image of my "hard," "tough" boys doing the same.
These days are long, but it sure is getting to be pretty around here. The weather has been absolutely beautiful this week, and all the cherry and Bradford pear trees are blooming, casting their petals down in a colorful carpet. Sometimes (more often than I'd like), the best part of my day is walking to my car after school. Wednesday was definitely one of those days. After a long staff meeting, I charged as quickly as I could to my car while still retaining a shred of professional dignity. When I got in, I put down the top and threw the car in reverse. Ms. D and Ms. T, two young, white teachers waved and laughed as they walked by.
"You're so white in your aviator sunglasses and your Volvo!"
I smiled and turned my Lady Antebellum up a little louder. "Yeah, but I still teach at RMS!!!!" I threw up the deuces and peeled out of the parking lot, white lightning on black asphalt.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Prayer, Please!
Just as my resolve is fading, my hope is waning, my strength is failing me, it shines forth on the horizon:
SPRING BREAK.
Yes, I still get to go on those. Just one of the many perks that come with being a teacher! That and the exciting opportunity to mold young lives everyday!!! It makes me leap out of bed every morning with a smile on my face!!
No, but seriously. Will that be your prayer for me--that that will actually come to be true? Also, the EOG comes up in a little over a month. That is basically the state science test that all 8th graders must pass in order to move up to high school, and it is extremely difficult. Considering that my students can't formulate a complete sentence (and if they do it looks like they wrote it with their feet), that. terrifies. me. Honestly, nothing short of a miracle will get them out of that alive so please, dear friends, pray for just that. On a self-centered note, it is my job to prepare my kids for this test, and I am "graded" on their scores as well. Yikes.
Yikes is a very white-person thing to say.
Thank you so much for all of you who read and pray and keep up with me--even those whom I haven't met. The comments and encouragement you leave here mean more than you know.
SPRING BREAK.
Yes, I still get to go on those. Just one of the many perks that come with being a teacher! That and the exciting opportunity to mold young lives everyday!!! It makes me leap out of bed every morning with a smile on my face!!
No, but seriously. Will that be your prayer for me--that that will actually come to be true? Also, the EOG comes up in a little over a month. That is basically the state science test that all 8th graders must pass in order to move up to high school, and it is extremely difficult. Considering that my students can't formulate a complete sentence (and if they do it looks like they wrote it with their feet), that. terrifies. me. Honestly, nothing short of a miracle will get them out of that alive so please, dear friends, pray for just that. On a self-centered note, it is my job to prepare my kids for this test, and I am "graded" on their scores as well. Yikes.
Yikes is a very white-person thing to say.
Thank you so much for all of you who read and pray and keep up with me--even those whom I haven't met. The comments and encouragement you leave here mean more than you know.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Just upped my nerd-status a couple notches.
I am forever losing things/having things stolen in class. The second I put something down, either a) I forget where I left it, or b) it "disappears" and I nearly lose my mind thinking I forgot where I left it.
Well, friends, good news: PROBLEM SOLVED. In the form of a tool belt/waiter's apron. That I got from Ace hardware. For six dollars. Don't worry; it's a neutral so it's perfect for every season. I'M AWESOME. The amount of stress it will save me far outweighs the hell I am going to catch tomorrow from my students.
Well, friends, good news: PROBLEM SOLVED. In the form of a tool belt/waiter's apron. That I got from Ace hardware. For six dollars. Don't worry; it's a neutral so it's perfect for every season. I'M AWESOME. The amount of stress it will save me far outweighs the hell I am going to catch tomorrow from my students.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Needed: Organizational Skills
Organization has never been...one of my strong suits. If you had taken a peek into my high-school backpack, you would have seen a couple of text books, several crumpled-up papers (some dating back months), and probably some sort of spilled candy. I know, I know. I'm not proud. I'm also ashamed to tell you that this same backpack accompanied me to college, only there I had heavier books and whiskey minis replaced the candy. Just kidding about the last part. Come to think about it, that backpack is now in the possession of my youngest sister, Caroline, so I know its legacy continues. Except even worse.
Anyways, you can imagine the sort of pitfalls that come with being a teacher and having zero organizational skills. If I found it hard to keep up with my own--one person's--papers, times that by 83 and mull it over. Not pretty.
I have worksheets cascading out of my closet, lab conclusions carpeting the floor of my bedroom. "If you have faith, you can move mountains." Yeah, I believe that one because I do it every day when I open my car door. Stacks of tests have taken up residence in the passenger seat now, where friends and loved ones used to ride. On some particularly stressful mornings, I find myself talking to them...
I reach into my purse on Saturday afternoon, perhaps fishing for my wallet to purchase something I can't afford. Something trivial to make myself feel better and push Monday out of my mind. "Cash or credit?" the cashier asks, smiling. I look down at my hand and mumble. "Umm...do you take vocabulary foldables?"
I roll over in the morning to greet--no, not the person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with--an "exit ticket" signed by Dwight Jefferson. First of all, how in the heck did it get IN MY BED, and second of all, Dwight is about the LAST thing I want to think about first thing in the morning.
Because these papers are taking over my personal space and reminding me of school every time I wake up, get in the car, walk in my room, reach in my purse or open the refrigerator (?), I have tried to refrain from taking up any more for the time being. That being said, I just took on a whole new beast of a grading project.
The water droplet story. I was so proud of this little idea. I had the kids imagine themselves as water droplets and draw little strips of paper that would send them to the Animal Station, the Cloud Station, the Plant Station, the Mountain Station, the Ocean Station, etc. From there, they would draw a new strip and find out where their next destination was. The point of the exercise was to show them how water cycles through the, uh, Water Cycle. For instance, they might start in a cloud, rain down to a stream where they were drunk by a cow, peed out into the ground, taken up by a plant, and so on and so forth. Then they were to create a children's book out of their story.
Well, some of my students still might not be keen on the finer points of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation, but no one can accuse them of lacking creativity. Some of my favorites so far:
"Tick-Tock Drop" by Ananais, featuring a water droplet on the cover donning a doo-rag and a Flava-Flav style clock around its neck
"Tu-Drop" (like Tupac, only a raindrop), by Dwight. On the cover, Tu-Drop is wearing a bandana, a chain, and a shirt reading "THUG LIFE." He wanted to know all about the water cycle "because everybody in the hood was hella cyclin', ya digg??"
"The Tragic Fall of Charcelle the Raindrop," by none other than Quinn. The inspirational story of a young water droplet who goes through many phase changes in life but learns the invaluable lesson that, "No matter where you go or how you change, you must stay true to yourself and be proud of who you are--water." The closing illustration was a picture of a water drop with a thought bubble exclaiming, "F*** Solids!!"
I'm going to go to bed now...if I can find it, that is.
Anyways, you can imagine the sort of pitfalls that come with being a teacher and having zero organizational skills. If I found it hard to keep up with my own--one person's--papers, times that by 83 and mull it over. Not pretty.
I have worksheets cascading out of my closet, lab conclusions carpeting the floor of my bedroom. "If you have faith, you can move mountains." Yeah, I believe that one because I do it every day when I open my car door. Stacks of tests have taken up residence in the passenger seat now, where friends and loved ones used to ride. On some particularly stressful mornings, I find myself talking to them...
I reach into my purse on Saturday afternoon, perhaps fishing for my wallet to purchase something I can't afford. Something trivial to make myself feel better and push Monday out of my mind. "Cash or credit?" the cashier asks, smiling. I look down at my hand and mumble. "Umm...do you take vocabulary foldables?"
I roll over in the morning to greet--no, not the person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with--an "exit ticket" signed by Dwight Jefferson. First of all, how in the heck did it get IN MY BED, and second of all, Dwight is about the LAST thing I want to think about first thing in the morning.
Because these papers are taking over my personal space and reminding me of school every time I wake up, get in the car, walk in my room, reach in my purse or open the refrigerator (?), I have tried to refrain from taking up any more for the time being. That being said, I just took on a whole new beast of a grading project.
The water droplet story. I was so proud of this little idea. I had the kids imagine themselves as water droplets and draw little strips of paper that would send them to the Animal Station, the Cloud Station, the Plant Station, the Mountain Station, the Ocean Station, etc. From there, they would draw a new strip and find out where their next destination was. The point of the exercise was to show them how water cycles through the, uh, Water Cycle. For instance, they might start in a cloud, rain down to a stream where they were drunk by a cow, peed out into the ground, taken up by a plant, and so on and so forth. Then they were to create a children's book out of their story.
Well, some of my students still might not be keen on the finer points of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation, but no one can accuse them of lacking creativity. Some of my favorites so far:
"Tick-Tock Drop" by Ananais, featuring a water droplet on the cover donning a doo-rag and a Flava-Flav style clock around its neck
"Tu-Drop" (like Tupac, only a raindrop), by Dwight. On the cover, Tu-Drop is wearing a bandana, a chain, and a shirt reading "THUG LIFE." He wanted to know all about the water cycle "because everybody in the hood was hella cyclin', ya digg??"
"The Tragic Fall of Charcelle the Raindrop," by none other than Quinn. The inspirational story of a young water droplet who goes through many phase changes in life but learns the invaluable lesson that, "No matter where you go or how you change, you must stay true to yourself and be proud of who you are--water." The closing illustration was a picture of a water drop with a thought bubble exclaiming, "F*** Solids!!"
I'm going to go to bed now...if I can find it, that is.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Take time to stop and smell the roses
"MM-mmm!!" says Brett, looking me up and down. His lips are pursed, making his dimples even more pronounced. I roll my eyes, taking note of how he has to tilt his head upwards to see me in full, as he barely reaches my shoulder. He takes a chomp out of a chip as he continues his survey. "If you was a flower, I'd pick you first!"
"Except the second you'd lean over to pick me, I'd wilt from Doritos-breath."
Burned. Breaking hearts and taking names. Too bad those names can only be found in the NINETEEN-NINETY-SIX BIRTH REGISTRY. I need a life.
"Except the second you'd lean over to pick me, I'd wilt from Doritos-breath."
Burned. Breaking hearts and taking names. Too bad those names can only be found in the NINETEEN-NINETY-SIX BIRTH REGISTRY. I need a life.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
March Sadness
I'm beginning to feel again like I did before Christmas break. You know...like a failure.
Because I am. Because I don't love my kids well. Because I haven't taught them anything. Because, over six months into this thing, I still can't get through a lesson without yelling to be heard. I don't know if I can honestly say I have a positive impact on any of them--or even a positive relationship with them. To be cliche, the only thing I'm consistent with is being inconsistent. You'll tell me otherwise, but you don't see me in the classroom. You don't see how being constantly frustrated and emotionally drained changes me into a person I don't like when I'm teaching. If you can even call it that.
Other people can do it. Other first-year teachers have seen success in their classrooms. So what is wrong with me? I guess I don't work hard enough, care enough, pray enough, _________ enough. You fill in the blank. I don't do it enough. And I'm starting to give up.
For the first time since probably November, I cried on the way to school again. The closer I get to June 10, the farther away it feels...
Because I am. Because I don't love my kids well. Because I haven't taught them anything. Because, over six months into this thing, I still can't get through a lesson without yelling to be heard. I don't know if I can honestly say I have a positive impact on any of them--or even a positive relationship with them. To be cliche, the only thing I'm consistent with is being inconsistent. You'll tell me otherwise, but you don't see me in the classroom. You don't see how being constantly frustrated and emotionally drained changes me into a person I don't like when I'm teaching. If you can even call it that.
Other people can do it. Other first-year teachers have seen success in their classrooms. So what is wrong with me? I guess I don't work hard enough, care enough, pray enough, _________ enough. You fill in the blank. I don't do it enough. And I'm starting to give up.
For the first time since probably November, I cried on the way to school again. The closer I get to June 10, the farther away it feels...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
Quinn is one of the five girls that got added to my team midway through the first quarter. She is hilarious. I don't know how to say this tactfully, but she is one of the few white girls that attends our school and is...somewhat normal. I love her. She's incredibly bright and has perfectly mastered the art of sarcasm--I should know, as I am well-versed in the field myself. I realized this about her after I sent home "job applications" with my students. These so-called "job applications" were really just a gimmicky way to trick my students into doing crap around my classroom that I was not interested in doing myself (i.e. picking up trash, filing papers, sharpening pencils). I took each mundane task and gave it a glamorous title and official-sounding description, then I talked about how much trust and responsibility came with earning such a covetous position. Now, kids usually respond to my pleas for them to push chairs under the table with the same dramatic revolt as if I had looked them solemnly in the eye and asked them to clip my toenails. With their teeth. All of the sudden, they were jumping up and down begging me to be the next "VP of Distribution" or "Absentee Delegate."
Reading these "job applications" was most definitely a highlight of my teaching career thus far. I had one mysterious application from a certain (last name) Bum, (first name, middle name) Homeless Gay.
Job Applied For: Sanitation Manager.
Why are you interested in this job?: I love trash.
What skills do you have that make you good for this job? I am good at digging through trash.
What other jobs have you had in the past? In the past I sorted trash into 4 piles for the company Allied Waste Services. Paper, plastic, glass, and my lunch.
HA. I sat on my bed, literally shaking with laughter. I'm glad I possess such a mature sense of humor. Oh, Homeless G. Bum.
Where was I? Oh yes, Quinn. Quinn applied for "Materials Marshal" because "Passing out papers has always been a passion of mine." Go ahead, Quinn. Call me out for my ridiculous trickery. I'll be the first to appreciate a little biting sarcasm, and I'm honestly glad someone could see through the hokey-ness of it all.
"Ms. M!!!!" she'll say. "There's CHEX-MIX spilled ALLLLL in my backpack!!! Can I go to the office? I need to call my mom!!! It's an emergency!!!"
"No."
"But then WHAT should I do!?!???!!"
"Um, I would suggest you take the stuff out of your backpack, hold it upside down over the trash can, and shake vigorously."
"That's a GREAT idea!! Thank you sooooo much!!!"
We have a certain appreciation for each other, Quinn and I. Besides our sarcasm, we also have something else in common: we are the only blondes in all of 8th grade. The other kids think we look exactly alike. Side note: anyone who is white and blonde is automatically my twin. Jessica Simpson (why, THANK you!!), Paris Hilton (really??), Taylor Swift (We DO have similar styles and salaries), Heidi Klum ("If only I had a dime for everytime I heard THAT one!")...the list lengthens daily. Quinn always responds to our comparison with "No we don't!" but looks slightly pleased as she shoots me a glance.
Another thing about Quinn. She smokes a lot of pot.
Twenty. That is the number of days she's been suspended this year for sneaking off to the bathroom to...relax. After the most recent offense, I refuse to let her go to the bathroom.
"Ms. M, can I go to the bathroom?"
"No."
"Pleaseeee!?? It's an emergency!"
"No."
"But WHY!?!"
No response, just a look.
"OH MY GOSH. So is no one ever going to let me go to the bathroom again??"
"Probably not."
"This SUCKS!"
"Quit smoking weed in the girls' BATHROOM!"
Knowing all this, you can imagine my surprise when last Thursday Quinn came up to me during lunch and asked me if I wanted to buy some Girl Scout Cookies.
"Ms. M, would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?"
"Maybe. Who's selling them?"
"Uh, me! Duh."
"Wait...you're selling Girl Scout Cookies?"
"Yeah."
"You--You're a...Girl Scout?"
"YES, Ms. M! Why is that so hard to believe??"
You, dear reader, do not even know Quinn, yet I'm willing to bet you have a million reasons you could choose from already. And with that, I leave you. Good night.
Reading these "job applications" was most definitely a highlight of my teaching career thus far. I had one mysterious application from a certain (last name) Bum, (first name, middle name) Homeless Gay.
Job Applied For: Sanitation Manager.
Why are you interested in this job?: I love trash.
What skills do you have that make you good for this job? I am good at digging through trash.
What other jobs have you had in the past? In the past I sorted trash into 4 piles for the company Allied Waste Services. Paper, plastic, glass, and my lunch.
HA. I sat on my bed, literally shaking with laughter. I'm glad I possess such a mature sense of humor. Oh, Homeless G. Bum.
Where was I? Oh yes, Quinn. Quinn applied for "Materials Marshal" because "Passing out papers has always been a passion of mine." Go ahead, Quinn. Call me out for my ridiculous trickery. I'll be the first to appreciate a little biting sarcasm, and I'm honestly glad someone could see through the hokey-ness of it all.
"Ms. M!!!!" she'll say. "There's CHEX-MIX spilled ALLLLL in my backpack!!! Can I go to the office? I need to call my mom!!! It's an emergency!!!"
"No."
"But then WHAT should I do!?!???!!"
"Um, I would suggest you take the stuff out of your backpack, hold it upside down over the trash can, and shake vigorously."
"That's a GREAT idea!! Thank you sooooo much!!!"
We have a certain appreciation for each other, Quinn and I. Besides our sarcasm, we also have something else in common: we are the only blondes in all of 8th grade. The other kids think we look exactly alike. Side note: anyone who is white and blonde is automatically my twin. Jessica Simpson (why, THANK you!!), Paris Hilton (really??), Taylor Swift (We DO have similar styles and salaries), Heidi Klum ("If only I had a dime for everytime I heard THAT one!")...the list lengthens daily. Quinn always responds to our comparison with "No we don't!" but looks slightly pleased as she shoots me a glance.
Another thing about Quinn. She smokes a lot of pot.
Twenty. That is the number of days she's been suspended this year for sneaking off to the bathroom to...relax. After the most recent offense, I refuse to let her go to the bathroom.
"Ms. M, can I go to the bathroom?"
"No."
"Pleaseeee!?? It's an emergency!"
"No."
"But WHY!?!"
No response, just a look.
"OH MY GOSH. So is no one ever going to let me go to the bathroom again??"
"Probably not."
"This SUCKS!"
"Quit smoking weed in the girls' BATHROOM!"
Knowing all this, you can imagine my surprise when last Thursday Quinn came up to me during lunch and asked me if I wanted to buy some Girl Scout Cookies.
"Ms. M, would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?"
"Maybe. Who's selling them?"
"Uh, me! Duh."
"Wait...you're selling Girl Scout Cookies?"
"Yeah."
"You--You're a...Girl Scout?"
"YES, Ms. M! Why is that so hard to believe??"
You, dear reader, do not even know Quinn, yet I'm willing to bet you have a million reasons you could choose from already. And with that, I leave you. Good night.
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