Brandon is twelve years old. He comes up almost to my shoulder and has dreads way past his own. He is a light-skinned boy with the most beautiful long lashes you've ever seen on a dude. The only thing that mars his otherwise perfect face is a deep gash that runs across his upper lip.
"What happened there, Brandon?"
"Aww I hate it when people ask me that! The doctor accidentally did that when I was gettin' born."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I think it looks kind of cool though. You could tell people you got it during a sword fight."
"Now why on EARTH would I go around tellin' that kinda foolish lie?"
I spend every afternoon from about 3:45 to 4:00 with Brandon. He is a car-rider, and my after-school duty post is in the car-riders' lot. For some reason, he's latched on to me since the first day I was out there. Since he is in 6th grade now, I'll probably never teach him--which is a good thing despite how fond I've grown of his crazy self.
By crazy I do mean...crazy. He tells me all about his aunt Whitney Houston and how he and his momma go visit her in Atlanta on the weekends. He gives bizarre nicknames to all the regulars in the parking lot (my favorite of which is "BIG JUICY," referring to a large 7th-grader who wears way too much lipgloss). Unprovoked, he chases other kids around the schoolyard, throwing sticks and rocks. He listens to old gospel music on his mp3 player and sings along loudly, not caring who hears.
Most of the time I leave before Brandon's ride gets to school, so the last thing I see in the rearview mirror is my little terror forlornly sitting on the curb tugging his dreads.
"If your daddy's in jail and your mom works during the day...who picks you up after school?" I asked him one day.
"The Lord." he replied solemnly.
"Hmm. Does the Lord know that school gets out at 4:00?"
"The Lord is all-knowing and om-NI-PO-TENT...HALLELUJAH!!!"
Even though I've spent probably around 36 hours with Brandon since last August, I'm never fully prepared for his response to anything. One day I swung open the door and took a step outside to be immediately greeted by his wide-eyed face. He grabbed my arm and blurted out in one giant breath:
"You know you have some very white teeth. Are you a mistress? You know what is mistress is? A mistress is someone who's married but she goes around havin' SEX with other people who are married too!"
This is all before the door has even closed behind me.
Friday, as I was pulling out of the parking lot, Brandon sprinted up to my car and tapped urgently on the window. I rolled it down.
"Has anyone ever UR-IN-ated on yo car?"
"Not to my knowledge, Brandon. Have a wonderful weekend."
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
What's a number?
100. The percentage of EOGs that my students are supposed to pass to move on to high school
50. To receive an "on grade level" mark (a three), you must answer this percent of the test correctly.
40%. Number of 8th graders that had to pass the Science EOG to reach our school's growth goal.
45. Percentage of my 8th graders who passed the Science EOG.
20. Number of students out of 23 who passed the Science EOG in my first block.
3. The number of students who passed out of my 4th block.
15. Students of mine who scored ABOVE grade level (a four) in Science.
How do I feel about those numbers?
The glass is half empty.
Students only need to get half of the science questions correct to be on grade level? That speaks volumes, sad volumes about our educational system already. Then the fact that less than half of my kids were able to score half on the test? This test is what we've been working for since Day 1. If they failed, I failed. And more failed than didn't.
The glass is half full.
"You did good," Ms. F said as she peered over my shoulder at the data sheet. "For a first-year teacher? At a school like RMS? You gotta consider what we're working with. You should be proud." I guess my scores were the same as the other teachers--teachers who have much better classroom management and have been teaching for a lot longer. So I can be happy about that. And my first block? I'm so proud of them. Will got a 4. Tariq got a 4. They worked hard for it too. "I'm proud of you, Will," I said as I handed over the envelope. He had come to me during class telling me that the three he got on his practice test wasn't enough. "I want a FOUR!" He asked for study guides and extra help. He worked his butt off the last few weeks. And it paid off. He opened his envelope, beamed, and threw his arms around me. Surprised, I returned his hug and temporarily forgot about the group of students huddled in the corner wiping away tears.
In the end, I guess I got what I expected. It is what it is. My kids aren't numbers, anyways. They're people--with personalities, senses of humor, attitudes, and complicated lives. I came to love them, and hopefully I've done a little of that. Hopefully I can still do that in the remaining days I have them.
16. The amount of classes I have left with these boys.
11. The date in June after class ends, and also the day I realize that I'll miss some of these boys more than I can imagine now. SOME of them.
180. The degrees my life has turned since taking this job.
∞. The amount of time that's seemed to elapse since August 25, 2009.
And the amount of grace I've been shown through my journey this year.
50. To receive an "on grade level" mark (a three), you must answer this percent of the test correctly.
40%. Number of 8th graders that had to pass the Science EOG to reach our school's growth goal.
45. Percentage of my 8th graders who passed the Science EOG.
20. Number of students out of 23 who passed the Science EOG in my first block.
3. The number of students who passed out of my 4th block.
15. Students of mine who scored ABOVE grade level (a four) in Science.
How do I feel about those numbers?
The glass is half empty.
Students only need to get half of the science questions correct to be on grade level? That speaks volumes, sad volumes about our educational system already. Then the fact that less than half of my kids were able to score half on the test? This test is what we've been working for since Day 1. If they failed, I failed. And more failed than didn't.
The glass is half full.
"You did good," Ms. F said as she peered over my shoulder at the data sheet. "For a first-year teacher? At a school like RMS? You gotta consider what we're working with. You should be proud." I guess my scores were the same as the other teachers--teachers who have much better classroom management and have been teaching for a lot longer. So I can be happy about that. And my first block? I'm so proud of them. Will got a 4. Tariq got a 4. They worked hard for it too. "I'm proud of you, Will," I said as I handed over the envelope. He had come to me during class telling me that the three he got on his practice test wasn't enough. "I want a FOUR!" He asked for study guides and extra help. He worked his butt off the last few weeks. And it paid off. He opened his envelope, beamed, and threw his arms around me. Surprised, I returned his hug and temporarily forgot about the group of students huddled in the corner wiping away tears.
In the end, I guess I got what I expected. It is what it is. My kids aren't numbers, anyways. They're people--with personalities, senses of humor, attitudes, and complicated lives. I came to love them, and hopefully I've done a little of that. Hopefully I can still do that in the remaining days I have them.
16. The amount of classes I have left with these boys.
11. The date in June after class ends, and also the day I realize that I'll miss some of these boys more than I can imagine now. SOME of them.
180. The degrees my life has turned since taking this job.
∞. The amount of time that's seemed to elapse since August 25, 2009.
And the amount of grace I've been shown through my journey this year.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Mirror, Mirror
A quick list of just a few of the comments my boys have made regarding my physical appearance. Thank God I'm not an extremely sensitive person.
"You look...unusual today."
"Are you sick? You look sick."
"Your boyfriend hit you? You got dem circles under yo eyes."
"I ain't even gonna lie, Ms. M you look high as #$%! right now."
"Why your hair all different colors like a cat?"
"You get that from the old-lady section at Citi Trendz?"
"How you gonna try an' act PRO-fessional in them wrankly pants, M?"
"How come you got shiny gold-y hairs all on your arms?"
Jemon: "You aren't thick, but you kinda got a nice shape to you, for a teacher. You shaped kinda like a Coke bottle."
"Oh. So I have a really tiny head and huge feet. Thank you, Jemon."
Those boys don't sugar-coat anything. They're as swift to tell you your blouse makes you look pregnant as they are to mention how "you be ROCKIN' that skirt today!!" I wish that when I was in middle school I had been able to take their opinions for what I now know them to be worth: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
Stop. I have to confess. Yes, this was a mildly amusing list, but I feel like the real reason I wrote it was subconsciously in response to the only hateful comment I've ever received on my blog. It was posted a few weeks ago by an anonymous reader who criticized me as being "extremely vain." This struck me as strange for a couple of reasons. First of all, anyone who has ever been around middle-school boys knows that their attention has no real connect to your actual degree of attractiveness. You need only be female and breathing. Secondly, I'm fairly certain that my blog is a raw, truthful, sometimes highly-unflattering picture of my weaknesses as I attempt to teach these boys. The comment went on to suggest that I find better things to do than "sit around thinking about how cute I was," (and several other things too nasty to repeat) so I deleted it--along with my sisters' equally nasty rebuttals.
I honestly think I compiled the list above to convince you, dear reader, that I am indeed NOT. VAIN. In the least.
...Wait a minute... Did "Anonymous" just attest to the fact that complete strangers read about my life and are intrigued enough to typecast me as a certain (albeit repulsive) personality!? I'm going to go stare at myself in the mirror now.
"You look...unusual today."
"Are you sick? You look sick."
"Your boyfriend hit you? You got dem circles under yo eyes."
"I ain't even gonna lie, Ms. M you look high as #$%! right now."
"Why your hair all different colors like a cat?"
"You get that from the old-lady section at Citi Trendz?"
"How you gonna try an' act PRO-fessional in them wrankly pants, M?"
"How come you got shiny gold-y hairs all on your arms?"
Jemon: "You aren't thick, but you kinda got a nice shape to you, for a teacher. You shaped kinda like a Coke bottle."
"Oh. So I have a really tiny head and huge feet. Thank you, Jemon."
Those boys don't sugar-coat anything. They're as swift to tell you your blouse makes you look pregnant as they are to mention how "you be ROCKIN' that skirt today!!" I wish that when I was in middle school I had been able to take their opinions for what I now know them to be worth: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
Stop. I have to confess. Yes, this was a mildly amusing list, but I feel like the real reason I wrote it was subconsciously in response to the only hateful comment I've ever received on my blog. It was posted a few weeks ago by an anonymous reader who criticized me as being "extremely vain." This struck me as strange for a couple of reasons. First of all, anyone who has ever been around middle-school boys knows that their attention has no real connect to your actual degree of attractiveness. You need only be female and breathing. Secondly, I'm fairly certain that my blog is a raw, truthful, sometimes highly-unflattering picture of my weaknesses as I attempt to teach these boys. The comment went on to suggest that I find better things to do than "sit around thinking about how cute I was," (and several other things too nasty to repeat) so I deleted it--along with my sisters' equally nasty rebuttals.
I honestly think I compiled the list above to convince you, dear reader, that I am indeed NOT. VAIN. In the least.
...Wait a minute... Did "Anonymous" just attest to the fact that complete strangers read about my life and are intrigued enough to typecast me as a certain (albeit repulsive) personality!? I'm going to go stare at myself in the mirror now.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
NO, RO!!!
It is 11:37. We have been silently taking our math EOG for over two hours. As test administrator, I've been circling around the room "checking to make sure scantrons are bubbled correctly" aka daydreaming about everything from summer to dinner to yesterday's proctor (who was much better looking than today's). My boys are working hard, so I haven't had to REG-U-LATE really. I'm almost through with my lap, gonna go perch on my desk and "watch for testing irregularities" aka sneakily read the Sports Illustrateds I brought for the students who finished early.
Not so fast, M. Rosamuel has somehow managed to completely TAKE OFF HIS SHIRT unnoticed by me or the proctor. So there he sits--naked from the waist up--furiously punching numbers into a calculator. "ROSIE!!!" I whisper sharply. He looks up innocently. "What??" his expression reads. "PUT YOUR SHIRT ON!!!" I mouth back. Rosamuel grins and raises his eyebrows, wiggling his bare shoulders at me before complying.
Double-U Tee Eff.
Not so fast, M. Rosamuel has somehow managed to completely TAKE OFF HIS SHIRT unnoticed by me or the proctor. So there he sits--naked from the waist up--furiously punching numbers into a calculator. "ROSIE!!!" I whisper sharply. He looks up innocently. "What??" his expression reads. "PUT YOUR SHIRT ON!!!" I mouth back. Rosamuel grins and raises his eyebrows, wiggling his bare shoulders at me before complying.
Double-U Tee Eff.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Giraffe Tale
"That kid and I are going to get along," I thought to myself the first day when I watched Jordan Barrett walk into my classroom. He was wearing acid-washed skinny jeans, hot pink high-top converses, and a black T-shirt with a neon logo. Along with the outfit, his black-framed glasses and shoulder-length dreads screamed, "Look at me! Love me! And if you don't, screw you! I love me enough for the both of us!" The other thing that sold me completely: the kid dances like none other. He puts Chris Brown to shame. I am amazed at the things his body does when music starts playing. I've had him try to teach me a couple of moves, but I will never, EVER look like him when attempting. It's amazing, really.
Jordan cracks me up. The way he talks is impossible to imitate--much less try to put in print--but when he asks, "What?" he stretches the word into about four syllables (two syllables too long for even Alabamians). He is playful, witty and fun to be around, but he's not academically inclined in the least. One time I asked him to give me an example of a the risks and benefits of using chemicals. His response:
"One time I pump the baketball full of air. It got oranger and more bouncier."
What!?! To make up for his below-average performance in class, he writes meticulously and doodles all over his assignments. He doesn't love school--probably because he has such a hard time with it--but he makes the most out of it. I love him.
Today he came in with three Silly Bands around his wrist. Silly Bands, for those of you who don't know, are hair elastics that are shaped like little animals until you put them on your wrist or in your hair. For some reason, I am intrigued by them. I've seen several of my kids with them and secretly covet them. "Jordan! Are those Silly Bands?? Give me one!" Jordan laughed at me. "I'm serious!! What animals do you have?"
"Uhhh, what's this one?" he asked as he pulled a deformed cat from his wrist.
"A cat. See?" I put it down on his paper and drew eyes, whiskers and claws in the appropriate places.
"Ughhh. He UGLY! I got a giraffe too." Jordan pulled off a kangaroo and put it on the paper.
"Jordan. Honey. That's NOT a giraffe."
"Well...I swear I got one, Maddy! See?" An overly-stretched, sad excuse of a giraffe slowly unbunched beside the mutant cat.
"That's...a giraffe?" I asked. "It looks more like a wishbone or...some type of carving tool...Where's its tail anyways?"
"Ms. M." Jordan said slowly, as if he were talking to a child. "Giraffes don't HAVE tails."
"Pretty sure they do, Jordan."
"You stupid! No they don't!"
I started doubting myself. DO giraffes have tails? Of course they did, didn't they? But then again, when was the last time I spent quality time with a giraffe? I'm sure I've seen a couple at the zoo, but my attention was probably focused more on, say, their absurdly long necks than their hind quarters. I could've overlooked the lack of tail. Plus I was probably in MY 8th grade year last time I stepped foot in a zoo...You don't come across pictures of giraffes very often either. Dogs, cats, even geckos--they're on commercials, in magazines, on billboards. But you don't see many famous giraffes these days. Nevertheless, I stood my ground. I'm a science teacher. This kind of trivia is supposed to be second nature to me. Jordan and I went back and forth for a while, until I finally bet him a Silly Band that giraffes do, in fact, have tails. I wasn't halfway to my computer before he started faltering in his confidence. "Well, if they DO got tails, they short ones!"
In the end, of course, I triumphed and am now the proud owner of a yellow giraffe Silly Band. Which I wore proudly the whole day. And got complimented on several times.
Tomorrow starts testing, which means I'm done teaching content. There's nothing left to do now but pray. If Jesus can raise a man from the dead, he can supernaturally enlighten my boys' minds with a deep understanding of the complexities of hydrology. Please continue to keep my students in your prayers--especially this Thursday when they test for science.
I leave you with this:
I am now featured on Youtube physically breaking up a fight in my classroom. I'm wearing a hot pink dress and shouting at the boys to "Stop it! RIght now!" I look so pathetic I want to cry. Instead of assisting me, Mike (the biggest guy in class) stood up, got within five feet of us, and began recording the whole affair on his iPhone. In the background you can hear the entire class yelling, "Ms. M!! Don't get in there! You jus' get away or you'll get yo face bashed in!"
I can't help but be a little proud of myself for stepping in and successfully breaking it up, though. Eight months ago, I couldn't have imagined myself responding so confidently (if not pathetically). And no, I will NOT send any of you the link. Peace.
Jordan cracks me up. The way he talks is impossible to imitate--much less try to put in print--but when he asks, "What?" he stretches the word into about four syllables (two syllables too long for even Alabamians). He is playful, witty and fun to be around, but he's not academically inclined in the least. One time I asked him to give me an example of a the risks and benefits of using chemicals. His response:
"One time I pump the baketball full of air. It got oranger and more bouncier."
What!?! To make up for his below-average performance in class, he writes meticulously and doodles all over his assignments. He doesn't love school--probably because he has such a hard time with it--but he makes the most out of it. I love him.
Today he came in with three Silly Bands around his wrist. Silly Bands, for those of you who don't know, are hair elastics that are shaped like little animals until you put them on your wrist or in your hair. For some reason, I am intrigued by them. I've seen several of my kids with them and secretly covet them. "Jordan! Are those Silly Bands?? Give me one!" Jordan laughed at me. "I'm serious!! What animals do you have?"
"Uhhh, what's this one?" he asked as he pulled a deformed cat from his wrist.
"A cat. See?" I put it down on his paper and drew eyes, whiskers and claws in the appropriate places.
"Ughhh. He UGLY! I got a giraffe too." Jordan pulled off a kangaroo and put it on the paper.
"Jordan. Honey. That's NOT a giraffe."
"Well...I swear I got one, Maddy! See?" An overly-stretched, sad excuse of a giraffe slowly unbunched beside the mutant cat.
"That's...a giraffe?" I asked. "It looks more like a wishbone or...some type of carving tool...Where's its tail anyways?"
"Ms. M." Jordan said slowly, as if he were talking to a child. "Giraffes don't HAVE tails."
"Pretty sure they do, Jordan."
"You stupid! No they don't!"
I started doubting myself. DO giraffes have tails? Of course they did, didn't they? But then again, when was the last time I spent quality time with a giraffe? I'm sure I've seen a couple at the zoo, but my attention was probably focused more on, say, their absurdly long necks than their hind quarters. I could've overlooked the lack of tail. Plus I was probably in MY 8th grade year last time I stepped foot in a zoo...You don't come across pictures of giraffes very often either. Dogs, cats, even geckos--they're on commercials, in magazines, on billboards. But you don't see many famous giraffes these days. Nevertheless, I stood my ground. I'm a science teacher. This kind of trivia is supposed to be second nature to me. Jordan and I went back and forth for a while, until I finally bet him a Silly Band that giraffes do, in fact, have tails. I wasn't halfway to my computer before he started faltering in his confidence. "Well, if they DO got tails, they short ones!"
In the end, of course, I triumphed and am now the proud owner of a yellow giraffe Silly Band. Which I wore proudly the whole day. And got complimented on several times.
Tomorrow starts testing, which means I'm done teaching content. There's nothing left to do now but pray. If Jesus can raise a man from the dead, he can supernaturally enlighten my boys' minds with a deep understanding of the complexities of hydrology. Please continue to keep my students in your prayers--especially this Thursday when they test for science.
I leave you with this:
I am now featured on Youtube physically breaking up a fight in my classroom. I'm wearing a hot pink dress and shouting at the boys to "Stop it! RIght now!" I look so pathetic I want to cry. Instead of assisting me, Mike (the biggest guy in class) stood up, got within five feet of us, and began recording the whole affair on his iPhone. In the background you can hear the entire class yelling, "Ms. M!! Don't get in there! You jus' get away or you'll get yo face bashed in!"
I can't help but be a little proud of myself for stepping in and successfully breaking it up, though. Eight months ago, I couldn't have imagined myself responding so confidently (if not pathetically). And no, I will NOT send any of you the link. Peace.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
TGIF?
My youngest sister came to visit this weekend and accompanied me to school on Friday. Out of all my sisters, she probably resembles me the most. As I've mentioned before, my kids think that all white females with blonde hair between the ages of 10 and 50 are my identical twins, so I couldn't wait to see what they thought of my actual, real-life mini me.
When the bell rang, I had my sister put on my lanyard and stand at my door to greet the students as I usually do. I sat behind my desk with a clear view of the entrance and watched as EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of my students either:
a) brushed by her without noticing anything was different
b) gave her "dap" and greeted her "Hey, Ms. M.", or
c) hugged her and wished her "Good mornin,' M."
When they rounded the corner and saw me sitting behind my desk, they'd all do the exact same double-take and say something along the lines of, "SHIT!! That's freakin' me out! I didn't even notice that ain't you! I thought you had some type of facial surgery or you be puttin' on too much makeup today or SOMETHIN.'" It was hilarious. A few kids continued to get the two of us confused even after they knew that she was there. "Mann, y'all even TALK the exact same. You STAND the exact same. 'Cept for she be 18 and Imma bout to hit that up. Tell her I said, 'wassup.' She only in high school and I'm finna be in high school so that's right about my age range."
Most of the school day was spent in a two and a half hour pep rally to get us in the spirit for our EOG tests. Among other things, it consisted of:
1) A skype session with Drake. Yes, as in Drake.*
2) Two of my boys dancing in front of the entire 8th grade to "Turnt Up"* while taking off their shirts and grinding.
3) A rap song performed by Da'Juan and Rashee (among others) to Lil' Wayne's "Roger That." The best part? When one girl got on the mic and declared that "If you can't roger this--then roger THAT!" while turning around and grabbing her butt.
4) The entire girls' bleachers twirkin* in synch to "She Got a Donk."*
5) Watching a security guard get punched in the face by a student (who, by the way, was later at lunch sitting down and laughing with friends).
6) Doing the Cupid Shuffle in front of the school.
7) Seeing a bunch of pro football players get DOMINATED in a shoot-out by my kids.
You know, just another typical work day.
*If you don't know what I'm referring to here, you MIGHT be culturally irrelevant at RMS. Sorry to ruin your day. You can't all be as hood as me.
When the bell rang, I had my sister put on my lanyard and stand at my door to greet the students as I usually do. I sat behind my desk with a clear view of the entrance and watched as EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of my students either:
a) brushed by her without noticing anything was different
b) gave her "dap" and greeted her "Hey, Ms. M.", or
c) hugged her and wished her "Good mornin,' M."
When they rounded the corner and saw me sitting behind my desk, they'd all do the exact same double-take and say something along the lines of, "SHIT!! That's freakin' me out! I didn't even notice that ain't you! I thought you had some type of facial surgery or you be puttin' on too much makeup today or SOMETHIN.'" It was hilarious. A few kids continued to get the two of us confused even after they knew that she was there. "Mann, y'all even TALK the exact same. You STAND the exact same. 'Cept for she be 18 and Imma bout to hit that up. Tell her I said, 'wassup.' She only in high school and I'm finna be in high school so that's right about my age range."
Most of the school day was spent in a two and a half hour pep rally to get us in the spirit for our EOG tests. Among other things, it consisted of:
1) A skype session with Drake. Yes, as in Drake.*
2) Two of my boys dancing in front of the entire 8th grade to "Turnt Up"* while taking off their shirts and grinding.
3) A rap song performed by Da'Juan and Rashee (among others) to Lil' Wayne's "Roger That." The best part? When one girl got on the mic and declared that "If you can't roger this--then roger THAT!" while turning around and grabbing her butt.
4) The entire girls' bleachers twirkin* in synch to "She Got a Donk."*
5) Watching a security guard get punched in the face by a student (who, by the way, was later at lunch sitting down and laughing with friends).
6) Doing the Cupid Shuffle in front of the school.
7) Seeing a bunch of pro football players get DOMINATED in a shoot-out by my kids.
You know, just another typical work day.
*If you don't know what I'm referring to here, you MIGHT be culturally irrelevant at RMS. Sorry to ruin your day. You can't all be as hood as me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Dirty Work
I knew Will was trouble from the moment I first laid eyes on him.
We were in the lunchroom, and Norman called to me from the tray line. "Ms. M--you gotta come meet my brother!" I walked over to say hi and Will introduced himself.
"I'm Will. Norman--he my brah. Not my blood brother, but you know." He put his arm around Norman's neck. "I think I'm gonna try an join YOUR class. What do you think about THAT?!"
"Well, good luck." I told him. "You'll have to put your name on the waiting list."
Fast-forward 8 months. Will has been...if not a thorn in my side, then definitely a splinter in my foot. A nasty splinter with spiky edges. He is under the impression that he can do no wrong and that he runs RMS. The teachers and administrators? Merely pawns in his game. He either ignores them, rebels against them, or manipulates them for his own purposes.
That being said, Will is not a bad kid. He is a smart boy who cares about his grades and wants to do well. He's an incredible athlete, a loyal friend, and generally good-natured. I remember the first time I called his dad to give him a bad report. The next day Will (always the first one in my classroom) walked in with an accusing look on his face. "Mad?" I asked him.
"Naww." Will answered after a pause. "How could I be mad at Ms. M?"
Another time, Kh'Daius was horseplaying (gosh that word makes me sound like a grandmaw) near the door and accidentally slammed my finger in it. HARD. And you remember those massive, heavy wooden classroom door. OUCH (I screamed that, along with several other less-repeatable words). I hunched over in pain, clutching my throbbing finger. Will saw the whole thing and ran up to me.
"You ok, M?? Mann that had to hurt bad. You ok? Kh'Daius you better tell M you're sorry. I'da been cryin' right now or somethin. GIVE HER A HUG AND TELL HER YOU'RE SORRY."
The other day Will was bugging me to take them to the gym. Since they had done well on their post-test, I agreed to take them for the last 10 minutes of class. That wasn't good enough. Every time I began teaching or gave an assignment, he'd pitch a small fit. By the end of the block, my blood was boiling.
"I TOLD you I would take you to the gym the last TEN MINUTES of class. You should be THANKING ME, not making me REGRET I ever mentioned it!!!!! Line up. And I don't want to hear a WORD in the hall. The 6th grade is holding an assembly and you will NOT embarrass me!!!!"
Will walked out of the room and proceeded to dribble a basketball down the hall. "Will. If. You. Bounce. That. One. More. Time." Will glanced over his shoulder, paused, and (you guessed it) bounced it one more time. Channeling my inner mom, I grabbed the back of his arm and pinched so fiercely his eyes watered. What did Will do next? He turned around and returned the favor. Times ten. The back of my arm throbbing, I stomped into the gym and spent the remainder of the block fuming in a corner.
Don't get mad. Get even. But how do you get even when your only offensive attack--The Mom Pinch--has been hijacked and turned against you? Will easily outsized me and was most definitely superior in speed, agility, and strength. I know my limits. I also know that all's fair in love and war, so I asked Mr. K to do my dirty work for me. Since his former job required him to keep prisoners on lock, I figured he'd be up for the task.
I watched from my doorway as our team roared down the hall after lunch. Mr. K stood in his door down the hall, waiting. Poor Will didn't know what was coming, so he wasn't even flexed when Mr. K got him right in the stomach. "DAMN!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR??" Will gasped. As he straightened up, our eyes met and realization flashed across his face. "OOOOOOOH, IT'S OVA FOR YA, M!!"
Last week our whole team was outside after lunch. I was leaning up against the brick wall, enjoying the sun when Will appeared out of nowhere and joined me. He had been a particular jerk that day. We stood there in silence for a while. I sighed. "Will, tell me WHY you put me through so much hell and yet somehow, SOMEhow, I still love you." Will smiled and shook his head. "Tell me why I feel the exact same way about you?"
Rashee came back Monday, much to the excitement of some of you, I'm sure. Will was particularly happy. He and Rashee have been best friends ever since they got in a fight in 6th grade (I know, I don't really understand either). Rashee apparently got his butt whooped.
He was throwing a tennis ball around the room while I was teaching and I jerked it out of his hand when he wasn't expecting it. "GIVE ME MY BALL, M!!"
"No, Rashee. Maybe at the end of class." Rashee jumped out of his desk and stormed to the front.
"Chill, brah," Will warned him.
"OH you BETTA gimme that ball if you know what's BEST for you! I'll punch you in the face so fast you won't even KNOW what hit you! BAM!" Rashee jabbed the air.
"Who you talkin' to, Rashee?" Will asked, displeasure punctuating his question.
"Ms. M!"
"OH NO YOU AREN'T!! Sit your ass down, fool!"
I smiled at Will's glaring face. For the second time that week, someone else had done my dirty work.
We were in the lunchroom, and Norman called to me from the tray line. "Ms. M--you gotta come meet my brother!" I walked over to say hi and Will introduced himself.
"I'm Will. Norman--he my brah. Not my blood brother, but you know." He put his arm around Norman's neck. "I think I'm gonna try an join YOUR class. What do you think about THAT?!"
"Well, good luck." I told him. "You'll have to put your name on the waiting list."
Fast-forward 8 months. Will has been...if not a thorn in my side, then definitely a splinter in my foot. A nasty splinter with spiky edges. He is under the impression that he can do no wrong and that he runs RMS. The teachers and administrators? Merely pawns in his game. He either ignores them, rebels against them, or manipulates them for his own purposes.
That being said, Will is not a bad kid. He is a smart boy who cares about his grades and wants to do well. He's an incredible athlete, a loyal friend, and generally good-natured. I remember the first time I called his dad to give him a bad report. The next day Will (always the first one in my classroom) walked in with an accusing look on his face. "Mad?" I asked him.
"Naww." Will answered after a pause. "How could I be mad at Ms. M?"
Another time, Kh'Daius was horseplaying (gosh that word makes me sound like a grandmaw) near the door and accidentally slammed my finger in it. HARD. And you remember those massive, heavy wooden classroom door. OUCH (I screamed that, along with several other less-repeatable words). I hunched over in pain, clutching my throbbing finger. Will saw the whole thing and ran up to me.
"You ok, M?? Mann that had to hurt bad. You ok? Kh'Daius you better tell M you're sorry. I'da been cryin' right now or somethin. GIVE HER A HUG AND TELL HER YOU'RE SORRY."
The other day Will was bugging me to take them to the gym. Since they had done well on their post-test, I agreed to take them for the last 10 minutes of class. That wasn't good enough. Every time I began teaching or gave an assignment, he'd pitch a small fit. By the end of the block, my blood was boiling.
"I TOLD you I would take you to the gym the last TEN MINUTES of class. You should be THANKING ME, not making me REGRET I ever mentioned it!!!!! Line up. And I don't want to hear a WORD in the hall. The 6th grade is holding an assembly and you will NOT embarrass me!!!!"
Will walked out of the room and proceeded to dribble a basketball down the hall. "Will. If. You. Bounce. That. One. More. Time." Will glanced over his shoulder, paused, and (you guessed it) bounced it one more time. Channeling my inner mom, I grabbed the back of his arm and pinched so fiercely his eyes watered. What did Will do next? He turned around and returned the favor. Times ten. The back of my arm throbbing, I stomped into the gym and spent the remainder of the block fuming in a corner.
Don't get mad. Get even. But how do you get even when your only offensive attack--The Mom Pinch--has been hijacked and turned against you? Will easily outsized me and was most definitely superior in speed, agility, and strength. I know my limits. I also know that all's fair in love and war, so I asked Mr. K to do my dirty work for me. Since his former job required him to keep prisoners on lock, I figured he'd be up for the task.
I watched from my doorway as our team roared down the hall after lunch. Mr. K stood in his door down the hall, waiting. Poor Will didn't know what was coming, so he wasn't even flexed when Mr. K got him right in the stomach. "DAMN!! WHAT WAS THAT FOR??" Will gasped. As he straightened up, our eyes met and realization flashed across his face. "OOOOOOOH, IT'S OVA FOR YA, M!!"
Last week our whole team was outside after lunch. I was leaning up against the brick wall, enjoying the sun when Will appeared out of nowhere and joined me. He had been a particular jerk that day. We stood there in silence for a while. I sighed. "Will, tell me WHY you put me through so much hell and yet somehow, SOMEhow, I still love you." Will smiled and shook his head. "Tell me why I feel the exact same way about you?"
Rashee came back Monday, much to the excitement of some of you, I'm sure. Will was particularly happy. He and Rashee have been best friends ever since they got in a fight in 6th grade (I know, I don't really understand either). Rashee apparently got his butt whooped.
He was throwing a tennis ball around the room while I was teaching and I jerked it out of his hand when he wasn't expecting it. "GIVE ME MY BALL, M!!"
"No, Rashee. Maybe at the end of class." Rashee jumped out of his desk and stormed to the front.
"Chill, brah," Will warned him.
"OH you BETTA gimme that ball if you know what's BEST for you! I'll punch you in the face so fast you won't even KNOW what hit you! BAM!" Rashee jabbed the air.
"Who you talkin' to, Rashee?" Will asked, displeasure punctuating his question.
"Ms. M!"
"OH NO YOU AREN'T!! Sit your ass down, fool!"
I smiled at Will's glaring face. For the second time that week, someone else had done my dirty work.
Monday, May 3, 2010
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