ExtraOnerousGarbage

I hate EOGs. I hate that we teach all year to have students perform well on a test instead of, oh...I don't know...being prepared for high school? Knowing how to write correctly? Understanding how to analyze problems? Think critically about the world they live in?

But that's just me being silly.

Anyways, we got our data back. Our grade is divided into four teams:

Team A: IB kids (the highest-performing--and usually best-behaved kids)

Team B: Honors kids (the ones that take Algebra instead of regular math)

Teams C and D: (You guessed it) The leftovers/behavior problems. Lowest-performers. Team C=boys, Team D=girls.

Pass rates were as follows (this is before retests):

Team A: 70%

Team B: 60%

Team C (us): 56%

Team D: 33%

About what I expected. I'm pleased that every one of my boys who did what they were supposed to do this year passed. I'm also happy I had 16 4s (the highest score)--same as the Honors team.

56% is still not great, but I'm not a miracle-worker. I'm just a girl, standing in front of some boys trying to love them.

That sounded vaguely familiar.

Well, they've finally done it...

There is now a rap about wonton soup. Thank God that void in our musical library has been filled.

The things you learn at RMS.

*Warning: I tried to get the clean version, but this still ain't too clean so if you have delicate sensibilities, don't click.

BALLIN OUT

EOG results are back. We'll talk later. My brain is fried right now, but I wanted to write this down before I forgot.

Today during reloop/review, Khalil seemed to be working on his practice questions a little too intensely. I know Khalil, and I know his focus is never that keen on schoolwork. When I stepped closer, I saw that he was writing a rap. It went something a long the lines of:

"When we hit tha mall we ball out (ball out) x4

Swagg stupid fly, yall

everyday I'm high, yall

Money flyin' everywhere, spend it on tha clothes I wear

AE and HCo from my head to my toe

Gotta get my money right 'fore I spend it on them hoes..."

LAME.

Hollister and American Eagle? You have "stupid money" and you take it to HOLLISTER? Kewl. You are SUCH a baller. All-American gangsta.

I rolled my eyes and said something of that sort while Khalil looked over my shoulder. "You ain't think that's straight? It's harder than it looks to write raps."

"Really?" I took the pen and notebook to my desk while he smirked. Five minutes later, I was back with this:

The name's Ms. M, y'all; you know what it is.

Ask you 'do you know Miz?' you say 'from that show biz!'

Hustlin' in the classroom, stompin' in them boots--

Haters try to clown by they know it's kinda cute.

All day southern swag, reppin' in my pearls

Gotta watch your step round them bonafide country girls.

All boys, all day, but I hold it down

Queen of the 8th grade; see me in my crown.

Still don't think I'm real? Well you've just been had.

If you need the proof in ink, go and ask your dad.

"AWWW Ms. M forreal, y'all! I gotta give you props for that M, you killed dat! Ms. M a beast, real rap."

If only my rapping skillz could get me anywhere in the real world...Still taking suggestions for jobs next year...anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

A Little Love for Ms. M

Nobody likes a whiner, so I'm going to try my best not to be one. I'll be brief: several incidents in the past week have made school perhaps even more unbearable than usual (...).

Now it is EOG week, but as soon as testing is over for the day, the kids WILE OUT. I would compare it to wild banshees being let out of a straight jacket after four hours. It's exhausting, but I have to keep reminding myself that I would probably have a little energy to burn after working out math problems for four hours too.

Then again, I probably wouldn't burn it by taking off my shirt, flossing it back and forth between my legs and singing "It's Raining Men."

Mere difference of temperament.

ANYWAYS. Maybe that background will shed some light on why this moment stood out to me...

Today we were outside after the test when Essa (the athlete who is a little too cocky for his own good but just sweet enough to make him likeable anyways) came up behind me and slung his heavy arm across my shoulders.

"Imma miss you next year, Ms. M, real tawlk." He continued to escort me across the lawn, ignoring my look of surprise. "I really do love you, Ms. M. Sometimes you make me mad, but I love you anyways. You one of my favorite teachers and Imma miss you next year when I'm at high school."

I squeezed his arm. Looking up at his smile, I know he couldn't have known how much those few sentences meant to me (I couldn't let him know either; Lord knows thinks too much of himself anyways). "I love you too, Essa. And you make me mad sometimes too, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't miss you next year."

I meant it.

Tomorrow my students take the Science EOG--it's what I've been preparing them for all year and will be used to gauge my effectiveness and their growth. I hope it is a true testament to what they've learned. Please pray for them! I really want them to be able to feel successful at the end of the year.

I'm not gonna lie, I want that for myself too.

UGH.

I will be fine if I never ever see another 14-year-old again ever. I'm tired of you calling my name over and over again, "MS. M, MS. M, MS. M!!!!!" I'm tired of you being so needy. I don't have enough in me to be 25 people's teacher, mom, daddy, mentor, BFF, encourager, disciplinarian and counselor all at the same time. Sorry bout it. I'm tired of you hanging all over me. PLEASE. You don't need to poke me, prod me, grab my arm, tug my hair, hug me, come up behind me or grab my shoulders in order to say hello. Just say hello. I'm starting to value my personal space more than ever. I don't even want you to LOOK at me.

I'm sorry. I know that sounds harsh. Please come hang out at my school for a week before judging me.

The other day at lunch, I was desperately trying to find my inner peace at the end of the table. By myself. I thoughtfully chewed a cracker. Five boys immediately whisked to my side and plopped down beside me. Please not now. Que looked at me for a second and grinned, nudging his neighbors. "Ms. M," he said meaningfully, "you like crackers??"

The table burst out laughing. I looked down at my half-eaten saltine. "Oh. I get it. You said that because I'm white. Ha, ha. But you know what? I'm starting to feel a little bit discriminated against! How is it okay for you to call me a cracker? What if I find that offensive? Look around you, Que. I'm a minority here. By a LOT."

Que laughed and gestured toward the rest of the cafeteria. "Yeah, we used to be a minority too, 'til our mommas started havin' six kids a piece 'fore they hit 30! Now we multiplyin'!"

Mom

My mom is beautiful like the wild violets she loves so much. Their splendor lies in their vibrant color and their fragility, but their delicate shape belies their resilience. I've seen those violets dot the sides of heavily-trafficked interstates and backyards with more rocks than dirt. They can grow anywhere and need no maintenance, but they catch the eye of everyone who passes by.

My mom is graceful like the birds she watches from our back windows. She knows their songs and their names, their distinguishing markings, but she doesn't know how much she shares with them. Her songs have been the lovely backdrop of our childhoods. Her quiet kitchen melodies have drifted up the stairs and lulled us to sleep with their familiarity. She is a delight to all with the privilege of being in her presence.

My mom is deliberate like the Shakespearian sonnets she recites to herself. We see her thoughtfulness in everything from the flowers she arranges on our kitchen island and the colors and flavors of the food she prepares to the Valentine's packages she sends us and the way she artfully wraps her gifts. Nothing that bears her name is done with half her heart.

My mom is calm like the scent of the lavender she grows beside our house. Little can sway her easy temperament, and she takes pleasure in small, everyday delights. She doesn't require riches or lavish attention or constant entertainment to be happy; she is captivated by the sunsets on our back porch. Gossip doesn't excite her, nor does flattery.

My mom is as much a part of us as our bones, our breath, our blood. We see her when we look in the mirror, we hear her in each others' voices. People often lament that the older women are, the more like their mothers they become. Four the four of us, there could be no better fortune.

QOTD:

From the girls that rotated through my classes during blitz:

"Ms. M, why you teachin' at RMS?! You look too prissy to teach here. Don't she look like she should be workin' at a law firm or somethin'?"

"Yeah but then you get to know her and you realize she really a fat black woman stuck inside a skinny white girl's body!"

Why, thank you.

And thank YOU for the blog cheer you left me last time. After all, what would a fat black woman be without her homegirls?

The OG is back, y'all.

I have taken a hiatus from blogging. First, I was in Paris (more on that once I get the pictures). Then, funny ish my kids said didn't seem so funny after my home state and precious college town were obliterated by a monster tornado.

Oh yeah, then Osama bin Laden got his face shot off.

I don't mean to gloss over any of the above, but I frankly don't want to write about any of it right now. Wednesday after the storms all I wanted to do was cry and praise Jesus for sparing my sisters and take all my bottled sentiments and put them on paper...

...but I didn't. So Alabama, just know I'm praying for you and that even though I'm going to go ahead and write about my funny little pipsqueaks like everything is normal, I haven't forgotten that your normal is splintered and strewn on the ground.

School is crazy right now. This week began the two week "blitz" before the kids take their state tests. The blitz is where we review like crazy and desperately try to cram testing strategies down our students' throats. Strangely enough, the teachers and the administration are the only ones stressing and out working hard during this critical time. The kids are acting like they're on a weekend trip to Panama City Beach. Last week I nearly got trampled in a stampede, Mufasa style. If you closed your eyes during class changes and let your nose and ears take in the senses, you might question if you'd been magically transported to an African tundra during a wildebeest feeding frenzy.

Yesterday, I opened my door to find one of my best students casually fondling a girl's breasts in the middle of the hall. "JE'COREY!!!!!"

"What?" He asked, unashamed.

"Are you SERIOUS right now!?!??"

I immediately went to Mr. E to tell him what I saw while Je'Corey bowed his head and chuckled to himself.

"Je'Corey. In the hall? Really?" Mr. E asked in a disgusted tone.

"Ms. M! Did you really just go snitch to Mr. E?"

I'm currently trying to stifle the laughter that's threatening to overcome me at any second. It's not that I'm still not incredibly horrified that my "precious" student is about to round second base in the hallways of a MIDDLE school, I just can't believe I'm really a part of this conversation.

Mr. E continues his fatherly lecture, but I can tell he's fighting a smirk as well. I narrow my eyes and nod my head emphatically as he speaks, all the while biting the inside of my cheek. "That's the problem with y'all," he says. "Y'all too FAST. I mean, you just gonna hang your business out like that in the hallway? Are you that horny?"

At this point, I lose it. Mr. E, encouraged, gains enthusiasm. "I mean, can you not wait until you get home?" Je'Corey is laughing with me. "Seriously, do you not have a TV or a computer to take care of those needs before you come to school?" Tears are streaming down my face and Je'Corey is protesting through red-faced snorts.

"Mr. E, STOP! Naw, man dat's gross!"

"Well you didn't think it was gross when you were juggling those titties in the HALL!"

OMG. Too much. Is this really happening at school? Am I really supposed to keep a straight face and act like an adult during this conversation? Because that's just not going to happen. I've learned that in some situations, you just have to throw in the towel and laugh. No use pretending you don't think something is funny just to be mature; the kids will see straight through it. Last year I had to laugh to keep from crying, and this year I've realized that that's the number one thing I enjoy about my job, so I might as well embrace it.

Dang it, I didn't even get to my other story, but it's bedtime. Maybe if every single one of you comments and tells me how much you missed my blogs and how you refreshed your page every five minutes to see if I'd updated and said a cuss word when I hadn't...I'll write about it tomorrow.