I am physically nauseated thinking about returning to school tomorrow. I'm not even HALFWAY through this year. How am I going to make it 'til June alive? The good news is that this job is going to make whichever one I have next (be it stocking shelves at Wal-Mart or cleaning septic tanks) sound like paradise.
I feel like a failure. I'm getting observed tomorrow, so TFA can witness my failure and tell me how my failing fails students who can't afford to be failed, so I need to focus on failing to fail in the future. I'm teaching Chemistry. I almost failed Chemistry myself in high school had it not been for a certain lab partner who pretty much re-did all my classwork on a daily basis. I hate Chemistry. I hate constantly feeling guilty because there's always SOMETHING else I could be doing. I hate how RMS smells when you walk through the doors. I hate being walked all over by 14 year olds. I hate the way I feel when I leave school. I hate disappointing people. I hate not living up to expectations.
Most of all, I hate feeling sorry for myself when I know there is much to be thankful for.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
HAHA
This is the picture text I received from Rashee last night circa 1:12 AM. The accompanying text read:"Look at Big Buckley! M this is just to funny."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Desperate Times Call for...Poor Decisions?
So, I just did something that may or may not have been a wonderful idea. I entrusted my sweet dog into the care of none other than Rashee Malley for the next four days.
Apparently, in order to board a dog for the week of Thanksgiving, you have to reserve a spot, oh, TWO MONTHS before you leave. Considering I'm still not sure exactly when my flight leaves out tomorrow morning, it's very unlikely that I will ever, EVER think to book a spot for Buckley weeks before I leave town. Which brings me to my current dilemma. After I called about 293476 kennels across town only to be rejected (leaving me feeling much like Dennis the Menace's mom in that scene where she's trying to find him a babysitter), I found myself 20 hours before my flight with no clue what I was going to do with my dog.
At lunch, I half-jokingly asked which one of my students I could pay to watch my dog for me. I saw several eyes light up at the word pay, but no one really seemed ready to commit. Except Rashee. "I keep him, Ms. M! I keep him for you! Lemme call my mama right now on yo' phone and see!" I hesitantly pulled my phone out of my pocket.
"I'm not sure about this, Rashee," I said slowly. Rashee jerked the phone out of my hand and dialed.
"Mama, my teacher want me to ask you can we k--" I shot him a look. "OK," he started over. "Can I keep my teacher's dog for her 'til Sunday for $100? She said it has to be OK with you first....you wan' talk to her?" Rashee thrust the phone in my face, and his mom assured me that it would be fine if they kept Buckley for a few days.
I was still hesitant. Rashee is a nut. He can't sit still for five minutes. Does he have the responsibility to take care of the only man in my life? I made it clear that I had my doubts, and Rashee continued to persist. Ms. D passed us in the hall and heard our conversation.
"You're going to trust a student with your dog?? You MUST be crazy! Ask Mr. L if he can keep it; I think he's staying here!"
Rashee tossed his head back. "Why you gonna DO me like that, Ms. D!? That's sheisty! Mr. L don't need that money!"
During fifth block, Rashee came and found me. "Ok, we talkin' business for real. Let me keep your dog, M. I promise I take good care of it."
I kept walking down the hall. "You know this is my baby. This is like my CHILD. I don't know if--"
Rashee stopped and grabbed my arm. "Forreal, Ms. M," he said solemnly. "I promise I treat him better than how I act at school." I cut my eyes, expecting sarcasm but instead saw an earnest smile.
"Oh...All right," I said. "But I don't want a HAIR missing from his head when I get back or that's one hair I'm plucking from yours!"
"I know, Ms. M! You can trust me."
That night, I followed google maps to the north side of town and pulled up to a small house with an empty driveway. Most of the lights were off, but I could see the bluish glow of the TV flickering through the front windows. Before I could make it up the steps, the front door swung open and Rashee stepped outside, smirking. It was funny to see him outside of school; just as my students think I exist only in a world of dry erase markers and power-point presentations, I seldom stop to picture my students beyond the classroom. He looked different without his school uniform of khaki pants, blue polo, and super-hero backpack with the bright-yellow trimmed straps. Standing in the door frame with his silhouette black against the soft light behind him, he looked...small. For a second, he was to me what he should be anyways but never really is: a kid. A thirteen-year-old boy.
You see, my kids live in a culture where they are forced to grow up way too fast. Most of my boys are the men of their households, so they develop this tough exterior and a sort of "couldn't care less" attitude. It's for survival and protection. If they hide their fears and their hurt, it's almost as if they don't exist. That's why when I catch them talking about SpongeBob Squarepants or Tom and Jerry I am a little caught off guard; they almost have me convinced that they're little men too.
Where was I?
Buckley jerked me across the lawn, straining against his leash.
"Daang, Ms. M! You ALREADY havin' problems with him!" Without his band of rowdy followers, Rashee almost seemed a little shy.
"He's your problem now!" I retorted. Buckley trotted right up the front steps and into the living room. "You see? Already making himself at home!"
Rashee studied Buckley. "Oh, he like a Air Bud dog!" Buckley excitedly explored his new territory, pausing to sniff a basketball in the corner. "Straight for the basketball. See? Just like Air Bud." The wooden floor was slick and shiny, and Buckley onboxiously slid from room to room.
"You SURE you can handle him, Rashee? I'm going to get him back in one piece?"
Rashee smiled at me. "I ain't gonna do nothin' to your dog, Ms. M!"
"I know you aren't going to DO anything to him, I'm just worried you're going to...lose him or something."
Rashee glanced at Buckley's 65 lb. frame. "I don't think I'm gon' lose him nowhere, either." He picked up all of Buckley's things and took them to his room at the end of the hall. Through the door, I could see him carefully laying out the dog bed right at the foot of his own. "Where his brush at?" he called over his shoulder.
For some reason, the though of Rashee dutifully giving my dog's coat one hundred strokes before bedtime made me laugh out loud. "I didn't bring one. He should be fine without!"
I took a look around. The house was sparsely decorated and very tidy. Some chili sat cold on the stove. Did Rashee make it for himself and his sister? Or did his mom fix it before she left for the late shift? I thought about how different their after school lives looked from mine. I came home and did my homework while my parents cooked together and debriefed each other on their days. I ate piles of home-cooked food around a table with the rest of my family, then watched the news sleepily cuddled up on the couch with everyone. Rashee and his sisters got home to an empty house and went to sleep many nights without even getting to see their mom. But they were pretty fortunate compared to some of their classmates. They had a permanent home and a parent who could support them.
Buckley and Rashee returned, interrupting my thoughts. I showed his sister and him how to make Buckley sit, stay, give high fives at the command "ROLL TIDE!" (which Rashee found hilarious), and balance a Cheez-It on his nose and catch it in his mouth. "He know how to fetch?" they asked. I threw the ball and let them watch Buckley retrieve it. "Oh we gon' have FUN! How you know when he through dookie-ing? He gon' get in my trash?" I went over the details quickly and handed Rashee a note with instructions and my contact information on it. His eyes scanned it quickly, then rested at the bottom.
"Aww, Ms. M, I TOLD you I'd get that number fo' the year was over! I told you I would! Mann, it ain't even DECEMBER yet and I already got it! I thought you was gon' drag this out at LEAST 'til April and make me work for it! That was TOO EASY!" I rolled my eyes. His sister giggled.
"Somehow I knew that was coming."
I kissed Buckley's head and stepped out the door. "Thanks, Rashee. Take good care of my boy."
"Oh I will. I promise. Or I get a F!"
I'm sure some interesting stories are going to come from this. Until then, say a little prayer for my dog. And Rashee's family for that matter.
Apparently, in order to board a dog for the week of Thanksgiving, you have to reserve a spot, oh, TWO MONTHS before you leave. Considering I'm still not sure exactly when my flight leaves out tomorrow morning, it's very unlikely that I will ever, EVER think to book a spot for Buckley weeks before I leave town. Which brings me to my current dilemma. After I called about 293476 kennels across town only to be rejected (leaving me feeling much like Dennis the Menace's mom in that scene where she's trying to find him a babysitter), I found myself 20 hours before my flight with no clue what I was going to do with my dog.
At lunch, I half-jokingly asked which one of my students I could pay to watch my dog for me. I saw several eyes light up at the word pay, but no one really seemed ready to commit. Except Rashee. "I keep him, Ms. M! I keep him for you! Lemme call my mama right now on yo' phone and see!" I hesitantly pulled my phone out of my pocket.
"I'm not sure about this, Rashee," I said slowly. Rashee jerked the phone out of my hand and dialed.
"Mama, my teacher want me to ask you can we k--" I shot him a look. "OK," he started over. "Can I keep my teacher's dog for her 'til Sunday for $100? She said it has to be OK with you first....you wan' talk to her?" Rashee thrust the phone in my face, and his mom assured me that it would be fine if they kept Buckley for a few days.
I was still hesitant. Rashee is a nut. He can't sit still for five minutes. Does he have the responsibility to take care of the only man in my life? I made it clear that I had my doubts, and Rashee continued to persist. Ms. D passed us in the hall and heard our conversation.
"You're going to trust a student with your dog?? You MUST be crazy! Ask Mr. L if he can keep it; I think he's staying here!"
Rashee tossed his head back. "Why you gonna DO me like that, Ms. D!? That's sheisty! Mr. L don't need that money!"
During fifth block, Rashee came and found me. "Ok, we talkin' business for real. Let me keep your dog, M. I promise I take good care of it."
I kept walking down the hall. "You know this is my baby. This is like my CHILD. I don't know if--"
Rashee stopped and grabbed my arm. "Forreal, Ms. M," he said solemnly. "I promise I treat him better than how I act at school." I cut my eyes, expecting sarcasm but instead saw an earnest smile.
"Oh...All right," I said. "But I don't want a HAIR missing from his head when I get back or that's one hair I'm plucking from yours!"
"I know, Ms. M! You can trust me."
That night, I followed google maps to the north side of town and pulled up to a small house with an empty driveway. Most of the lights were off, but I could see the bluish glow of the TV flickering through the front windows. Before I could make it up the steps, the front door swung open and Rashee stepped outside, smirking. It was funny to see him outside of school; just as my students think I exist only in a world of dry erase markers and power-point presentations, I seldom stop to picture my students beyond the classroom. He looked different without his school uniform of khaki pants, blue polo, and super-hero backpack with the bright-yellow trimmed straps. Standing in the door frame with his silhouette black against the soft light behind him, he looked...small. For a second, he was to me what he should be anyways but never really is: a kid. A thirteen-year-old boy.
You see, my kids live in a culture where they are forced to grow up way too fast. Most of my boys are the men of their households, so they develop this tough exterior and a sort of "couldn't care less" attitude. It's for survival and protection. If they hide their fears and their hurt, it's almost as if they don't exist. That's why when I catch them talking about SpongeBob Squarepants or Tom and Jerry I am a little caught off guard; they almost have me convinced that they're little men too.
Where was I?
Buckley jerked me across the lawn, straining against his leash.
"Daang, Ms. M! You ALREADY havin' problems with him!" Without his band of rowdy followers, Rashee almost seemed a little shy.
"He's your problem now!" I retorted. Buckley trotted right up the front steps and into the living room. "You see? Already making himself at home!"
Rashee studied Buckley. "Oh, he like a Air Bud dog!" Buckley excitedly explored his new territory, pausing to sniff a basketball in the corner. "Straight for the basketball. See? Just like Air Bud." The wooden floor was slick and shiny, and Buckley onboxiously slid from room to room.
"You SURE you can handle him, Rashee? I'm going to get him back in one piece?"
Rashee smiled at me. "I ain't gonna do nothin' to your dog, Ms. M!"
"I know you aren't going to DO anything to him, I'm just worried you're going to...lose him or something."
Rashee glanced at Buckley's 65 lb. frame. "I don't think I'm gon' lose him nowhere, either." He picked up all of Buckley's things and took them to his room at the end of the hall. Through the door, I could see him carefully laying out the dog bed right at the foot of his own. "Where his brush at?" he called over his shoulder.
For some reason, the though of Rashee dutifully giving my dog's coat one hundred strokes before bedtime made me laugh out loud. "I didn't bring one. He should be fine without!"
I took a look around. The house was sparsely decorated and very tidy. Some chili sat cold on the stove. Did Rashee make it for himself and his sister? Or did his mom fix it before she left for the late shift? I thought about how different their after school lives looked from mine. I came home and did my homework while my parents cooked together and debriefed each other on their days. I ate piles of home-cooked food around a table with the rest of my family, then watched the news sleepily cuddled up on the couch with everyone. Rashee and his sisters got home to an empty house and went to sleep many nights without even getting to see their mom. But they were pretty fortunate compared to some of their classmates. They had a permanent home and a parent who could support them.
Buckley and Rashee returned, interrupting my thoughts. I showed his sister and him how to make Buckley sit, stay, give high fives at the command "ROLL TIDE!" (which Rashee found hilarious), and balance a Cheez-It on his nose and catch it in his mouth. "He know how to fetch?" they asked. I threw the ball and let them watch Buckley retrieve it. "Oh we gon' have FUN! How you know when he through dookie-ing? He gon' get in my trash?" I went over the details quickly and handed Rashee a note with instructions and my contact information on it. His eyes scanned it quickly, then rested at the bottom.
"Aww, Ms. M, I TOLD you I'd get that number fo' the year was over! I told you I would! Mann, it ain't even DECEMBER yet and I already got it! I thought you was gon' drag this out at LEAST 'til April and make me work for it! That was TOO EASY!" I rolled my eyes. His sister giggled.
"Somehow I knew that was coming."
I kissed Buckley's head and stepped out the door. "Thanks, Rashee. Take good care of my boy."
"Oh I will. I promise. Or I get a F!"
I'm sure some interesting stories are going to come from this. Until then, say a little prayer for my dog. And Rashee's family for that matter.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Just an obs
[ervation]
My huge, tough, hood boys LOVE Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (but then again, who doesn't?). They constantly beg me to play it for them in class.
My huge, tough, hood boys LOVE Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" (but then again, who doesn't?). They constantly beg me to play it for them in class.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Classroom Management Woes
How do you teach the difference between physical and chemical changes when there is an all-out paper ball WAR going on in front of you?
This is the issue I dealt with today. Classic case senario: whenever the teacher turns her back to the class to write on the board, paper goes flying. Then, when the teacher turns around to see what all the laughter is about, the floor is littered, but the air is clear and no one is guilty.
After about round 3 of this (not so) amusing game, I am frustrated and no one knows what a physical change is. I briefly consider physically changing their bone structure to more clearly illustrate my point. Instead, I scrawl this sentence on the board:
Throwing paper balls wastes class time, my time, my peers' time, my teacher's time, and trees.
I then proceed to count all the paper balls on the floor. "Twenty-seven. So you will all write this sentence 27 times and turn
it in for a quiz grade." After a whole lot of grumbling and wasted time, I collect the sentences and continue with the lesson. Believe it or not, ten minutes later another paper ball goes flying. This time, the target LEAPS out of his desk to punish the perpetrator. Around the classroom they go, paying no mind to the fact that I am standing in front of a powerpoint presentation trying to EDUCATE. As they lap the lab tables, I see them getting closer and closer to me until WHAM, Rosamuel pushes Andre straight into me, sending me flying into the projector cart.
The class falls silent. I slowly straighten back up, wincing in pain, fury in my eyes.
"OUT!!! OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!!!"
Fast-forward to the bell. Apparently, word of the incident has spread. Just as my classes are about to transition, the two guilty parties show up at my door, sheepishly. Unfortunately for them, they are immediately hemmed in by about five guys--Will, Norman, and Rashee block the door from the hall and DJ and DeAngelo approach from the front.
"You hurt Ms. M!?? Andre, Ro, you finna get BOOMED. We finna STEAL you. YOU HURT HER!!"
I can't see much over the cluster of boys, but I do see Rosamuel and Andre get forced to the floor and get mildly abused. I quickly look away and began straightening desks.
"Ms. M? You jus' gonna let them bully them like that?" Chris asks.
"Who's bullying whom? I guess I missed it." I turn my back to hide my smirk.
This is the issue I dealt with today. Classic case senario: whenever the teacher turns her back to the class to write on the board, paper goes flying. Then, when the teacher turns around to see what all the laughter is about, the floor is littered, but the air is clear and no one is guilty.
After about round 3 of this (not so) amusing game, I am frustrated and no one knows what a physical change is. I briefly consider physically changing their bone structure to more clearly illustrate my point. Instead, I scrawl this sentence on the board:
Throwing paper balls wastes class time, my time, my peers' time, my teacher's time, and trees.
I then proceed to count all the paper balls on the floor. "Twenty-seven. So you will all write this sentence 27 times and turn
it in for a quiz grade." After a whole lot of grumbling and wasted time, I collect the sentences and continue with the lesson. Believe it or not, ten minutes later another paper ball goes flying. This time, the target LEAPS out of his desk to punish the perpetrator. Around the classroom they go, paying no mind to the fact that I am standing in front of a powerpoint presentation trying to EDUCATE. As they lap the lab tables, I see them getting closer and closer to me until WHAM, Rosamuel pushes Andre straight into me, sending me flying into the projector cart.
The class falls silent. I slowly straighten back up, wincing in pain, fury in my eyes.
"OUT!!! OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!!!"
Fast-forward to the bell. Apparently, word of the incident has spread. Just as my classes are about to transition, the two guilty parties show up at my door, sheepishly. Unfortunately for them, they are immediately hemmed in by about five guys--Will, Norman, and Rashee block the door from the hall and DJ and DeAngelo approach from the front.
"You hurt Ms. M!?? Andre, Ro, you finna get BOOMED. We finna STEAL you. YOU HURT HER!!"
I can't see much over the cluster of boys, but I do see Rosamuel and Andre get forced to the floor and get mildly abused. I quickly look away and began straightening desks.
"Ms. M? You jus' gonna let them bully them like that?" Chris asks.
"Who's bullying whom? I guess I missed it." I turn my back to hide my smirk.
Monday, November 9, 2009
"Welcome Back, Ms. M!"
That's what my kids said this morning as they ran to me, beaming, and threw their arms around me.
"Did you have fun in Tuscaloosa? We're so glad you're back safely! What are we learning about today--I can't WAIT!"
OK, so not really. They were sure to tell me how lucky Alabama is, though, seeing as we won yet again with absolutely no talent.
"Alabama booty. They booty just like RMS. 'Cept RMS don't got no money, AND they booty. At least Alabama got lights on the field and don't have to stop at halftime just 'cause can't nobody see!"
Will greeted me at the door. "Ms. M, you was in my dream last night."
"Oh, really? Tell me about it."
"Well, it was time for school and I was walking down the hall but I was just going to socialize (like I always do) so I walked right past your room and you made eye contact with me like, "Get yo butt in here!" Just like you always do. And I kept walkin' past you anyways (just like I always do) then all the sudden BAM!! You was right in front of my like Superman or somethin' and you was grabbin' my collar and jerkin' me all the way down the hall!"
Is it odd that I'm flattered by this? Number one, it shows that I make enough of an impression on at least someone that his subconscious mind thinks about me, and two, it shows that that subconscious mind also sees me as somewhat of an authoritative figure.
Then again, last night I dreamt that David Beckham and I eloped, and I'm pretty sure that is based on no premise of reality whatsoever.
I take up Rashee's football today and he throws a fit. Cussing, accusing me of taking my feelings of bitterness (from the breakup) out on him, beating on the closet door that I locked it in...Minutes later, he's sitting at the front of the room (not doing his work).
"Rashee, you're lazy. That's all there is to it. Because you're smart and very capable but you REFUSE to do anything productive. Now how are you going to get that law degree making Cs in class? One of these days I'm going to be paying you the big bucks to get me out of legal trouble. But that's going to require more of you than just writing down three slides worth of notes!"
"Ms. M," he says softly, smiling now, "you don't get in any kind of trouble!" Then, louder: "I could NOT be a teacher. It is just NOT for me."
"Why?" I'm smiling too.
"Because I might have a bad student...you know, one like me. And I would PUNCH him in the face! BAM!!"
Last block, everyone kept making "black" comments. "Quit being so black and give me back my pencil! Get your black self over here! Shut up, black people!"
Finally, someone made the brilliant observation: "Shut up! We're ALL black in here!"
"Ahem," I said, raising my hand.
"Ohh, please, Ms. M. You basically one of us!"
WIth that being said, I'm going to get my black butt in bed. Wednesday is Veteran's Day, which means tomorrow is BASICALLY Friday. Woohoo!
"Did you have fun in Tuscaloosa? We're so glad you're back safely! What are we learning about today--I can't WAIT!"
OK, so not really. They were sure to tell me how lucky Alabama is, though, seeing as we won yet again with absolutely no talent.
"Alabama booty. They booty just like RMS. 'Cept RMS don't got no money, AND they booty. At least Alabama got lights on the field and don't have to stop at halftime just 'cause can't nobody see!"
Will greeted me at the door. "Ms. M, you was in my dream last night."
"Oh, really? Tell me about it."
"Well, it was time for school and I was walking down the hall but I was just going to socialize (like I always do) so I walked right past your room and you made eye contact with me like, "Get yo butt in here!" Just like you always do. And I kept walkin' past you anyways (just like I always do) then all the sudden BAM!! You was right in front of my like Superman or somethin' and you was grabbin' my collar and jerkin' me all the way down the hall!"
Is it odd that I'm flattered by this? Number one, it shows that I make enough of an impression on at least someone that his subconscious mind thinks about me, and two, it shows that that subconscious mind also sees me as somewhat of an authoritative figure.
Then again, last night I dreamt that David Beckham and I eloped, and I'm pretty sure that is based on no premise of reality whatsoever.
I take up Rashee's football today and he throws a fit. Cussing, accusing me of taking my feelings of bitterness (from the breakup) out on him, beating on the closet door that I locked it in...Minutes later, he's sitting at the front of the room (not doing his work).
"Rashee, you're lazy. That's all there is to it. Because you're smart and very capable but you REFUSE to do anything productive. Now how are you going to get that law degree making Cs in class? One of these days I'm going to be paying you the big bucks to get me out of legal trouble. But that's going to require more of you than just writing down three slides worth of notes!"
"Ms. M," he says softly, smiling now, "you don't get in any kind of trouble!" Then, louder: "I could NOT be a teacher. It is just NOT for me."
"Why?" I'm smiling too.
"Because I might have a bad student...you know, one like me. And I would PUNCH him in the face! BAM!!"
Last block, everyone kept making "black" comments. "Quit being so black and give me back my pencil! Get your black self over here! Shut up, black people!"
Finally, someone made the brilliant observation: "Shut up! We're ALL black in here!"
"Ahem," I said, raising my hand.
"Ohh, please, Ms. M. You basically one of us!"
WIth that being said, I'm going to get my black butt in bed. Wednesday is Veteran's Day, which means tomorrow is BASICALLY Friday. Woohoo!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Call me Mrs. Delhomme
All my kids think I am dating Jake Delhomme (the quarterback for the Carolina Panthers). It started a couple of months ago on a Monday.
"Ms. M, what'd you do this weekend?"
"Oh, the usual. Teacher stuff--you know, knitting sweaters, playing Bridge...OH and I went out with Jake Delhomme."
"Naww--you playin me? You went out with JAKE DELHOMME!?"
"I mean...it's no big deal. We just went out to eat, nothing serious."
"Well...then tell him he SUCK! Tell him quit throwin' all them PICKS."
"Oh I do," I assured them. "I'm only dating him for his money anyways."
"OHH!! Ms. M playin' Jake Delhomme!!"
By third block, girls were claiming that they had seen Jake pick me up from school a couple of times in his Lexus. The other teachers insisted that I was telling the truth, and before I knew it, my name had changed from Ms. M to Mrs. Delhomme. At lunch one day, Will was looking through my phone and noticed I had a Jake saved in my contacts. Before I could stop him, he was calling the number and shushing everyone around him. Funnily enough, the Jake he was calling is actually a teacher in a similar situation as I, and he DID play football at Alabama. The voicemail picked up and a deep voice announced, "This is Jake. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible." Will's eyes became wide as dinner plates. "I JUST TALKED TO JAKE DELHOMME!!"
Not a day goes by without the kids asking me some sort of question about my relationship with Jake. Apparently, the guy is married ("Ms. M--you know he's married, right?" "He is!?! Well then he's got a lot of explaining to do!"). No matter. They pretty much believe everything that comes out of my mouth. They all want me to bring him in as a guest speaker, or to score them tickets to a game, or to bring pictures of us together. It's mildly amusing. I think maybe tomorrow I'm going to stage a huge break-up. Stay tuned...
I sent Will and Rashee out of first block today after they just walked out of class during the morning announcements. During the announcements, they showed a clip of the last RMS football game, where--by the way---we got KILLED. I mean, MURDERED. They showed a clip of RMS getting picked off, then the other team running it back for a touchdown. Why? I have no idea. All the boys on the football team were up in arms.
"Mannn, why they SHOWIN' this?! They coulda at LEAST shown our field goal! Mann, they trynna burn us! They flamin' us bad!"
I had to agree, but I wasn't OK with anyone walking out of my class to go to the office to "do something about it."
Anways, I sent the boys out with instructions to write ten sentences and bring them back to enter the classroom. Here are the sentences Rashee returned with, verbatim:
1. School is over rated
2. Class is over rated
3. school is boreing
4. Your class has turned boring and lame.
5. We should get married
6. Dump Jake delhome
7. I will stay in my seat. (LOL J)
8. This is wack
9. I will never do this Agin (write senteces)
10. Never Agin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)