My first year of teaching, I lived in a small town where I knew nobody. I quickly made friends with other first-year teachers who were in similar situations.
One Friday, in late fall, the group of us went to happy hour at the local Chili’s after work. We stayed for an hour or two then went to a teacher’s apartment to relax and hang out some more. After a few more hours, we were starting to get tired. It was dark outside. We were certain it was really late, and we were preparing to go our separate ways.
Finally, somebody looked at the clock. It wasn’t 11:30 pm as somebody had guessed. It wasn’t even eleven. Ten o’clock would have been fine too. It wasn’t nine. We were shocked and horrified to discover that it was 8:32 pm.
What happened to us? Why were we all exhausted… before nine? Is this what real life is like?
Monday, November 16
Thursday, November 12
Armstrong's Successor
After sitting in conferences all day, watching merciless teachers sting parents with feedback about their child, making fun of the students and parents in between conferences, and complaining, I decided to share the following story over our department dinner:
During class yesterday, Barb, a student, asked where Jane, another student, had been. She commented on how Jane has been absent a lot lately.
I concurred..."Why yes, Jane will not be back. She has moved."
"Really? Where?" Barb asked.
"Well, her family moved to the moon," I replied.
"Nooo! That's not possible!" said Barb.
"Well, actually it is. They built a space station to see if humans can survive on the moon. Since her parents are both scientists and astronauts, they volunteered to live on the moon, and Jane is now going to school there."
"Ohhhhh......hmmm..." She was stumped, still not fully believing or disagreeing.
Now, in my head, I really meant to say, "hahaha, I'm just kidding." But I was stumped myself that she actually might have believed what I was saying and didn't question me further. I was speechless and did not get a chance to admit that it was a joke.
During dinner, as I finished my story, my co-workers began to tell me how terrible I was and how they couldn't believe I would do such a thing. Do you think they offer pottery class on the moon?
During class yesterday, Barb, a student, asked where Jane, another student, had been. She commented on how Jane has been absent a lot lately.
I concurred..."Why yes, Jane will not be back. She has moved."
"Really? Where?" Barb asked.
"Well, her family moved to the moon," I replied.
"Nooo! That's not possible!" said Barb.
"Well, actually it is. They built a space station to see if humans can survive on the moon. Since her parents are both scientists and astronauts, they volunteered to live on the moon, and Jane is now going to school there."
"Ohhhhh......hmmm..." She was stumped, still not fully believing or disagreeing.
Now, in my head, I really meant to say, "hahaha, I'm just kidding." But I was stumped myself that she actually might have believed what I was saying and didn't question me further. I was speechless and did not get a chance to admit that it was a joke.
During dinner, as I finished my story, my co-workers began to tell me how terrible I was and how they couldn't believe I would do such a thing. Do you think they offer pottery class on the moon?
Wednesday, November 11
A Letter on Dress Code
Dear female students,
I think you may be under the impression that low-cut shirts and really short shorts are sexy. Let me do you a huge favor and tell you that it is not attractive; in fact, it’s really disgusting to see you dress this way. I don’t want to see your gut either, sicky. Stuff that back in there, then get a shirt that fits. You are embarrassing yourself. There are better ways to get the attention of the male students than to dress like a skank. Don’t sacrifice your dignity.
Dear male students,
I didn’t come to work today to see your underwear. Please pull up your pants and wear a belt or do not come into my room. It’s not even difficult to wear one. It goes through the loops then you buckle it. I have some twine in the back which will also work. Perhaps you could dress like a human being while you’re in school. What? People dress dumb outside of school too? That’s a shame. So it’s up to me to inflict morals and values and teach you how to dress? Well, I’ll get right to work.
Anyway have a great school year,
Your Teacher
I think you may be under the impression that low-cut shirts and really short shorts are sexy. Let me do you a huge favor and tell you that it is not attractive; in fact, it’s really disgusting to see you dress this way. I don’t want to see your gut either, sicky. Stuff that back in there, then get a shirt that fits. You are embarrassing yourself. There are better ways to get the attention of the male students than to dress like a skank. Don’t sacrifice your dignity.
Dear male students,
I didn’t come to work today to see your underwear. Please pull up your pants and wear a belt or do not come into my room. It’s not even difficult to wear one. It goes through the loops then you buckle it. I have some twine in the back which will also work. Perhaps you could dress like a human being while you’re in school. What? People dress dumb outside of school too? That’s a shame. So it’s up to me to inflict morals and values and teach you how to dress? Well, I’ll get right to work.
Anyway have a great school year,
Your Teacher
Tuesday, November 10
Beware of Flying Debris
I don't usually laugh or even smile while teaching. Mostly because it's not fun, but also because I'm close to the age of the students, so if I show that I have human emotion, there will be a mutiny.
One of the two times that I laughed involved an interaction with a special needs student. As I teach, I wander through the classroom, partially for proximity control and partially because I get bored standing in one place all the time. As the rest of the students were busy taking notes, the special education students were focusing on coloring with markers. As I rounded their table, I saw something fly past my head. I look to the floor to see a marker rolling across the ground. I look for the source of the marker and don't see one. I take another step, and I see one of the special needs girls pick up a marker and quickly throw it over her shoulder behind her head. This second marker hits me right in the chest, and I burst into uncontrolled laughter. I excuse myself and regain my composure in the hallway, but at that point, it’s too late. The students have already seen me laugh and know that I can smile.
One of the two times that I laughed involved an interaction with a special needs student. As I teach, I wander through the classroom, partially for proximity control and partially because I get bored standing in one place all the time. As the rest of the students were busy taking notes, the special education students were focusing on coloring with markers. As I rounded their table, I saw something fly past my head. I look to the floor to see a marker rolling across the ground. I look for the source of the marker and don't see one. I take another step, and I see one of the special needs girls pick up a marker and quickly throw it over her shoulder behind her head. This second marker hits me right in the chest, and I burst into uncontrolled laughter. I excuse myself and regain my composure in the hallway, but at that point, it’s too late. The students have already seen me laugh and know that I can smile.
Monday, November 9
Anatomy for/of Toddlers
Picture this. A 1st grade class in a school for children with learning disabilities. These are actual people and actual events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
I was teaching a science lesson. We were studying a unit on biology and the section that we were learning about was human anatomy. The text that I was using was very age and grade appropriate. We were studying from a Kindergarten text and in this text they were introducing organ systems and the organs in which they were associated. Each page was a coloring page. After introducing the organ, student were invited to color the different parts as instructed. Well, here comes the fun part. After learning about the heart, lungs, kidneys, etc. we got to the reproductive system. YES. . . you heard me right. The REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM. And of course, being the uber responsible and mature teacher that I am, I did not skip this section (I'm so glad I didn't or else I would not have this story to share).
The text introduced these organs as organs that would "help you become parents one day". And that was it. We did the ovaries and the uterus without incident. Then we got to the male reproductive system. On the coloring pages, there is an outline of a little person showing where the organs are found. After I taught the lesson, the students began coloring. Then out of the blue. . . in the middle of a quiet class. . . one of my boys jumped up. . . and screamed at the top of his lungs, "MS. *********, I FOUND THEM. I FOUND MY TESTICLES. LOOK! THEY'RE RIGHT HERE. " As he grabs ahold of his genitals and proceeded to shake them in front of the entire class.
Of course, laughter wanted to erupt out of me, unmercilessly, but I had to hold it in and I calmly responded, "Yes, Jack. Those are your testicles and you can only grab them in the privacy of your bathroom or bedroom."
That was one of the best days of my career.
I was teaching a science lesson. We were studying a unit on biology and the section that we were learning about was human anatomy. The text that I was using was very age and grade appropriate. We were studying from a Kindergarten text and in this text they were introducing organ systems and the organs in which they were associated. Each page was a coloring page. After introducing the organ, student were invited to color the different parts as instructed. Well, here comes the fun part. After learning about the heart, lungs, kidneys, etc. we got to the reproductive system. YES. . . you heard me right. The REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM. And of course, being the uber responsible and mature teacher that I am, I did not skip this section (I'm so glad I didn't or else I would not have this story to share).
The text introduced these organs as organs that would "help you become parents one day". And that was it. We did the ovaries and the uterus without incident. Then we got to the male reproductive system. On the coloring pages, there is an outline of a little person showing where the organs are found. After I taught the lesson, the students began coloring. Then out of the blue. . . in the middle of a quiet class. . . one of my boys jumped up. . . and screamed at the top of his lungs, "MS. *********, I FOUND THEM. I FOUND MY TESTICLES. LOOK! THEY'RE RIGHT HERE. " As he grabs ahold of his genitals and proceeded to shake them in front of the entire class.
Of course, laughter wanted to erupt out of me, unmercilessly, but I had to hold it in and I calmly responded, "Yes, Jack. Those are your testicles and you can only grab them in the privacy of your bathroom or bedroom."
That was one of the best days of my career.
Thursday, November 5
Fitting after the last story...
An Apology to My Spring '09 Students
Xanax made the days go by
unnoticed
like a shirt in the back of a closet
that's fallen off the hanger.
When I see you in the halls,
I don't remember your names.
Am not sure I bothered learning
them in the first place.
Xanax made the days go by
unnoticed
like a shirt in the back of a closet
that's fallen off the hanger.
When I see you in the halls,
I don't remember your names.
Am not sure I bothered learning
them in the first place.
Tuesday, November 3
ADHD Among the Staff
At my new school at a staff breakfast on the first day , I learned about drug habits among staff members. I was sitting at a table with the other teachers from my department when a jittery woman who didn’t blink sat down next to me. We exchange names and what we teach, then:
Hyper teacher: I love the first day of school. I always do two shots of espresso to get me going in the morning.
Me: I know. I need some coffee or something. This is rough.
Hyper teacher: And my daughter has ADHD, she doesn’t always take her Adderall each day, so those pills come right to mom. So I also had a few of those today also.
Me: (concerned look of disbelief)
She wasn't kidding.
Hyper teacher: I love the first day of school. I always do two shots of espresso to get me going in the morning.
Me: I know. I need some coffee or something. This is rough.
Hyper teacher: And my daughter has ADHD, she doesn’t always take her Adderall each day, so those pills come right to mom. So I also had a few of those today also.
Me: (concerned look of disbelief)
She wasn't kidding.
Monday, November 2
X - Acto Knife Wallpaper
While still in high school, I took an art class at the local university.
In the class, we were given toothpicks, Popsicle sticks, Q-tips, pipe cleaners, paint, etc. and a hot glue gun. With these supplies, we were to construct a small “found object” sculpture. Bored with these parameters and materials, I decided to create a truly “found object” sculpture. I found a CD case with a CD in it and hot glued the case and the CD to the wall of the classroom. Then I went outside with a Styrofoam cup and filled it with cigarette butts from an ashtray and hot glued that to the wall. Then I found an unopened pack of paintbrushes, filled it with hot glue, and then glued that to the wall. By the time I was done, there were pamphlets, crackers, acorns, a shoe, and an X-Acto knife all glued to the wall and a cinder block ProBonded to the floor.
The teacher of the class loved it, called it “extremely intuitive,” and called other professors in to see the work. The sculpture, created as a joke, was left up for the remainder of the semester and part of the summer.
In the class, we were given toothpicks, Popsicle sticks, Q-tips, pipe cleaners, paint, etc. and a hot glue gun. With these supplies, we were to construct a small “found object” sculpture. Bored with these parameters and materials, I decided to create a truly “found object” sculpture. I found a CD case with a CD in it and hot glued the case and the CD to the wall of the classroom. Then I went outside with a Styrofoam cup and filled it with cigarette butts from an ashtray and hot glued that to the wall. Then I found an unopened pack of paintbrushes, filled it with hot glue, and then glued that to the wall. By the time I was done, there were pamphlets, crackers, acorns, a shoe, and an X-Acto knife all glued to the wall and a cinder block ProBonded to the floor.
The teacher of the class loved it, called it “extremely intuitive,” and called other professors in to see the work. The sculpture, created as a joke, was left up for the remainder of the semester and part of the summer.
Thursday, October 29
Perimeter Breach
You would think that the runny noses and snot issues would be taken care of in elementary school and possibly early middle school. You’d be wrong.
As I was walking through my room helping students individually, I approached a girl who was not always with it to answer her question. This girl seemed to be pretty tired most of the time if not high. After her question, I proceeded to answer until I looked at her face. Under her nose, was a crust of dried snot around the perimeter.
At this point in my question-answering, I dry heaved then stopped talking mid-sentence. I knew that if more words came out of my mouth barf would accompany. I took a few breaths, realized that I could not continue, then walked away, leaving the confused girl and the boogers behind.
As I was walking through my room helping students individually, I approached a girl who was not always with it to answer her question. This girl seemed to be pretty tired most of the time if not high. After her question, I proceeded to answer until I looked at her face. Under her nose, was a crust of dried snot around the perimeter.
At this point in my question-answering, I dry heaved then stopped talking mid-sentence. I knew that if more words came out of my mouth barf would accompany. I took a few breaths, realized that I could not continue, then walked away, leaving the confused girl and the boogers behind.
Wednesday, October 28
Observe Me Freak Out
If you're a teacher, aide, student, or parent, you know how crazy the first several days of school are. Students get lost, they cry, and they wander aimlessly until someone shows them the ropes. Class schedules are hopelessly muddled, and announcements constantly interrupt what little cohesiveness you have in a modified, fifteen-minute class. Students straggle in late; messages arrive from the attendance office; lunches are hand-delivered to forgetful seventh graders. All is chaos and destruction until... YES! Around about third period, in comes an administrator with a laptop, ready to give you your first observation for the year! If you are a first-year teacher, you panic. You know there is no way that observation is going to reflect anything good about you, your methods, your rapport with students, or your ability to teach. It will show you to be a complete ignoramus who should never have thought about going within 1500 feet of a school.
If you are a veteran teacher, of course you know that anything the administrator says about you will be meaningless. You also know that this observation will go into your permanent file and follow you all the days of your professional life. You also know that you are a consumate actor, one who can convince even the most reluctant student, or the densest administrator, that you not only are in control of the situation and that you are a Top Expert in your field, but that there is nothing in the world that you enjoy more than teaching!
If you are a veteran teacher, of course you know that anything the administrator says about you will be meaningless. You also know that this observation will go into your permanent file and follow you all the days of your professional life. You also know that you are a consumate actor, one who can convince even the most reluctant student, or the densest administrator, that you not only are in control of the situation and that you are a Top Expert in your field, but that there is nothing in the world that you enjoy more than teaching!
Tuesday, October 27
Six Pack
I also had an English teacher in high school who was hilarious. Sadly, there’s a chance she did not know just how hilarious she was.
This teacher didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She acquired the nickname Six Pack because of how much she loved the alcohol. She also had the belly to go along with it. My friend caught a glimpse of this belly one time while walking past her class when she thought she was alone. Apparently, she lifted up her shirt revealing her ample gut and rubbed the mass for several minutes. He could not believe his eyes.
During class, if gas needed to be passed by this teacher, out either end, it would be. Often. And anyone in the room would know it.
And did she ever like to cuss. The most memorable of swearing events came when students were continually talking during class. Finally, she quietly waited a moment or two, looked at them with crazy eyes, then belted out as loudly as possible, “Stop talking, G - D it!”
This teacher didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She acquired the nickname Six Pack because of how much she loved the alcohol. She also had the belly to go along with it. My friend caught a glimpse of this belly one time while walking past her class when she thought she was alone. Apparently, she lifted up her shirt revealing her ample gut and rubbed the mass for several minutes. He could not believe his eyes.
During class, if gas needed to be passed by this teacher, out either end, it would be. Often. And anyone in the room would know it.
And did she ever like to cuss. The most memorable of swearing events came when students were continually talking during class. Finally, she quietly waited a moment or two, looked at them with crazy eyes, then belted out as loudly as possible, “Stop talking, G - D it!”
Monday, October 26
Which is worse?
Peeling your fingers with a vegetable peeler or waking up at five to go to school tomorrow.
Broken glass under the eyelid or going to one more meeting to discuss a student’s accommodations.
Bathing in your own vomit or answering one more dumb question.
Nail gun to the kneecap or breathing in next to a student who does not own a toothbrush.
Boiling oil poured into the ear canal or seeing one more student’s undergarments.
Sandpaper to the pupil or telling one more student to put their phone away.
Power drill in the cheekbone or responding back to one more angry parent email.
Eating pancakes made with dog saliva or hearing the f word in the hallway one more time.
Face in a deep fryer for a minute or having one more student poke at you to get your attention.
Thursday, October 22
It's All about the Students, sometimes
I’ve heard time and time again from teachers that their work is, “all about the kids -- It’s for the children -- It’s really about the students.” Well, it is. But it’s also about me, the teacher.
It’s about me having job security and a job that has benefits. Many people are out of work right now, and many employers don’t provide healthcare for their employees. As a result, people cannot afford to have regular teeth cleanings, have their eyes checked, or have life-saving procedures done. So this job is definitely about me.
It’s about me being able to use the degree that I spent four years and x thousand dollars to acquire. I will be paying for the degree over the next ten years, so to be able to make money to do that, makes my job about me very much so.
It’s about me being able to support myself and my family. I must, if I have one, provide for my family. I must be able to keep them healthy, feed them, and provide a home for them. This job ensures my ability to do these things for the people who are important to me. This job is about them.
It’s about me contributing to the youth of society and the society itself. These children that I teach will soon become the adults of the world. Whatever I instill into them during their formative years, I am instilling into my future and the future of society. I must be a good role model for them for society’s and my sake.
It’s about me feeling satisfaction when a student finally grasps a concept that they’ve been having trouble with. I can explain something to a child five different ways without any indication that they understand. At last, during explanation number six, when that student finally understands, personal gratification is mine.
I’m happy to make a difference in a student’s life. I’m happy to teach them. The job is about them to an extent. But only to an extent. The job is mostly about me.
It’s about me having job security and a job that has benefits. Many people are out of work right now, and many employers don’t provide healthcare for their employees. As a result, people cannot afford to have regular teeth cleanings, have their eyes checked, or have life-saving procedures done. So this job is definitely about me.
It’s about me being able to use the degree that I spent four years and x thousand dollars to acquire. I will be paying for the degree over the next ten years, so to be able to make money to do that, makes my job about me very much so.
It’s about me being able to support myself and my family. I must, if I have one, provide for my family. I must be able to keep them healthy, feed them, and provide a home for them. This job ensures my ability to do these things for the people who are important to me. This job is about them.
It’s about me contributing to the youth of society and the society itself. These children that I teach will soon become the adults of the world. Whatever I instill into them during their formative years, I am instilling into my future and the future of society. I must be a good role model for them for society’s and my sake.
It’s about me feeling satisfaction when a student finally grasps a concept that they’ve been having trouble with. I can explain something to a child five different ways without any indication that they understand. At last, during explanation number six, when that student finally understands, personal gratification is mine.
I’m happy to make a difference in a student’s life. I’m happy to teach them. The job is about them to an extent. But only to an extent. The job is mostly about me.
Wednesday, October 21
Lint and Tobacco
The drug policy at my school is ostensibly pretty strict. No tolerance. Or something like that.
One day, as I was walking through the hall between classes, I saw one student pass a cigarette to another. According to the discipline policy, he should be expelled from school for three days with the possibility of a police referral. I’m not that lucky.
“Brian. Come here,” I say upon seeing the really cool cig. The other student quickly disappeared. “Did I see a cigarette? I really wish I hadn’t. Now I have to turn you in, which is a waste of my time. This is stupid. Come with me.”
Brian reluctantly follows me to the security office.
“I just saw him put a cigarette in his pocket,” I inform the security guard.
“Let me see it,” she says in a harsh man-voice.
Brian turns out his pockets revealing the cigarette and hands it to the guard.
She examines it. “Are you eighteen?” she asks.
He nods.
She hands him back the cigarette. “You need to keep that in your pocket.”
He does and walks away smiling.
"Or we could just let him smoke in the school. And I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in school either. Let’s let them drink. I can buy them cigarettes and beer. How about some illegal recreational drugs too? After all, the drug policy is means nothing," I say to the security guard.
I don't really say that. But it does cross my mind.
One day, as I was walking through the hall between classes, I saw one student pass a cigarette to another. According to the discipline policy, he should be expelled from school for three days with the possibility of a police referral. I’m not that lucky.
“Brian. Come here,” I say upon seeing the really cool cig. The other student quickly disappeared. “Did I see a cigarette? I really wish I hadn’t. Now I have to turn you in, which is a waste of my time. This is stupid. Come with me.”
Brian reluctantly follows me to the security office.
“I just saw him put a cigarette in his pocket,” I inform the security guard.
“Let me see it,” she says in a harsh man-voice.
Brian turns out his pockets revealing the cigarette and hands it to the guard.
She examines it. “Are you eighteen?” she asks.
He nods.
She hands him back the cigarette. “You need to keep that in your pocket.”
He does and walks away smiling.
"Or we could just let him smoke in the school. And I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in school either. Let’s let them drink. I can buy them cigarettes and beer. How about some illegal recreational drugs too? After all, the drug policy is means nothing," I say to the security guard.
I don't really say that. But it does cross my mind.
Tuesday, October 20
Stupid and Other Adjectives
One of my favorite teachers, and an inspiration to me, had a hilarious way to deal with annoying students.
In my eleventh grade English class there was an annoying girl who would suck up to the teacher and continually ask the most annoying questions. The teacher was not new to being sucked up to, so she would usually roll her eyes and continue teaching, or, often times, just completely ignore the girl’s hand when it was up, even if it was held up for twenty to thirty minutes.
The funniest day in class came when the girl raised her hand and said, “What’s the correct answer for number fifteen? I put the wrong answer down.”
Without missing a beat the teacher replied, “Well, that’s because you’re stupid.”
I’ve never had the guts to say this kind of thing. But maybe sometime in the future.
In my eleventh grade English class there was an annoying girl who would suck up to the teacher and continually ask the most annoying questions. The teacher was not new to being sucked up to, so she would usually roll her eyes and continue teaching, or, often times, just completely ignore the girl’s hand when it was up, even if it was held up for twenty to thirty minutes.
The funniest day in class came when the girl raised her hand and said, “What’s the correct answer for number fifteen? I put the wrong answer down.”
Without missing a beat the teacher replied, “Well, that’s because you’re stupid.”
I’ve never had the guts to say this kind of thing. But maybe sometime in the future.
Monday, October 19
Cell Phone Policy Gone Awry
We have daily stupid issues with cell phones at my high school. The students can’t seem to get it that they should stay in their pockets during the day. Not smart enough.
One day, as I took a phone from a student, I came up with an impromptu incentive for the students to keep their phones out of sight. In the most sarcastic way possible, I told the student with the phone, “We’re going to play your favorite new game! You go out into the hallway. When you come back in, your phone will be hidden in the room in plain sight. You will have to search for it. Once you see the phone, you can’t touch it! You have to run back to your seat as fast as you can, and shout, ‘Huckle Buckle Beanstalk!’ The first person to find the phone, go back to their seat, and say that, will win a prize.”
“But Mr. ********, aren’t I the only one playing?” the student asks.
“Yes. So you want to be sure to be the first to find it.”
He was confused. So were the others in the room who weren’t laughing too hard.
“What’s the prize?” the student asks.
“Well,” I reply, “You’ll have your choice. The prize options include getting your phone back, a piece of candy, or a new set of markers.”
“I’m obviously going to pick my phone,” he states with an overconfidence in his ability to find the phone.
“You haven’t won yet. Have you?”
He reluctantly goes into the hall muttering something about the game being stupid as I hide his phone. The other students watch as he comes back in and begins the search.
A good fifteen minutes later of whining, looking, and being embarrassed, he spots the phone. A halfhearted “Huckle Buckle Beanstalk” comes out of his mouth from his seat.
“Not loud enough,” I say in the most condescending way imaginable.
He tries again, louder the second time. I offer him his prize options. He chooses his phone which stayed in his pocket for the rest of the year.
This becomes my new phone policy. Students have missed their bus, missed lunch, and cried while playing their favorite new game.
One day, as I took a phone from a student, I came up with an impromptu incentive for the students to keep their phones out of sight. In the most sarcastic way possible, I told the student with the phone, “We’re going to play your favorite new game! You go out into the hallway. When you come back in, your phone will be hidden in the room in plain sight. You will have to search for it. Once you see the phone, you can’t touch it! You have to run back to your seat as fast as you can, and shout, ‘Huckle Buckle Beanstalk!’ The first person to find the phone, go back to their seat, and say that, will win a prize.”
“But Mr. ********, aren’t I the only one playing?” the student asks.
“Yes. So you want to be sure to be the first to find it.”
He was confused. So were the others in the room who weren’t laughing too hard.
“What’s the prize?” the student asks.
“Well,” I reply, “You’ll have your choice. The prize options include getting your phone back, a piece of candy, or a new set of markers.”
“I’m obviously going to pick my phone,” he states with an overconfidence in his ability to find the phone.
“You haven’t won yet. Have you?”
He reluctantly goes into the hall muttering something about the game being stupid as I hide his phone. The other students watch as he comes back in and begins the search.
A good fifteen minutes later of whining, looking, and being embarrassed, he spots the phone. A halfhearted “Huckle Buckle Beanstalk” comes out of his mouth from his seat.
“Not loud enough,” I say in the most condescending way imaginable.
He tries again, louder the second time. I offer him his prize options. He chooses his phone which stayed in his pocket for the rest of the year.
This becomes my new phone policy. Students have missed their bus, missed lunch, and cried while playing their favorite new game.
Thursday, October 15
Throwback to the 50s
How the times have changed.
When I was in first grade, there was a little red-haired girl in my class named Cindy. Cindy was energetic, spunky, and very friendly. She was also talkative. And by talkative, I mean TALKATIVE.
She talked always and got reprimanded by the teacher many times.
Finally, one day, the teacher had had enough and thought she would make an example of Cindy. She took a paper towel roll and wrapped paper towels around little Cindy’s head, covering her mouth with them then held them in place using some paperclips.
Cindy stopped the talking.
Wednesday, October 14
That's Not Her Heart
There once was a boy, we'll call him Oscar, who lived in the special education classroom. From time to time he would repeat certain hilarious phrases and actions.
One habit he would frequent would be to touch someone on the shoulder and say, “I shot you. Cry for me.” If that person responded correctly, he would leave them alone. If the person did nothing, Oscar would try again. To respond correctly, the person had to mime crying. Oscar would laugh and laugh.
Also, he would ask some of the more attractive girls if he could feel their heart. Don’t be fooled. I don’t think that’s what he actually wanted to touch.
“No Oscar! Keep your hands to yourself!”
One habit he would frequent would be to touch someone on the shoulder and say, “I shot you. Cry for me.” If that person responded correctly, he would leave them alone. If the person did nothing, Oscar would try again. To respond correctly, the person had to mime crying. Oscar would laugh and laugh.
Also, he would ask some of the more attractive girls if he could feel their heart. Don’t be fooled. I don’t think that’s what he actually wanted to touch.
“No Oscar! Keep your hands to yourself!”
Tuesday, October 13
Reading for Comprehension
One of the things I like best about teaching is the quickness and intelligence of some of my students. Another thing I love is the lack of the above. It's really amusing when you give an eighth-grade student a seemingly simple task, such as writing a sentence about a story she's just read, and she stares at you as if you'd just spoken Portuguese.
"What am I s'posed to do again?" she asks, looking perplexed and asleep at the same time.
"A sentence," I say patiently. "Write a sentence that tells what the story is about."
"What story?"
"The story we just finished reading. The one about the man who fell overboard... and swam to the island...?"
"Oh. That one. What should I write?"
Since I have just told her the gist of the story in sentence form, I wonder what drugs she has had for breakfast and repeat,"Write a sentence about what the story was about. Any sentence at all."
She stares at me blankly and responds, "I can't remember what it's about."
Teaching is such wonderful amusement.
"What am I s'posed to do again?" she asks, looking perplexed and asleep at the same time.
"A sentence," I say patiently. "Write a sentence that tells what the story is about."
"What story?"
"The story we just finished reading. The one about the man who fell overboard... and swam to the island...?"
"Oh. That one. What should I write?"
Since I have just told her the gist of the story in sentence form, I wonder what drugs she has had for breakfast and repeat,"Write a sentence about what the story was about. Any sentence at all."
She stares at me blankly and responds, "I can't remember what it's about."
Teaching is such wonderful amusement.
Monday, October 12
Survival of the Dumbest
At my high school, a geology class was offered as an option for science. At the end of the year after all of the units had been taught in the class, there were a few days left over. The teacher decided to have the students watch Jurassic Park with the remaining days.
One girl, who was not quite the brightest, brought up what she thought was a really valid point. She raised her hand and asked the following question of the teacher and the rest of the class, “How did they train the dinosaurs to not attack the people?”
The class went silent. They weren’t sure if she was kidding or not.
She wasn’t.
One girl, who was not quite the brightest, brought up what she thought was a really valid point. She raised her hand and asked the following question of the teacher and the rest of the class, “How did they train the dinosaurs to not attack the people?”
The class went silent. They weren’t sure if she was kidding or not.
She wasn’t.
Thursday, October 8
Not Sure if There's a Cure for That
Each year I send a form home with my 6th graders to give to their parents to fill out. On the form is a section about health concerns. I ask the parents to tell me if there is anything that could ever be an issue in the classroom since we don't get that information from the nurse for months. One of my students this year has a parent who is seemingly very confused because she wrote that her son suffers from sensual allergies.
Huh?
Wednesday, October 7
Running. Down Your Leg?
This past year was my first as a Cross Country coach. I learned a ton. One thing I did not expect to learn was the urinary habits of female runners.
We were hosting a meet, and it was minutes before the girls’ race at the starting line. I’m getting our team ready, and I overhear a runner from the other team say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I prepare to say, “You’ll never make it. The race is going to start.”
But before I can say it, she spreads her legs, moves her shorts to the side, and… pees. Standing up. Right at the starting line. In plain sight.
My mouth drops open. The race begins. She’s gone.
Disgusting.
We were hosting a meet, and it was minutes before the girls’ race at the starting line. I’m getting our team ready, and I overhear a runner from the other team say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I prepare to say, “You’ll never make it. The race is going to start.”
But before I can say it, she spreads her legs, moves her shorts to the side, and… pees. Standing up. Right at the starting line. In plain sight.
My mouth drops open. The race begins. She’s gone.
Disgusting.
Tuesday, October 6
Germaphobes R Us
I once had a college professor who had a hilarious habit each time a student would sneeze. He would stop talking, sometimes mid sentence, and very quietly walk over to his desk, pull a can of Lysol out of the top drawer, and shake it. He would spray a couple of passes in the front of the room and in a very serious way say, “I don’t want to catch any communicable diseases.” Then he would proceed with the class.
Monday, October 5
Toilet Not Necessary
One day at lunch during my student teaching in an elementary school, I learned that a problem-student would be returning to my class the following day. The previous year, she had successfully scared all of the students out of the room during math class, and she was expelled from the school for peeing on the principal’s office chair. How old was she? Nine.
The teacher with whom I was working warned me about this girl ahead of time:
“I’ll introduce you to her beforehand, so there’s a better chance she won’t flip out on you.” “No matter what happens, just keep teaching. Don't stop.” “If there’s an emergency, hit the call button on the wall, and backup will come running.” “She'll have an aid with her at all times during the day, so it will be safe.”
Being a new teacher, I was more than a little concerned by these warnings.
Finally, the day arrived when she was to come to my class. In the morning, I saw a small chubby girl with messy brown hair walking through the building with an older seasoned-looking woman with gray hair.
‘That must be her. How bad can she be?’ I thought to myself. ‘She’s in third grade. And so small.’
Before she came to my class, I was introduced to her in the hallway. She had an empty smile and devil eyes, but she seemed to be polite. After she took her seat, I began the class. She raised her hand at one point to answer a question, and to get her involved, I called on her. Her answer was completely wrong and didn’t really qualify as English, but she was participating at least.
A few minutes into the class: disaster struck. I heard a thud. I looked to her seat. She was gone.
"Just keep teaching," I remembered. I did as I was instructed, and kept moving. But where had she gone?
Suddenly there came a banging from the other side of the room, and I realized she was on the floor kicking the radiator. The other teacher in the room and the aid went to her to try to make her to stop. Then she began kicking them.
By this time, I had lost the attention of the rest of the students. “Let me have everyone come to this side of the room. I’m going to do a(n impromptu) demonstration,” I say to the them, quickly coming up with a reason to do a demonstration, but really wanting to get them away from the dangerous girl. The kicking continues.
“Mr. **********. Can you hit the call button?”
I do and the principal comes within minutes. The girl decides it’s time to kick him some. He eventually gets fed up and grabs her by the foot and drags her out of the room screaming. The class can resume.
Didn't know being kicked was part of the job.
The teacher with whom I was working warned me about this girl ahead of time:
“I’ll introduce you to her beforehand, so there’s a better chance she won’t flip out on you.” “No matter what happens, just keep teaching. Don't stop.” “If there’s an emergency, hit the call button on the wall, and backup will come running.” “She'll have an aid with her at all times during the day, so it will be safe.”
Being a new teacher, I was more than a little concerned by these warnings.
Finally, the day arrived when she was to come to my class. In the morning, I saw a small chubby girl with messy brown hair walking through the building with an older seasoned-looking woman with gray hair.
‘That must be her. How bad can she be?’ I thought to myself. ‘She’s in third grade. And so small.’
Before she came to my class, I was introduced to her in the hallway. She had an empty smile and devil eyes, but she seemed to be polite. After she took her seat, I began the class. She raised her hand at one point to answer a question, and to get her involved, I called on her. Her answer was completely wrong and didn’t really qualify as English, but she was participating at least.
A few minutes into the class: disaster struck. I heard a thud. I looked to her seat. She was gone.
"Just keep teaching," I remembered. I did as I was instructed, and kept moving. But where had she gone?
Suddenly there came a banging from the other side of the room, and I realized she was on the floor kicking the radiator. The other teacher in the room and the aid went to her to try to make her to stop. Then she began kicking them.
By this time, I had lost the attention of the rest of the students. “Let me have everyone come to this side of the room. I’m going to do a(n impromptu) demonstration,” I say to the them, quickly coming up with a reason to do a demonstration, but really wanting to get them away from the dangerous girl. The kicking continues.
“Mr. **********. Can you hit the call button?”
I do and the principal comes within minutes. The girl decides it’s time to kick him some. He eventually gets fed up and grabs her by the foot and drags her out of the room screaming. The class can resume.
Didn't know being kicked was part of the job.
Thursday, October 1
Me On Craigslist?
Names etc. have been changed. ~
I’m at the graduation for the high school where I teach, and a girl I’ve never met approaches me asking, “Are you the Latin teacher?” as though I were the one and only.
“Yes. Yes I am.” I make the mistake of giving her my name and age (24). I immediately forget hers. We shake hands.
“Did you graduate today?” I ask thinking that this might be a student from the school, being that she is carrying a diploma and cap and gown.
“No. My sister graduated today. This is her stuff.” She shifts topics. “Do you drink?” I can only assume she means alcohol. No liquid equals death.
I confirm her age. She’s twenty two. “Sometimes,” I reply. “I’m not stupid about it though.”
“You should go to [a disgusting local bar],” she states, assuming that I want overpriced alcohol in a crappy location in a just as crappy atmosphere.
“Do you work there?” I ask.
“No. It’s just a lot of fun.” It takes me this long to realize that I am being hit on. To make matters worse, I am being hit on by a sister of a student at my school.
I escape this conversation with no bruises or gashes. Situation over. Story over.
Maybe not…
A week later, I receive the following email from a student named Nikky C (I don’t teach a Nikky C):
“I think someone put up a craiglist post up about you. Check it out…and no this ain’t spam. It’s for real!”
Yes, she used the word “ain’t”, and there was a link to the Craigslist post. The post read:
Westgate Latin Teacher - w4m - 24 (Lakeland Assembly)
J, I had been eyeing you before, during, and after graduation. I finally worked up
the nerve to introduce myself. You probably thought I was a ditz for some of the things I
said. I think it must have been the heat and humidity, also just you speaking to me got me
tongue tied. Anyways, school is almost over and I’d like the chance to get to know you.
-S
This is too hilarious to not break down into parts. I will address each section:
Westgate Latin Teacher (where I teach and what) – w4m (women for men) – 24 (my age) Lakeland Assembly (location of the graduation)
J (first letter of my name), I had been eyeing you before, during, and after graduation. (that’s weird) I finally worked up the nerve to introduce myself. (I wish that you hadn’t) You probably thought I was a ditz for some of the things I said. (not a ditz, just stupid) I think it must have been the heat and humidity (yeah, or something), also just you speaking to me got me tongue tied. (it should not have) Anyways, school is almost over and I’d like the chance to get to know you. (I’d like just the opposite)
-S (first letter of her name?)
Incredible. Some weirdo watches me at graduation, then approaches me then puts an ad on the internet about me on the off chance that I would be searching through personal ads on Craigslist under the heading of my school’s name. Finally, a student at my school whom I’ve never met finds this internet ad and let’s me know about it.
It sounds like the weirdo at graduation and the student from my school who found the ad were in cahoots. What an elaborately dumb plan. At least, Craigslist takes posts off after seven days or something, and I never had to hear from her again.
I’m at the graduation for the high school where I teach, and a girl I’ve never met approaches me asking, “Are you the Latin teacher?” as though I were the one and only.
“Yes. Yes I am.” I make the mistake of giving her my name and age (24). I immediately forget hers. We shake hands.
“Did you graduate today?” I ask thinking that this might be a student from the school, being that she is carrying a diploma and cap and gown.
“No. My sister graduated today. This is her stuff.” She shifts topics. “Do you drink?” I can only assume she means alcohol. No liquid equals death.
I confirm her age. She’s twenty two. “Sometimes,” I reply. “I’m not stupid about it though.”
“You should go to [a disgusting local bar],” she states, assuming that I want overpriced alcohol in a crappy location in a just as crappy atmosphere.
“Do you work there?” I ask.
“No. It’s just a lot of fun.” It takes me this long to realize that I am being hit on. To make matters worse, I am being hit on by a sister of a student at my school.
I escape this conversation with no bruises or gashes. Situation over. Story over.
Maybe not…
A week later, I receive the following email from a student named Nikky C (I don’t teach a Nikky C):
“I think someone put up a craiglist post up about you. Check it out…and no this ain’t spam. It’s for real!”
Yes, she used the word “ain’t”, and there was a link to the Craigslist post. The post read:
Westgate Latin Teacher - w4m - 24 (Lakeland Assembly)
J, I had been eyeing you before, during, and after graduation. I finally worked up
the nerve to introduce myself. You probably thought I was a ditz for some of the things I
said. I think it must have been the heat and humidity, also just you speaking to me got me
tongue tied. Anyways, school is almost over and I’d like the chance to get to know you.
-S
This is too hilarious to not break down into parts. I will address each section:
Westgate Latin Teacher (where I teach and what) – w4m (women for men) – 24 (my age) Lakeland Assembly (location of the graduation)
J (first letter of my name), I had been eyeing you before, during, and after graduation. (that’s weird) I finally worked up the nerve to introduce myself. (I wish that you hadn’t) You probably thought I was a ditz for some of the things I said. (not a ditz, just stupid) I think it must have been the heat and humidity (yeah, or something), also just you speaking to me got me tongue tied. (it should not have) Anyways, school is almost over and I’d like the chance to get to know you. (I’d like just the opposite)
-S (first letter of her name?)
Incredible. Some weirdo watches me at graduation, then approaches me then puts an ad on the internet about me on the off chance that I would be searching through personal ads on Craigslist under the heading of my school’s name. Finally, a student at my school whom I’ve never met finds this internet ad and let’s me know about it.
It sounds like the weirdo at graduation and the student from my school who found the ad were in cahoots. What an elaborately dumb plan. At least, Craigslist takes posts off after seven days or something, and I never had to hear from her again.
Wednesday, September 30
Deadwood Gone
In college, I had a professor who had a reputation for being an oddball if not a downright lunatic. The first day of class, there were approximately 35 students in attendance. Dr. Saddmann (not his real name) outlined what we would cover in this six-week summer course. There would be six books, he said, with an essay assigned for each one, and a test on each book. Class discussion would also be a major part of the grade.
As the class convened the second day, I noticed that I seemed to have only about a dozen classmates. Discouraged by the huge assignment load, about two-thirds of the kids had dropped the class. Just as I had expected, Dr. Saddmann came into class looking quite satisfied. He grinned as he looked around the depleted classroom and said, "Now that we've gotten rid of the deadwood, we can get down to business. We will read two books, write one paper, and have an open-book final in this class."
As the class convened the second day, I noticed that I seemed to have only about a dozen classmates. Discouraged by the huge assignment load, about two-thirds of the kids had dropped the class. Just as I had expected, Dr. Saddmann came into class looking quite satisfied. He grinned as he looked around the depleted classroom and said, "Now that we've gotten rid of the deadwood, we can get down to business. We will read two books, write one paper, and have an open-book final in this class."
Tuesday, September 29
A Teacher by Any Other Name
Thanks to Mr. Blake:
A girl in middle school asked me if she could leave for an early dismissal, but when she tried to get my attention she accidentally called me "Master Blake".
First, it was funny because she called me "master", but then it got even "funnier" when the other students realized what it sounded like when said quickly.
Oops! I had to nip that in the bud rather fast.
A girl in middle school asked me if she could leave for an early dismissal, but when she tried to get my attention she accidentally called me "Master Blake".
First, it was funny because she called me "master", but then it got even "funnier" when the other students realized what it sounded like when said quickly.
Oops! I had to nip that in the bud rather fast.
Monday, September 28
Lost in Translation
As I was teaching a kindergarten art class, I was helping the students finish a drawing of things that they like.
A boy would ask me how to draw a football. I would demonstrate how to on the board. A little girl would ask me how to draw a bike. It would be drawn on the board. Before I knew it, the board was covered with small drawings used as examples for the students.
As I walked through the class, a boy from India raised his hand and waited patiently for me to get to him.
When I got to him, he said with a strong Indian accent, “I cannot write this dinosaur.”
He was still new to the English language. I tried to understand what he was trying to say.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“I cannot write this dinosaur,” he said again, waiting on me to help him with his request.
“One more time,” I still had not caught what he said.
Again, “I cannot write this dinosaur,” he said looking up at me.
“You cannot write it?” I really wanted to help him, but I didn't understand.
“Yes. I cannot write it,” he said again matter-of-factly.
I looked around at the other students for help as to what he was saying. The other students were busy finishing their drawings. Finally, I remembered that I had drawn a triceratops on the board for another student earlier in the class period.
“Oh. This?” I ask moving to the board and pointing to the dinosaur.
“Yes. I cannot write it,” he said happy that I finally understood.
“I gotcha. You cannot draw this dinosaur. Is that what you mean?” I ask him. “You cannot draw it?”
“Yes. I cannot write it.”
We’ll work on that.
A boy would ask me how to draw a football. I would demonstrate how to on the board. A little girl would ask me how to draw a bike. It would be drawn on the board. Before I knew it, the board was covered with small drawings used as examples for the students.
As I walked through the class, a boy from India raised his hand and waited patiently for me to get to him.
When I got to him, he said with a strong Indian accent, “I cannot write this dinosaur.”
He was still new to the English language. I tried to understand what he was trying to say.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“I cannot write this dinosaur,” he said again, waiting on me to help him with his request.
“One more time,” I still had not caught what he said.
Again, “I cannot write this dinosaur,” he said looking up at me.
“You cannot write it?” I really wanted to help him, but I didn't understand.
“Yes. I cannot write it,” he said again matter-of-factly.
I looked around at the other students for help as to what he was saying. The other students were busy finishing their drawings. Finally, I remembered that I had drawn a triceratops on the board for another student earlier in the class period.
“Oh. This?” I ask moving to the board and pointing to the dinosaur.
“Yes. I cannot write it,” he said happy that I finally understood.
“I gotcha. You cannot draw this dinosaur. Is that what you mean?” I ask him. “You cannot draw it?”
“Yes. I cannot write it.”
We’ll work on that.
Thursday, September 24
Not Recommended
A female teacher of 31 years shared this excellent one:
While still in college for education, she had a professor who told the class a cure-all for misbehavior in schools. On the first day, you find the worst student that there is. The student who can’t stop talking, who can’t stay in his seat, and who is the most disrespectful. Then you take him out into the schoolyard where all of the other students can see and shoot him. After that, you won’t have anymore discipline problems.
While still in college for education, she had a professor who told the class a cure-all for misbehavior in schools. On the first day, you find the worst student that there is. The student who can’t stop talking, who can’t stay in his seat, and who is the most disrespectful. Then you take him out into the schoolyard where all of the other students can see and shoot him. After that, you won’t have anymore discipline problems.
Tuesday, September 22
Virgin Joke Maker
My students are witty and clever.
I teach high school art. During the painting unit, the students are to get a grasp on color theory and color mixing. Because the school is too gigantic (35 students per class), we can only afford to use tempera paint which is probably the worst paint that there is.
And since the students are so uneducated when it comes to anything, we have to start with the very basics. What is color? What are primary colors? What two colors do you get when you mix yellow and red? How did you make it to high school?
One student, while mixing a red-purple, thought he’d try his hand at being funny.
Failing miserably, he caught my attention and said, “Mr. ********, check it out. I just mixed Virgin Red,” naming this new color that he’d invented something to try to make me laugh or get a rise out of me. Some other students at the table laugh at this new fun name due to underdeveloped senses of humor.
Luckily, I realized that he was not funny, and said back to him as seriously as possible, “You’re right, Kevin. You did make a dark red,” as though I did not even hear his stupid attempt at a joke. “Good job.”
“No, no. Mr. ********, Virgin Red.” He tried again, smiling.
“Yeah. I heard you. Dark Red,” I nodded smiling innocently. “Nice work.”
“No.” He’s beginning to get frustrated. “Mr. ********. VIRGIN Red.” And it was still not funny.
Angrily and quickly through my teeth, I reply, “Yes, Kevin. That’s what I said. DARK Red. I heard you the first time.”
The look of confusion on his face said it all. I had confused the crap out of him, and made the other students laugh, not with him, but at him without him even realizing.
I teach high school art. During the painting unit, the students are to get a grasp on color theory and color mixing. Because the school is too gigantic (35 students per class), we can only afford to use tempera paint which is probably the worst paint that there is.
And since the students are so uneducated when it comes to anything, we have to start with the very basics. What is color? What are primary colors? What two colors do you get when you mix yellow and red? How did you make it to high school?
One student, while mixing a red-purple, thought he’d try his hand at being funny.
Failing miserably, he caught my attention and said, “Mr. ********, check it out. I just mixed Virgin Red,” naming this new color that he’d invented something to try to make me laugh or get a rise out of me. Some other students at the table laugh at this new fun name due to underdeveloped senses of humor.
Luckily, I realized that he was not funny, and said back to him as seriously as possible, “You’re right, Kevin. You did make a dark red,” as though I did not even hear his stupid attempt at a joke. “Good job.”
“No, no. Mr. ********, Virgin Red.” He tried again, smiling.
“Yeah. I heard you. Dark Red,” I nodded smiling innocently. “Nice work.”
“No.” He’s beginning to get frustrated. “Mr. ********. VIRGIN Red.” And it was still not funny.
Angrily and quickly through my teeth, I reply, “Yes, Kevin. That’s what I said. DARK Red. I heard you the first time.”
The look of confusion on his face said it all. I had confused the crap out of him, and made the other students laugh, not with him, but at him without him even realizing.
Monday, September 21
Beating a Student to the Punch
A friend of mine was substituting in an inner city middle school where fights among students were commonplace each day.
One day, a fight broke out in her classroom between two boys. After attempting to break it up without success, she went next door to get the assistance of a male teacher. As he learned about the fight, an insane look came across his face, and he headed for her room.
Once inside, the male teacher yelled, “Fight me!” And he put his hands up in the air to taunt them.
He pushed one of the boys to the ground, while the other one, so frightened by a teacher acting this way, took off running down the hall.
The male teacher climbed onto a chair, and began shouting to the rest of the students, “Clap for me! Clap for me!”
They did. On the chair, the male teacher began slapping his elbow in preparation to do a wrestling move to the boy on the ground, who by that time was laughing pretty hard. The teacher jumped off the chair, landing on the student, not harming him, but finishing the move.
Then he turned his attention toward the other boy who had disappeared down the hall. The male teacher ran down the hall in the direction the boy had gone and eventually found him hiding under the principal’s desk.
Fight thwarted.
One day, a fight broke out in her classroom between two boys. After attempting to break it up without success, she went next door to get the assistance of a male teacher. As he learned about the fight, an insane look came across his face, and he headed for her room.
Once inside, the male teacher yelled, “Fight me!” And he put his hands up in the air to taunt them.
He pushed one of the boys to the ground, while the other one, so frightened by a teacher acting this way, took off running down the hall.
The male teacher climbed onto a chair, and began shouting to the rest of the students, “Clap for me! Clap for me!”
They did. On the chair, the male teacher began slapping his elbow in preparation to do a wrestling move to the boy on the ground, who by that time was laughing pretty hard. The teacher jumped off the chair, landing on the student, not harming him, but finishing the move.
Then he turned his attention toward the other boy who had disappeared down the hall. The male teacher ran down the hall in the direction the boy had gone and eventually found him hiding under the principal’s desk.
Fight thwarted.
Saturday, September 19
Fatal if Swallowed
I once had a kindergartner who loved to eat anything and everything. Wally was his name. Whatever it was that was put in front of him, it was guaranteed to end up in his stomach. For this reason, Wally had an aide with him during the school day.
The first time I learned of Wally's habits was when I set a container of crayons down on each table. Some crayons were old and some were new. Without any warning, Wally picked up a crayon without a wrapper on it and popped it into his mouth. The aide immediately reached her hand in and fished the slime-covered crayon out.
Another time, we were using white craft glue for an assignment. After carefully applying glue to the backs of papers, Wally would also have small amounts of glue on his fingers. He would very delicately lick each finger that got glue on it as if he were eating a sweet treat like icing or melted chocolate. No reason to be concerned, however because the glue was non-toxic.
One time I got too close. While helping Wally with his project, I felt a tug at my ID tag which hung around my neck. Wally had found my ID tag and was smelling it, then preparing to take a bite of it. I snapped it away just in time.
Finally, while using clay, Wally decided he'd have a little taste of the exciting new pliable material. At first, I was concerned, but his aide informed me that he eats any number of things that are potentially harmful or dangerous in any given day, so the nurse administers a shot that negates any side affects from these harmful ingestions.
And I thought my lunch was bad.
The first time I learned of Wally's habits was when I set a container of crayons down on each table. Some crayons were old and some were new. Without any warning, Wally picked up a crayon without a wrapper on it and popped it into his mouth. The aide immediately reached her hand in and fished the slime-covered crayon out.
Another time, we were using white craft glue for an assignment. After carefully applying glue to the backs of papers, Wally would also have small amounts of glue on his fingers. He would very delicately lick each finger that got glue on it as if he were eating a sweet treat like icing or melted chocolate. No reason to be concerned, however because the glue was non-toxic.
One time I got too close. While helping Wally with his project, I felt a tug at my ID tag which hung around my neck. Wally had found my ID tag and was smelling it, then preparing to take a bite of it. I snapped it away just in time.
Finally, while using clay, Wally decided he'd have a little taste of the exciting new pliable material. At first, I was concerned, but his aide informed me that he eats any number of things that are potentially harmful or dangerous in any given day, so the nurse administers a shot that negates any side affects from these harmful ingestions.
And I thought my lunch was bad.
Thursday, September 17
Laughter is the Best Something Something
While student teaching, I had a second grade boy who gave me the most hilarious answer I have yet to hear. I was standing at the board, and I had asked someone in the class to tell me what we had done in the previous class. Several students put their hands in the air hoping to answer the question.
“Yes, Curtis,” I said to a boy in the back of the room.
Before I knew what hit me, I heard in a high pitched voice, “Witha withay thuh wee thay uh though weeth ow ith thee oh with thee oh they uh though witha woothee thow uh tho….”
It went on like that for over a minute. I tried my hardest to understand what he was saying, to get anything intelligible. There was nothing. Not one word.
I had forgotten when I picked him that he had a lisp. A horrible one. After about eight seconds of the speech, I just about laughed in his face. I almost excused myself, but instead put my hand over my mouth as he continued to cover my smile. At one point I thought it was a joke. Then I remembered that second graders aren’t clever enough for this kind of trick, and none of the other students were laughing. Perhaps they understood him.
I caught my cooperating teacher’s eye during this onslaught of words, and she immediately looked away because she too was about to lose it. If our eyes were to have locked for longer than that, we both would have been done.
After his speech, I swallowed the laughter and said to him, “Not exactly” because I had no clue what he had said. That was rough.
“Yes, Curtis,” I said to a boy in the back of the room.
Before I knew what hit me, I heard in a high pitched voice, “Witha withay thuh wee thay uh though weeth ow ith thee oh with thee oh they uh though witha woothee thow uh tho….”
It went on like that for over a minute. I tried my hardest to understand what he was saying, to get anything intelligible. There was nothing. Not one word.
I had forgotten when I picked him that he had a lisp. A horrible one. After about eight seconds of the speech, I just about laughed in his face. I almost excused myself, but instead put my hand over my mouth as he continued to cover my smile. At one point I thought it was a joke. Then I remembered that second graders aren’t clever enough for this kind of trick, and none of the other students were laughing. Perhaps they understood him.
I caught my cooperating teacher’s eye during this onslaught of words, and she immediately looked away because she too was about to lose it. If our eyes were to have locked for longer than that, we both would have been done.
After his speech, I swallowed the laughter and said to him, “Not exactly” because I had no clue what he had said. That was rough.
Wednesday, September 16
Blend Together
As a first grade class was walking into my art room, I realized I had not cleaned the tables from the previous class. (The last class had been using chalk pastels. They’re dusty.) The students found their seats, and one little girl, who was white, sat at the same table with a little girl who was black. The white girl began swirling her hands in a circular motion on the tabletop.
After a minute or so, the white girl looked at the pastel-covered palms of her hands and exclaimed, “My hands are all black!”
The black girl looked at the backs of her hands and with great delight said, “Mine too!”
After a minute or so, the white girl looked at the pastel-covered palms of her hands and exclaimed, “My hands are all black!”
The black girl looked at the backs of her hands and with great delight said, “Mine too!”
Tuesday, September 15
Let Me Just Do the Project for You
While I was student teaching in a small district in Pennsylvania, I had the great fortune of playing an unparalleled practical joke on a high school student.
I was in my fifth week of teaching in a drawing and painting class. The students were working on an assignment which was to select a word (any word), reproduce the word on drawing paper using a particular font and then to illustrate the word in some way using colored pencils. Not too difficult. Scratch that. Not at all difficult. Not even a little bit.
The students had two weeks to complete the assignment. One boy, we’ll call him Mark, decided that he did not want to work on this assignment. He sat at his desk for these two weeks with a blank piece of paper in front of him “brainstorming” as he put it. Daily encouragement could not prompt him to work.
Finally, the due date for the project rolled around. Now, it’s important that you know that after each project, I had the students fill out an evaluation sheet where questions would be answered concerning their work. Question seven on the sheet read, “What word did you select to illustrate and why?” Two minutes before the end of the class on the project’s due date, Mark placed his completed evaluation sheet on my desk.
“Mark, I have your evaluation sheet, but I didn’t see your project,” I informed him.
“I put it on your desk,” he responded confidently.
“Alright. I’ll look again,” I said as the bell rang, and he left the class.
I returned to my desk, double-checked and searched the floor. His project was not there. I checked the storage shelf where the students kept their assignments and found that Mark had not completed the assignment. In fact, his paper was still on the shelf, not even started with his name written on the back.
I checked the evaluation sheet that he had turned in. It was completed as though he had done the project including an answer to question seven which asked what word he had selected and why. According to this evaluation sheet Mark had chosen “Friend” as his word to illustrate.
Suddenly, I was struck like a bolt of lightning to the brain with an idea so brilliant that few could match it. I would do the assignment for him. Not only would I do the assignment for him, but I would do the WORST JOB on it imaginable.
So I did. The word itself was done terribly, no straight lines, crooked letters and set on an angle. The color scheme was disgusting, Purples, oranges, browns, grays, and blues. One letter was in spots another outlined in black. The illustrations were so ugly, all done drawn with my left hand worse than a preschooler. I did the worst job on it that I could. I was striving for crap. Then I hung it on display in the hall with the others.
The following day, once I started the students on their next assignment, I called Mark out into the hall. I showed him the project.
“Mark, are you sure you want to hand this in for a grade? Because I know you can do a better job than this.” I pointed to the work hanging in the hall.
Confusion covered his face.
“I mean, I saw what you did on your last assignment,” I continued “and you did a decent job. I know you can do better than this.”
He fumbled for words. “This isn’t my assignment.”
“What do you mean?” I asked perplexed.
“That’s my word, but this isn’t my project,” he said.
“But this is the one that was on my desk. Isn’t this the word you selected? Didn’t you illustrate ‘Friend’?” I asked him.
“Yes, I picked ‘Friend’, but…”
“Yeah, cause it has your name on the back in your handwriting,” I said to him showing him his name on the back in his own writing. He could not understand. “So you’re telling me that this isn’t your project, but it has your name on it?” I ask.
“Yeah. I don’t get it,” he said.
“Weird.” I say shaking my head feigning confusion myself. “Why don’t you go ask one of your friends if they did this project as a joke and then put it on my desk with your name on it. Because I don’t know where your actual project could be,” I say.
“Well, I can do another one,” he says as confused as ever.
“Well, if you already did it once, you don’t have to do it again. I don’t want you to have to do the entire thing over again. That wouldn’t make sense. Since you already worked so hard on it.” I think I made my point.
He went back into the classroom and redid the project for partial credit.
I was in my fifth week of teaching in a drawing and painting class. The students were working on an assignment which was to select a word (any word), reproduce the word on drawing paper using a particular font and then to illustrate the word in some way using colored pencils. Not too difficult. Scratch that. Not at all difficult. Not even a little bit.
The students had two weeks to complete the assignment. One boy, we’ll call him Mark, decided that he did not want to work on this assignment. He sat at his desk for these two weeks with a blank piece of paper in front of him “brainstorming” as he put it. Daily encouragement could not prompt him to work.
Finally, the due date for the project rolled around. Now, it’s important that you know that after each project, I had the students fill out an evaluation sheet where questions would be answered concerning their work. Question seven on the sheet read, “What word did you select to illustrate and why?” Two minutes before the end of the class on the project’s due date, Mark placed his completed evaluation sheet on my desk.
“Mark, I have your evaluation sheet, but I didn’t see your project,” I informed him.
“I put it on your desk,” he responded confidently.
“Alright. I’ll look again,” I said as the bell rang, and he left the class.
I returned to my desk, double-checked and searched the floor. His project was not there. I checked the storage shelf where the students kept their assignments and found that Mark had not completed the assignment. In fact, his paper was still on the shelf, not even started with his name written on the back.
I checked the evaluation sheet that he had turned in. It was completed as though he had done the project including an answer to question seven which asked what word he had selected and why. According to this evaluation sheet Mark had chosen “Friend” as his word to illustrate.
Suddenly, I was struck like a bolt of lightning to the brain with an idea so brilliant that few could match it. I would do the assignment for him. Not only would I do the assignment for him, but I would do the WORST JOB on it imaginable.
So I did. The word itself was done terribly, no straight lines, crooked letters and set on an angle. The color scheme was disgusting, Purples, oranges, browns, grays, and blues. One letter was in spots another outlined in black. The illustrations were so ugly, all done drawn with my left hand worse than a preschooler. I did the worst job on it that I could. I was striving for crap. Then I hung it on display in the hall with the others.
The following day, once I started the students on their next assignment, I called Mark out into the hall. I showed him the project.
“Mark, are you sure you want to hand this in for a grade? Because I know you can do a better job than this.” I pointed to the work hanging in the hall.
Confusion covered his face.
“I mean, I saw what you did on your last assignment,” I continued “and you did a decent job. I know you can do better than this.”
He fumbled for words. “This isn’t my assignment.”
“What do you mean?” I asked perplexed.
“That’s my word, but this isn’t my project,” he said.
“But this is the one that was on my desk. Isn’t this the word you selected? Didn’t you illustrate ‘Friend’?” I asked him.
“Yes, I picked ‘Friend’, but…”
“Yeah, cause it has your name on the back in your handwriting,” I said to him showing him his name on the back in his own writing. He could not understand. “So you’re telling me that this isn’t your project, but it has your name on it?” I ask.
“Yeah. I don’t get it,” he said.
“Weird.” I say shaking my head feigning confusion myself. “Why don’t you go ask one of your friends if they did this project as a joke and then put it on my desk with your name on it. Because I don’t know where your actual project could be,” I say.
“Well, I can do another one,” he says as confused as ever.
“Well, if you already did it once, you don’t have to do it again. I don’t want you to have to do the entire thing over again. That wouldn’t make sense. Since you already worked so hard on it.” I think I made my point.
He went back into the classroom and redid the project for partial credit.
Monday, September 14
Cleaning the Students Out of the Desks
It was a typical Friday afternoon, and I realized that the children's desks were in dire need of a good cleaning. I told the children I would give them fifteen minutes to get their desks in order before they could leave. I circulated around the room, as the children tossed out old papers, organized books, placed supplies back into pouches, and so forth.
Then, from behind, I hear a student yell, "Mrs. ******* help".
Wesley, our class clown that year, decided it would be funny to fit himself into his desk, backside first. Our desks are the style that have a big open compartment on the bottom for books. Wesley, one of my smallest students ever, was completely in the desk with just his little hands and feet sticking out.
"Wesley," I scolded, as I swiftly glided across the room to assist him.
As I approach him, I hear one child say, "He's stuck, Mrs. G., he's really stuck".
Yea, yea, I thought to myself. We'll get him out. Well, I tried and tried to retrieve him from the desk, but was not successful. I commanded another student to recruit the help of a fellow teacher, Mr. W., who came from across the room.
"What's up Wesley?", he asked, seeing the situation. Finally, we decided to try to lift the desk and dump him out. Mr. W. laughed, "What goes in, must come out"
I was not amused, and by this time, Wesley had begun to cry. He'd realized he was in trouble. We recruited yet another teacher, and still could not find a way to release this child from the desk. Finally, we called 911, and his parent. They had to actually disassemble the desk to get the child out. It was 5:00 before Wesley got to go home that night, and I do believe that was the last time he tried to inhabit a desk.
Then, from behind, I hear a student yell, "Mrs. ******* help".
Wesley, our class clown that year, decided it would be funny to fit himself into his desk, backside first. Our desks are the style that have a big open compartment on the bottom for books. Wesley, one of my smallest students ever, was completely in the desk with just his little hands and feet sticking out.
"Wesley," I scolded, as I swiftly glided across the room to assist him.
As I approach him, I hear one child say, "He's stuck, Mrs. G., he's really stuck".
Yea, yea, I thought to myself. We'll get him out. Well, I tried and tried to retrieve him from the desk, but was not successful. I commanded another student to recruit the help of a fellow teacher, Mr. W., who came from across the room.
"What's up Wesley?", he asked, seeing the situation. Finally, we decided to try to lift the desk and dump him out. Mr. W. laughed, "What goes in, must come out"
I was not amused, and by this time, Wesley had begun to cry. He'd realized he was in trouble. We recruited yet another teacher, and still could not find a way to release this child from the desk. Finally, we called 911, and his parent. They had to actually disassemble the desk to get the child out. It was 5:00 before Wesley got to go home that night, and I do believe that was the last time he tried to inhabit a desk.
Saturday, September 12
There are no Hugs!
One thing about elementary school students that is endearing, or at least should be I guess, is that they are very touchy feely. They will rest their heads on your shoulder when you are sitting at a desk doing a demonstration; they will tap you if they need to get your attention to tell you something; and worst of all, they will try to hug you.
Once when my first year of teaching was rolling along and the students became more comfortable with me, a strange habit would form among certain classes. As the students were coming into my room, before they would take their seats many of them decided that it was appropriate to give me a quick hug. Many teachers would think this practice was fine. It was not.
In this day and age, it’s not a good idea for teachers and students to touch no matter what the circumstance, especially male teachers. This was the least of my worries as I was being hugged before each class.
My biggest worry came with winter. With winter comes cold season, and with that comes snot. Runny noses. Disease. During this time I quickly realized that I could no longer tolerate the hugs.
Because I did not want to be rude to the six-year-old’s face by saying, “I don’t want your gross hugs. Please don’t touch me,” I had to quickly devise a plan for the hug emergency to stop. There was the option of standing at my desk as the students entered and found their seats. This was not effective as I often had confidential information passed to me from another teacher or a parent at the start of the class. I could have the students take their seats as quickly as I could like some kind of contest. This game would get old quickly, so I had to devise a different plan.
Finally, I had the brilliant idea to just hold something in my hand. A sharpened pencil. That way if the students were to try to hug me, they would impale themselves. I would hold it down low to the ground close to where the hugs would be coming at me. This plan only worked for a number of days before students would not see the sharpened pencil in my hand, and I would have to quickly remove it at the last second.
So that plan didn’t work, but I was onto something with the holding something idea. On the chalk tray in my room was a dowel rod that was about three feet long that I would sometimes use as a pointer. There was my answer. I would hold the dowel rod out in front of me using both hands so that physically the students could not reach me to hug me. Victory! The plan worked perfectly. The students would enter my class, see that a hug was not possible for that day and then take their seats. Occasionally, a student would wait for a few moments seeing if there were some way to get around the obstacle, and I would have to abruptly say, “NO! No hugs today. You have to find your seat.” They would, and the crisis of snot touching my clothing was averted.
Once when my first year of teaching was rolling along and the students became more comfortable with me, a strange habit would form among certain classes. As the students were coming into my room, before they would take their seats many of them decided that it was appropriate to give me a quick hug. Many teachers would think this practice was fine. It was not.
In this day and age, it’s not a good idea for teachers and students to touch no matter what the circumstance, especially male teachers. This was the least of my worries as I was being hugged before each class.
My biggest worry came with winter. With winter comes cold season, and with that comes snot. Runny noses. Disease. During this time I quickly realized that I could no longer tolerate the hugs.
Because I did not want to be rude to the six-year-old’s face by saying, “I don’t want your gross hugs. Please don’t touch me,” I had to quickly devise a plan for the hug emergency to stop. There was the option of standing at my desk as the students entered and found their seats. This was not effective as I often had confidential information passed to me from another teacher or a parent at the start of the class. I could have the students take their seats as quickly as I could like some kind of contest. This game would get old quickly, so I had to devise a different plan.
Finally, I had the brilliant idea to just hold something in my hand. A sharpened pencil. That way if the students were to try to hug me, they would impale themselves. I would hold it down low to the ground close to where the hugs would be coming at me. This plan only worked for a number of days before students would not see the sharpened pencil in my hand, and I would have to quickly remove it at the last second.
So that plan didn’t work, but I was onto something with the holding something idea. On the chalk tray in my room was a dowel rod that was about three feet long that I would sometimes use as a pointer. There was my answer. I would hold the dowel rod out in front of me using both hands so that physically the students could not reach me to hug me. Victory! The plan worked perfectly. The students would enter my class, see that a hug was not possible for that day and then take their seats. Occasionally, a student would wait for a few moments seeing if there were some way to get around the obstacle, and I would have to abruptly say, “NO! No hugs today. You have to find your seat.” They would, and the crisis of snot touching my clothing was averted.
Thursday, September 10
Bypassing the Throat
Blood, vomit, snot, saliva, pee, poo it’s all disgusting. I nearly gag every time I brush my own teeth. I have a weak stomach.
So when I found out that I would be meeting with a class of sixteen special ed students, I was more than concerned. Would I have to see drool? Would there be smells of human feces? Would the students try to touch me? If I throw up on them do I get fired?
So mentally, I prepared myself for these things. The runny noses would be wiped by the aids. The smells could be masked. Diapers would be worn. Kitchen towels could be wrapped around necks to catch drool. It would not be too bad, I told myself. And it wasn’t bad when the class finally showed up the first day. The class was even border line fun to teach. I even got used to the constant audible teeth grinding.
But nothing could prepare me for what would come next.
Toward the end of the fifth meeting with the class, a student who was pushed around in a wheel chair, we’ll call him Miguel, began making extra unusual moans. The aids, who were busy doing his project for him, begin reaching into a backpack that was attached to the back of Miguel’s chair.
“Awe, Miguel’s hungry,” one of the aids exclaimed.
She reached into the bag and pulled out a can of Pediasure.
“Oh that’s cool,” I thought to myself. “He drinks Pediasure. That way he’ll get all of the required nutrients.”
She shook the can and opened it. Next, she pulled out a really long straw for him to drink with and put one end into the opened can. The other end disappeared into the backpack. She reached far into the bag and found another straw. She lifted up Miguel’s shirt and inserted this second straw directly into his stomach. She flipped a switch and the liquid began moving from the can into him, completely bypassing the mouth and esophagus. Miguel’s eyes rolled back into his head and a satisfied look came across his face.
At this point, my knees gave out from under me, and I nearly fainted. Quickly, I retreated to my desk to force myself to breath. Questions were posed to me by students and other aids, but I was too focused on not passing out to answer.
I was given no warning what so ever. The food just quickly went from the can directly into his stomach by way of the port at the surface of his skin. Disgusting. Nothing can prepare you for this. I hate my job.
So when I found out that I would be meeting with a class of sixteen special ed students, I was more than concerned. Would I have to see drool? Would there be smells of human feces? Would the students try to touch me? If I throw up on them do I get fired?
So mentally, I prepared myself for these things. The runny noses would be wiped by the aids. The smells could be masked. Diapers would be worn. Kitchen towels could be wrapped around necks to catch drool. It would not be too bad, I told myself. And it wasn’t bad when the class finally showed up the first day. The class was even border line fun to teach. I even got used to the constant audible teeth grinding.
But nothing could prepare me for what would come next.
Toward the end of the fifth meeting with the class, a student who was pushed around in a wheel chair, we’ll call him Miguel, began making extra unusual moans. The aids, who were busy doing his project for him, begin reaching into a backpack that was attached to the back of Miguel’s chair.
“Awe, Miguel’s hungry,” one of the aids exclaimed.
She reached into the bag and pulled out a can of Pediasure.
“Oh that’s cool,” I thought to myself. “He drinks Pediasure. That way he’ll get all of the required nutrients.”
She shook the can and opened it. Next, she pulled out a really long straw for him to drink with and put one end into the opened can. The other end disappeared into the backpack. She reached far into the bag and found another straw. She lifted up Miguel’s shirt and inserted this second straw directly into his stomach. She flipped a switch and the liquid began moving from the can into him, completely bypassing the mouth and esophagus. Miguel’s eyes rolled back into his head and a satisfied look came across his face.
At this point, my knees gave out from under me, and I nearly fainted. Quickly, I retreated to my desk to force myself to breath. Questions were posed to me by students and other aids, but I was too focused on not passing out to answer.
I was given no warning what so ever. The food just quickly went from the can directly into his stomach by way of the port at the surface of his skin. Disgusting. Nothing can prepare you for this. I hate my job.
Wednesday, September 9
Please Text During Class
Four score and seven years ago schools were invented in one room school houses. Then no child left behind came along and tried its hardest to ruin education. A year or so later I worked in an elementary school and finally in a high school. On Thursday a student showed me his phone during first period. On his phone was a text message from his guidance counselor stating, “Michael, please see me. And turn off your phone.”
“May I go see my counselor?” asked the student holding his phone up for me to see.
I was stunned. “No. Absolutely not. I’m sorry. That’s not a pass.”
“But she needs to talk to me, probably about this class,” he said.
“Still no. If a counselor needs to see you, they will send for you,” I said. Then I reminded him that his phone should be off and that it should be put away. Our school has a no cell phone policy ever.
He pleaded for me to let him see his counselor. Finally, I emailed the counselor asking if she was in fact the sender of the text. She was. She was caught. The guidance counselor of a high school in a supposedly “good” county was sending a text message to a student during instructional time.
“Yes, the text was from me, but I will be out of the building until one. He should see me after one. And tell him to turn his phone off, like I did in the text.”
That was the day I quit my job. Not really, but I felt like it. The guidance counselors don’t know the battle that we as teachers go through daily with the cell phones. The students feel the need to text under the desks a various points throughout the class time. Forty five minutes can’t pass without the students having to know what’s happening with their friends in the other part of the building.
I’d love let the students know, “We see you texting. Every single time. We just choose to not stop you each and every time because it would take away from the learning of the rest of the students. I promise you can survive without your phone for forty five consecutive minutes, you little idiot.” I would love to break their phone right in front of their face and then sarcastically and as offensively as possible say, “Oops!”
So when a guidance counselor condones this kind of activity by texting a student during my class, I get ticked with a side of violence.
“May I go see my counselor?” asked the student holding his phone up for me to see.
I was stunned. “No. Absolutely not. I’m sorry. That’s not a pass.”
“But she needs to talk to me, probably about this class,” he said.
“Still no. If a counselor needs to see you, they will send for you,” I said. Then I reminded him that his phone should be off and that it should be put away. Our school has a no cell phone policy ever.
He pleaded for me to let him see his counselor. Finally, I emailed the counselor asking if she was in fact the sender of the text. She was. She was caught. The guidance counselor of a high school in a supposedly “good” county was sending a text message to a student during instructional time.
“Yes, the text was from me, but I will be out of the building until one. He should see me after one. And tell him to turn his phone off, like I did in the text.”
That was the day I quit my job. Not really, but I felt like it. The guidance counselors don’t know the battle that we as teachers go through daily with the cell phones. The students feel the need to text under the desks a various points throughout the class time. Forty five minutes can’t pass without the students having to know what’s happening with their friends in the other part of the building.
I’d love let the students know, “We see you texting. Every single time. We just choose to not stop you each and every time because it would take away from the learning of the rest of the students. I promise you can survive without your phone for forty five consecutive minutes, you little idiot.” I would love to break their phone right in front of their face and then sarcastically and as offensively as possible say, “Oops!”
So when a guidance counselor condones this kind of activity by texting a student during my class, I get ticked with a side of violence.
Tuesday, September 8
Is That Barf on Your Shoe?
Every teacher has a throw up story. Mine took place on the first day of school in a kindergarten class. The students were working at their tables individually. And I was walking through the classroom answering questions.
When I arrived to one little girl’s desk, I noticed that there was barf on her paper, on her arm, on the desk, on her shirt, on her shoe, on the chair, and on the floor. She didn’t seem to mind; however, because she continued to work on her assignment. I looked at the other students at her desk. They too seemed to be oblivious to the vomit that was covering this little girl and most of her belongings. They were all still diligently working as though it were perfectly normal to be covered in puke.
When asked if she threw up, she politely nodded and waited for further instruction. She went to the health room to be cleaned up and taken home, and the principal came from next door to clean the mess.
When I arrived to one little girl’s desk, I noticed that there was barf on her paper, on her arm, on the desk, on her shirt, on her shoe, on the chair, and on the floor. She didn’t seem to mind; however, because she continued to work on her assignment. I looked at the other students at her desk. They too seemed to be oblivious to the vomit that was covering this little girl and most of her belongings. They were all still diligently working as though it were perfectly normal to be covered in puke.
When asked if she threw up, she politely nodded and waited for further instruction. She went to the health room to be cleaned up and taken home, and the principal came from next door to clean the mess.
Monday, September 7
Dare Me to Pierce My Ear?
While student teaching, I was working with a crafts class, meaning that all projects in the class were three dimensional. The assignment in progress was to take a bunch of old garbage and a hot glue gun and start gluing until a “found object” sculpture was completed. Among the stuff available for the students to use was a small box that contained some old jewelry.
One tenth grade boy, while gluing his “stuff” together found a gold earring with the back still on it.
“Mr. *******? Dare me to pierce my ear?” he asks me.
I’m sure I had a disgusted look on my face just thinking about the diseases he would contract and the infection that would be inevitable. Obviously, he’s kidding, I tell myself. Of course a student isn’t stupid enough to pierce their ear during class with a dirty earring that was found in a pile of refuse.
“No, I definitely don’t. These are for the project,” I say. I continue making my rounds answering questions the students may have and giving suggestions for their projects.
Eventually, I return to the desk where the boy with the earring was. I am horrified and partially sickened to discover that he has in fact pierced his ear with the disgusting discarded earring. He had apparently pushed it through skin and cartilage then cleaned up any blood and put the back onto it. His ear had turned a bright pink.
I didn’t remain at the school long enough to see what kind of disease he’d gotten from doing this, but I made my cooperating teacher aware of the situation. She told me to ignore him and pretend I didn’t notice the earring in his ear. Done and done.
One tenth grade boy, while gluing his “stuff” together found a gold earring with the back still on it.
“Mr. *******? Dare me to pierce my ear?” he asks me.
I’m sure I had a disgusted look on my face just thinking about the diseases he would contract and the infection that would be inevitable. Obviously, he’s kidding, I tell myself. Of course a student isn’t stupid enough to pierce their ear during class with a dirty earring that was found in a pile of refuse.
“No, I definitely don’t. These are for the project,” I say. I continue making my rounds answering questions the students may have and giving suggestions for their projects.
Eventually, I return to the desk where the boy with the earring was. I am horrified and partially sickened to discover that he has in fact pierced his ear with the disgusting discarded earring. He had apparently pushed it through skin and cartilage then cleaned up any blood and put the back onto it. His ear had turned a bright pink.
I didn’t remain at the school long enough to see what kind of disease he’d gotten from doing this, but I made my cooperating teacher aware of the situation. She told me to ignore him and pretend I didn’t notice the earring in his ear. Done and done.
Sunday, September 6
Please contribute a story.
If you have an excellent story from school, whether you are a teacher, administrator, or staff member, please contribute. This is your chance to tell your story.
Please label as humorous, asinine, ironic, or other.
No names please.
I will review each story, and do small amounts of editing for clarification, cohesion, and continuity before posting to the site.
These stories will be published. Please do not submit any stories that will compromise your position as an educator.
Submit more than one if you have them.
Please email to misteracademia@gmail.com
Thank you.
Please label as humorous, asinine, ironic, or other.
No names please.
I will review each story, and do small amounts of editing for clarification, cohesion, and continuity before posting to the site.
These stories will be published. Please do not submit any stories that will compromise your position as an educator.
Submit more than one if you have them.
Please email to misteracademia@gmail.com
Thank you.
An A is Worth Two Beers and a White Russian
Today, a guidance counselor offered to buy me a drink at happy hour if I would allow a girl to pass my art class, a requirement at our school, so she would graduate Friday. Well, that's not too big of a deal. Or is it??? Well, she missed 43 days of my class out of 90 – not quite half. She earned a C the first quarter and then an E (the equivalent of an F – F’s hurt kids' feelings) the second. Oh, absolutely, I'll let her pass. And while I'm at it, why don't I change both of her grades to A’s and then buy you a drink? Then I'll go to her house and clean her toilet with my bare hands and sell my car to pay for the family's meals for the next 10 years. I'll take out a high-interest loan to buy them a house, and work nights to help pay for it. I don't need clothes, so I can give those to them also. Then I'll tell the rest of the students that academic regime means nothing, school policy is for suckers, and they can get away with whatever they want from now on. There's no need to go to art class; you'll pass anyway.
Or else… or else I'll implement the school-wide policy of not passing a student who fails a class, hold the student to high standards, and treat this child as an equal to all of the other students who skipped school and as a result aren't passing my class. I’m sorry; I’ll not contribute to the baby-fication of society. I will not coddle students, telling them it’s okay to do nothing, then pass them through the class; that teaches them nothing about the reality that awaits them shortly after graduation. If we are supposed to be high school teachers, why don’t the staff members act like we’re in a high school? How can we be expected to enforce policy if others in the building are not willing to do the same? A house divided cannot stand.
Now I can't decide. Which option is more appealing?
"Do you want to be known as a stickler, or do you want to get the student out of the building?" – a direct quote from the guidance counselor. "This reputation will follow you." – an easy nudge in the "right" direction. "I’d hate to be the one to tell a student she’s not graduating because of an art credit," he says. Really? I would LOVE to tell someone that because they weren’t responsible enough to come to one single class, they can’t walk across the stage. “… because of an art credit.” You're right; art class isn't important. Tell the administration that it should be an elective and not a mandatory class. Then the dross can be removed from the class, and some real art can take place with a select few students who actually want to be there, who want to learn and who want to progress as artists. But if it’s going to be instated as a requirement, MAKE IT ONE!! Stop letting kids slide! That tells them that governing policy is just for show, and it can be easily beaten. And it tells me that my class and career choice are not important. The second I stop taking my class seriously, the students, staff and administration will follow.
This story has a happy ending, because, as the guidance counselor stated about himself, "I'm an idiot. I called you down here for no reason. She already had an art credit from her freshman year. I'm sorry." Idiot – you said it; I didn't. But I agree.
Or else… or else I'll implement the school-wide policy of not passing a student who fails a class, hold the student to high standards, and treat this child as an equal to all of the other students who skipped school and as a result aren't passing my class. I’m sorry; I’ll not contribute to the baby-fication of society. I will not coddle students, telling them it’s okay to do nothing, then pass them through the class; that teaches them nothing about the reality that awaits them shortly after graduation. If we are supposed to be high school teachers, why don’t the staff members act like we’re in a high school? How can we be expected to enforce policy if others in the building are not willing to do the same? A house divided cannot stand.
Now I can't decide. Which option is more appealing?
"Do you want to be known as a stickler, or do you want to get the student out of the building?" – a direct quote from the guidance counselor. "This reputation will follow you." – an easy nudge in the "right" direction. "I’d hate to be the one to tell a student she’s not graduating because of an art credit," he says. Really? I would LOVE to tell someone that because they weren’t responsible enough to come to one single class, they can’t walk across the stage. “… because of an art credit.” You're right; art class isn't important. Tell the administration that it should be an elective and not a mandatory class. Then the dross can be removed from the class, and some real art can take place with a select few students who actually want to be there, who want to learn and who want to progress as artists. But if it’s going to be instated as a requirement, MAKE IT ONE!! Stop letting kids slide! That tells them that governing policy is just for show, and it can be easily beaten. And it tells me that my class and career choice are not important. The second I stop taking my class seriously, the students, staff and administration will follow.
This story has a happy ending, because, as the guidance counselor stated about himself, "I'm an idiot. I called you down here for no reason. She already had an art credit from her freshman year. I'm sorry." Idiot – you said it; I didn't. But I agree.
Why this blog?
What teacher doesn’t have a million different stories from their days at school? Stories that they repeatedly say they must write down. What educator doesn’t have an absurd tale that they tell over and over again to family and friends? What instructor cannot say that they did not have a unique experience in the classroom that others should hear concerning interactions with students, parents, and staff? This blog is their outlet.
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