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.

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!

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.