I’m an orange
As I lie here writing this post, I am twitching and fidgeting every so often to avoid the pricking pain in my ass. Why? you ask. Is she speaking literally or figuratively?
To begin with, this story has little to do with teaching, but is work related. I suppose the logical place to start is the beginning, but as we will learn, logic plays into this story very little.
Early last week, I was asked if I would be willing to go on a two day retreat sponsored by CSU in order to help create a partnership between the university and my high school for their teacher licensure program. Eff yeah, I’ll be there. Two days away from students at the foot of the Flatirons in Boulder, I’ll do any sort of work you ask me to do.
After a very productive day and lovely dinner with the group, we returned to the cabin to wrap things up for the evening. Everyone sat around and completed a personality test. You can take it here if you want. Once we finished, we went around the circle and shared our results. For the most part, we all found the results to be pretty spot on. As it turns out, I’m an orange. According to the quiz, this means:
ORANGE – Where’s the Action
You are courageous. You act on a moment’s notice. You see life as a roll of the dice, a game of chance. You need stimulation, freedom, and excitement. You are a natural leader, troubleshooter, and performer.
You value action, resourcefulness, and courage. You are generous, charming, and impulsive. You show affection through physical contact.
This came as no surprise to those who know me well. Not surprisingly, I was one of two oranges in the whole group. We all had a good chuckle and continued to tell stories and and slowly wound down the evening. A few of us decided to head back to another cabin to enjoy some adult beverages and a mellow Colorado night. I was able to relax and hold still for about 15, maybe 20 minutes before I started to get antsy. It was a clear night and just behind this cabin was an open clearing with trails that lead up to the Flatirons. I finished my beverage and took off into the dark, thoroughly worrying the blues, greens and golds in the group, I’m sure. I just wanted to take a short little night hike, I didn’t plan on going that far.
About half way up the clearing, I found I good spot next to a big rock to sit down and look over the People’s Republic of Boulder. While the city lights were pretty, I also had the Flatirons and Fountain Formation at my back. Still sitting, I turned around to enjoy the night’s glow on the giant rocks. All this time, I had failed to notice the plant that I had been grinding my butt into. I eventually stood up to head back to the cabin, and within a few steps I started to notice what felt like pin pricks all over my ass, from my upper thigh to the small of my back.
By the time I made it back to my cabin, I had only begun to understand the full extent of what I had inflicted upon myself. I slept on my stomach that night and I woke up fully understanding what I had done.
I tried to take a hot shower in the hopes that the heat would open up my pores, allowing the little buggers to slide right out. No dice. I still had a day of this retreat left, so I was forced to waddle to our meeting room and spend the remainder of the day shifting uncomfortably in my seat like I’ve been afflicted with the worst case of hemorrhoids on earth. When asked what was wrong, I just replied, “I’m an orange.” On the plus side, my condition provided material for all of my fellow teachers and administrators.
And in truth, hemorrhoids would have been a welcome alternative. There are known cures for hemorrhoids. Instead, after what may have been the most painful 30 minute drive, I had the opportunity to endure my mom with a pair of tweezers elbow-deep in my butt. Fortunately, she had to go to work. Unfortunately, those little prickers were so small that she was only able to remove a handful of them. Or maybe it was that I couldn’t hold still from laughing at myself so much. Regardless, I still had a literal butt-load of those suckers stuck in my ass.
Then I have another genius moment: hot bath and duct tape. You haven’t lived until you’ve applied duct tape to every inch (and I mean every) of your own ass. It was almost like getting a wax, but with less fruitful results. Every strip of duct tape yielded three little prickly bastards at once, but that’s three less than were in my ass before.
I’ve repeated the cycle many times now: hot bath, dry off, duct tape across my cheeks, back in the bath tub, more tape. I’ve contorted my body around in hopes of being able to use tweezers to remove one of those little prickers in my own badonkadonk. I’ve used a magnifying mirror to catch a reflection of said badonkadonk, but found it difficult to match the movements of my tweezers with what I saw reflected back at me. I’ve loofahed the first ten layers of skin off my butt in hopes that it would have remove some of those buggers with much of my epidermis.
At this point, I’d guess there are still around 40 stuck in there, at least that I can feel. It’s easier for me to sit down now, though I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been successful in their removal or successful in blocking out the pain. Or maybe it’s that I’m an orange and I’m willing to take a little bit of pain with a good story. All in all, I have to say it’s a good thing that I’ve got a sense of humor.
Just before everyone left the retreat as I waddled to my car, my assistant principal asked me what lesson I had learned from this whole fiasco. I think he was expecting me to say something like “Don’t go on night hikes,” but all I could say was “Next time, sit on the rock!”
Well, since you put it that way…
Have you ever driven down the highway, read someone’s bumper sticker and thought Yeah, that’s a good point, I’m going to totally change my entire belief system? No? Neither have I. So when I see people standing on the side of the road holding up an “Obama” or “McCain” sign and shouting at passing cars, I have to wonder what they’re doing.
I voted this afternoon and, honestly, I wasn’t sure how I was going to vote until today. I considered both candidates’ positions on education, taxes, welfare, foreign policy, a woman’s right to choose, and gun control, among other things. What did not enter into my thought process was how many “Change” or “Country First” bumper stickers I saw on my way to the polling place. In fact, no matter how many times either candidate repeated those phrases, I was no more convinced of one over the other.
So when my students tell me that I should let them go to the bathroom “because,” I can’t help but laugh. Oh, because. Right. How could that logic have slipped my mind?
Last Monday I taught a lesson on writing an outline: how to do it and in what format. One student, football player, JROTC, and an all-around whiney jackass, spent the entire class period coloring with Sharpie markers. He pissed and moaned when I took the markers away, making a huge stink about the fact that I was actually going to make him work. He rode on the backs of his group members and eventually copied the notes from another student, though today’s events just proved that he never internalized the information.
After quite a bit of scaffolding, two days in class and a three-day weekend to write their outlines, this kid still hadn’t turned in anything. When I asked him to show me what he had, it wasn’t in the correct format. I gave him an outline template and explained exactly what went in each section. He tried again, still doing it wrong. When I corrected him, he gave me attitude and went on and on and on and on about how “dumb this is!” (Did I mention that he was a whiney little brat?) I explained that I didn’t have much pity for him (or StayPuft, who slept through that entire lesson) when they had no idea what they were supposed to do. I explained that several people in the class had no problem paying attention in class, asking questions politely and getting their outlines in on time. I explained to him that he had no right to be copping an attitude and he could come in on his own time to get help, since he had decided to waste so much of mine.
He explained that “that’s just the way [he is],” and I had “better get used to it.” Ok, I’ll work on that. I explained to him that “this is just the way I am” and “too bad.” Ten bucks says he still has an attitude tomorrow…and no outline to turn in. Twenty bucks says he blames it on me.
P.S. StayPuft informed me that today must be “Pick-on-the-Fat-Kid Day!” Well, when the Fat Kid doesn’t keep his mouth shut, yes, it is “Pick-on-the-Fat-Kid Day!”
Attack of the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s mom
At the beginning of the school year, I outlined what my kiddos could expect throughout the course of the term. Included in this was this year’s election. I teach social studies and I’d be beyond stupid not to use it in class; the lessons write themselves. As I dismissed one of my classes, a quiet and unassuming student approached me and said, “Miss, I can’t participate in the mock election; it’s against my religion.” Uhh, ok.
In the next few days, I got a letter from her mom and spoke to her on the phone, through which I found out she was a Jehovah’s Witness and “expressing an opinion” is against their religion, (mom’s words, not mine). I knew they were anti-holiday and anti-birthday, but anti-opinion? I explained that voting in the school-wide mock election was not required, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn about the process. She agreed and I hadn’t heard anything else about the matter…until today.
My students have been working on a research paper about a historical figure of their choice. I have frequently asked students to put themselves in the shoes of the person they’ve chosen to research and answer questions as that person. No problems. Then yesterday, the kids’ warm-up was to take on that role and write down who they thought they (their historical figure) would vote for in this election and justify their answers. My goal was for students to take what they had learned about their figures and apply it to different situations.
When I saw a look of concern on my Jehovah’s Witness’s face, I addressed her individually, telling her that I still expected her to complete the task based upon my goals for the exercise. Based on the response I got from her mom today, you would have thought that I asked her to club a bag of baby harp seals…or worse, celebrate Christmas!
Mom came by to talk to me after school today. Before the discussion really got started, she sent her daughter out of the classroom. After about five minutes of back-n-forth about my intentions (remember, I wasn’t asking my students to express their opinions, only to apply what they’d learned and make an educated hypothesis) and her daughter’s feeling uncomfortable answering such a question, I thought the matter was nearly closed. Once I’d felt I’d sufficiently covered my ass and kissed hers, mom informed that I also made her daughter feel like she was put on the spot, and after I gave her the instructions, I gave her a rude smirk (mom’s words, not mine or her kid’s). What?!? First, not something I would do (at least not in front of students). But more importantly, why didn’t mom bring this up in the beginning?
She made a point to mention repeatedly that she’d never had a problem with other teachers in the past, that she didn’t want to have to come in again, that she didn’t want to have to take this further, and so on and so forth. Really? I’d guess it’s because most teachers are terrified of losing their jobs over some BS assignment and another oddball religion. (I feel I should mention that I am an equal opportunity offender when it comes to religion; in my opinion, they’re all at least a little goofy.) Another example of how students have all the rights in the world and teachers have none.
I thought I’d be losing my job for making Stay-Puft stand in front of the class and do the “Truffle-Shuffle” (a la Chunk in The Goonies), not because I asked a student to apply what they had learned!
Teaching Civics next term should be super fun!
Three squares and a cot
Where do I begin? Well, I guess this all stems from a student I have in one of my classes. I liken him to the bastard son of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man a la Ghostbusters and Mouth from The Goonies. From the moment this kid set foot in my class, he drove me nuts. He’s constantly blurting out worthless crap in the middle of class, regardless of what’s going on. I’d say about 10% of what he says contributes to class, and that’s being generous. He’s in JROTC and has super goals to join the Marines someday, which, I have to say, would probably be the best place for him. But knowing what I know about the military, he’s going to be the guy who gets his ass kicked by the entire platoon for running his mouth and “earning” extra PT. Did I mention this would be the best thing for him?
I have assigned my classes a research project for the remainder of the term. They have to choose a historical figure to research and write about, and my little Stay-Puft kid chose Ronald Reagan, just one of many examples of this kid’s (read: his dad’s) conservatism. I could care less if the kid worshiped Bozo the Clown. I bring this up because from the beginning of the school year, I could tell this kid just regurgitated every word that came out of his dad’s mouth; the kid doesn’t have an original thought in his head. I don’t even think the inappropriate “your mom” jokes are his.
So after almost seven weeks of school, I was nearly ecstatic to see this kid and his dad at parent/teacher conferences. His dad was unable to attend the first set of conferences as he was detained, literally. The man had been released from jail less than a week before. (Are the puzzle pieces fitting together?) I start to talk to the dad, telling him his kid does his work in my class; yes, he is passing, but he is very disruptive in class. Dad makes a few smart-ass comments before the piece de la resistance: He tells me that maybe his kid wouldn’t be so distracted (p.s. I never said the kid was distracted, I said he was DISRUPTIVE, dumbass!) if it wasn’t for my nose ring! WHAAAT?!?!?! Now, say what you will about piercings and what-have-you, I take my job seriously and carry myself as a professional.
Even now, I can’t believe I’m defending my own choices when this ex-con is making asshole comments and deflecting the responsibilty of his son’s behavior on me. I’m sure while this guy was enjoying his three squares and cot, on my dime and your’s, he was blaming his lawyer or the cop that arrested him or the victim who testified against him and proved his guilt…yeah, it was his fault!
It all fits together perfectly. If I catch this kid using foul language in my class, throwing something across the room or punching another classmate in the arm, he automatically denies everything. So, of course it would make perfect sense that my nose ring would be at fault every time his obnoxious child can’t keep his mouth shut. All accountability has been lost.
Unfortunately, this lack of accountability is not confined to one or two students; it seems to be endemic. Let me explain…a year ago, the city passed a bond issue to build a new building for the high school. This old building we’re in now is falling apart (my classroom was about 50 degrees today) and we have a problem with rampant tagging (that’s graffiti for you lay-folks). It’s not uncommon to smell the stank of heavy-duty permanent marker and see a janitor scrubbing a wall with harsh chemicals.
This afternoon, at another faculty meeting that proved to be nothing more than a lip-service discussion rather than anything truly productive, we were having a “discussion” about our transition to the new building next year. If we had turned the meeting into a drinking game, and “transition” was our cue to drink, we would have been hammered…but that’s beside the point. (Next meeting, we’re keeping a tally.)
When the Q&A portion turned to the issue of tagging and cameras in the halls, I felt it was better to avoid the issue of working in a police state, and instead asked what would happen to those students who were caught tagging; would they be forced to clean up that graffiti as an appropriate consequence for an action? I was quickly informed by the principal that a student caught tagging would be charged with a felony. Ok. Then there was a few minutes of bullshit jargon about gang issues and photographing the graffiti to be cataloged. And gang issues around Denver. And how kids were turning in other kids. And how administrators were shocked to learn that certain tags which had been appearing for years were the product of certain students; no, not that kid! But, wouldn’t the kids’ cleaning up their tags be an appropriate consequence?
In steps administrator #2, “Well, kids have to pay a fine to pay for the costs of having a custodian clean it up. Last year we only made about $600, but this year alone (remember, we’re only about seven weeks in) we’ve made over $1000.” Again, this was followed by more bullshit jargon about tagging crews and gangs, requiring me to bite my tongue repeatedly until he took a breath long enough for me to ask my next question: And have you received multiple checks from the same student? Yes. And this time, no follow-up bullshit.
A third administrator had to step in to end the Q&A session with a comment about the importance of cleaning up the graffiti quickly and yadda-yadda-yadda.
All I know is that when I catch a kid drawing on one of my desks, s/he gets a baby wipe and the “opportunity” to clean all the desks in my classroom. I’ve yet to have a kid clean all the desks twice. And yet I see the same tags all over the school and the school receives multiple payments from the same student. Hmmm, it’s a head-scratcher. It’s like the kids are paying to tag…and is that money really coming from their pockets? Probably not. Are they held accountable for their actions? Absolutely not.
And if I were a bettin’ man, I’d guess I’ll be seeing these kids as parents in 14 years and discussing their kid’s behavior in my class. Who knows if I’ll still have my nose ring, but, again, I’d bet there’s something about me that “distracts” their student.
Day One
It’s finally here, the first day of school. After nearly two weeks of meetings, seminars and other administrative fun, it was about time to get to the good part. I got students today. You know, students, kiddos, the reason we become teachers.
Did I mention that I’m teaching freshmen this year? What can you say about freshmen? They used to be big fish in a little pond and now they’re walking around bug-eyed and slack-jawed, small fish all over again. My classes were nearly silent today. Sure, they’ll be driving me crazy soon, but we’re still in the honeymoon phase and I’m all sorts of stoked. Oh yeah, I’m also teaching my own content this year. Hooray for social studies!
I can already tell I’m going to be dragging ass for a while, but I’m looking forward to a good year with fun classes, awesome teachers and a lot of happy hours professional development.
At least I was able to attend first grade
It was bound to happen eventually. My summer is drawing to an end. It’s been a good one; one including quite a bit of time with friends and family, working on my pilot’s license, and a decent amount of travel.
On Friday I got back from an AVID conference in San Diego. If you’ve never heard of AVID, it’s an amazing program that gives students the skills to take charge and succeed in their education. After a week of classes, I feel like I’ve got quite a few tools and materials for the coming school year, not to mention some much needed inspiration.
At the closing luncheon, four students shared their stories about AVID and how it has helped them achieve their goals of going to college. While they were all compelling stories, two stood out in particular.
One young man dropped out of school around the age of 13. Two years prior, his mother had died of brain cancer, forcing him and his brother to live with the grandfather, only to lose him as well. Both he and his brother worked full-time jobs to support themselves, until at the age of 15, while on the computers at a public library, the librarian asked why there was no school that day. Something clicked with this kid and he made the decision to enroll himself back in school. He graduated this past spring and will be attending the University of Arizona to study education and journalism this fall with four years of tuition fully paid for by scholarships. Did I mention that he worked part-time throughout his time in high school? I am still amazed by this kid’s self-determination.
The other story that left me speechless was of an Iraqi refugee. At the age of six, this young man was forced to work close to 20-hour days in the streets of Baghdad. As a Catholic in a Muslim country, he was routinely beaten and imprisoned, and never had the opportunity to attend school. At nine years old, his family was smuggled from Iraq, through Turkey and into Greece, all the while hiding from religious persecution and dodging bullets, literally. Once in Greece, his father was able to make it to the US to begin asylum paperwork for his family. Again, this kid and his younger siblings were forced to work long hours in the street to support the family and save as much money as possible for the trip to the States. And again, neither he nor his siblings were able to attend school. After four years of saving and processing paperwork, the entire family made it to LA in 2003. Finally, at the age of 13, this kid became a student. Within two months he was reading and writing English, speaking it in six months. During his high school career, he completed and passed EIGHT Advanced Placement classes, allowing him to enter UCLA’s pre-med program this fall with sophomore status. After only five years in a classroom, he’s accomplished more than most have after 13 years!
Hearing these kids speak made it difficult to fight back the tears, but more importantly, they showed what the human spirit is capable of and just how powerful education can be. I left for this conference feeling hesitant about the new year and while I’m still freaked out, I’m feeling inspired and looking forward to the challenge ahead. And no matter how bad things get (which I will write about, of course), at least I was able to attend first grade.
Done and done!
So, the school year ended about a week ago and I’ve only now been able to sit down and digest it all. Needless to say, the weeks following spring break were hectic and draining. And yet, I’m still excited that I have a job teaching at the same school in the fall. Which leads me to the big lesson I learned this go-round…
…teaching is like an abusive relationship. I will bitch and moan for hours after a long day of school, and yet, I go back in the morning with a smile on my face. My students tell me I’m a bad teacher or that school is a waste of time, and I make excuses. They really just need someone to love them. If they didn’t have all those other problems, they wouldn’t be so mean to me. I walked into a door. You see where I’m going with this.
A veteran teacher I work with put it this way: teaching is the only job where teenagers come to watch you work. Sounds about right to me, but I believe heckling should also be included in that description.
What else did I learn this year?
- As it turns out, both boys really were just from New Hampshire. (My gay-dar’s been off for a while.)
- I can teach math…at least a few of ‘em got it.
- I can totally justify the educational benefit of “The Goonies”
I’m sure there’s plenty more, but I’m still processing this and, more importantly, enjoying my summer. More crazy hi-jinx to come in the fall…and this time, I’m teachin’ social studies!
Teaching makes you stupid
I can’t find things that are right in front of me. I set things down and forget where I left them only seconds later. I make plans to do something and I remember that there was something I was supposed to do, but can’t remember what. I can’t figure out a simple tip. I teach math and I used to be a server…I should know how to figure out a tip. This also happens to pregnant women. While this is not the cause of my stupidity, I do believe there to be a strong correlation between proximity to kids and drop in IQ.
Interesting cultural note: Some Mexican kids at my school choose to express their grief and create memorials on over-sized white t-shirts.
Entitlement vs. Work Ethic
Praise Jebus, CSAP testing is over! It’s been an interesting few weeks. Every morning that we had testing, the school had arranged to have breakfast delivered to each of the kids in their classrooms. In between testing sessions, they get a snack which consists of way more food than necessary. Fortunately, they do give the kids apples along with their bag of Famous Amos cookies, but this also give the kids projectiles to throw. The wastefulness is appalling. I make them eat in the classroom, but somehow there’s always some klepto that steals a bunch of bananas so they can throw them at their friends in the hallway.
Yesterday, I caught some kids doing this in my class and nearly went off the handle. I told the kids how wasteful they are and about “the starving kids in Africa.” To which one of my students responded “Miss, they have to give us food for CSAP.” Holy crap. No, no they don’t. They give you food so you’ll perform better because, chances are, you’re parents didn’t feed you breakfast this morning.
This feeling of entitlement seems to be endemic in the kids today. Dear god, I sound like my parents. But the thing is, my parents instilled an amazing work ethic in both me and my brother. We never expected anything and were taught the value of an education and working for what you want.
My students don’t show up to class, then come whining to me about their missing work and how they aren’t ready for the test next week.
I can only do so much when I only see some of these kids once or twice a week (and frankly, that’s plenty), but I’ve decided that tomorrow’s lesson will consist of different types of graphs covering the value of an education, the abundance we experience in America in contrast with the rest of the world, etc. It’s the Friday after two weeks of testing, so I’m not expecting full classes by any means, but I’m pretty sure that will make things easier.
BUURRRNN!!!
It’s one thing to be 24 and to look back at high school and truly understand how much smarter (and cooler) you are now than you were then. It’s another thing when your class acknowledges it.
Today, after another morning of CSAP testing, I planned a pretty fluff lesson. We’d be doing some math, but the majority of class was eaten up by our “experiment,” and by “experiment” I mean throwing a Koosh Ball around the room for 45 minutes and making tally marks on the board. Despite how mindless this lesson truly was, I still had kids who weren’t paying attention…a small group of guys in the back corner, in particular.
I grabbed the ball and got the class’s attention and joked about throwing the ball at one of the student’s heads. The group of guys still wasn’t paying attention.
I called out the name of one of the kids who had his back turned to me and tossed the ball in his face, quickly followed by “Pay attention or get you get balls in your face!”
Another one of the small victories that keeps you going back everyday, though slightly more twisted and much more satisfying.
