This Explains So Much.

The setting: an empty classroom, re-arranging desks. The desks look like this:



The staff are dragging the desks back to their appropriate positions and it is making a noise that makes me start twitching involuntarily.

"Do you want to see the Ms. D----- method of moving desks?" I ask my co-worker.

Sure, she says.

So I demonstrate the procedure, one that was executed religiously in my classroom, always with one student modeling and the rest following row by row, noiselessly, punctuated with lots of praise from the teacher.

Since we did a lot of turning our desks around to face one wall or the other, I taught my students that they stand next to the desk, lift the whole thing up, and shuffle their feet until the desk faces the desired wall, then place it back on the ground. In other words....

"LiiiIFT! Aaaaandddd pivot."

I totally stole this procedure from Friends when they are trying to get the couch up a narrow staircase and Ross is yelling fruitlessly "pivot! pivot! pivot!"

So I am lifting and pivoting and Elena says "Gosh, Mary, you're like a 65 year-old ballet teacher. 'Pivot, children!'"

And I am thinking yes, yes I was a 22-year-old 65-year-old ballet teacher, for better or for worse, that is basically how I approached my work and why it felt so weird/awesome/fleeting.

And that was all she wrote.

It feels good to know that I may never be the butt of another middle schooler's joke again.

There's more to be said, but I'll leave it at that for now.

Take Back the Walls!

Epilogue to yesterday's post:

Today I got over it, found some stickers and used them to reclaim my non-suckage status.

Now, the wall reads:

"Ms. D-----"

(and the sticker says: "Todo esta bien! It's ok!")

For some reason, this makes me giggle uncontrollably every time I pass by.
The bathroom bucket has been plastered with frogs.
The gang graffiti now reads, "Ready Freddy!"
I forgot that I have valuable resources, mainly the fact that I am no longer twelve.

Ms. Lesbow

(From an email I wrote earlier today... I'm waiting to be observed in my classroom for a potential job, but I've omitted names and organization details.)

I'm waiting to hear when this --- woman is going to observe me so that I can pack up my classroom. I feel I've developed a pretty thick skin in my three years here, but lately (and especially with the sub last week) there's been an epidemic of "Ms. D------ sucks" graffiti, and I'm getting sick of it. They wrote it on the walls. They wrote it on the Midsummer Night's Dream books. They crossed out "D------" on the bathroom bucket (yes we have a bathroom bucket) and wrote "Ms. Lesbow" instead. They wrote it on the personal white boards that I sometimes use for group work. They wrote it in the dictionaries and in the dust on my computer monitor. Just yesterday I was using the giant yellow pad to make posters displaying student work (in anticipation of this woman's observation for potential job) and sometime between the time I put it down and picked it back up again, some kid wrote "D------ SUCKS" on the top sheet.

Every time I find a new love letter, I chuckle and remark "cute" or "real creative, guys" to whoever might be observing me, but there's an exponentially expanding part of me that wants to stand up and scream I GET IT. I SUCK. YOU WIN. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE.

You know?

It's just not how I wanted to end my teaching experience.

Snip snip snip SNIPPY!

"Caesar's wife, Calpurnia, is very psychic."

Is it possible for someone to be VERY psychic? Isn't it just, you are or you're not?

*

Today in class, C----- pointed out, "Miss, you're chewing gum."

(In any other circumstance, this would not seem out-of-the-ordinary; however, any of my students can tell you that NO ONE is allowed to chew gum in the classroom, and as a general rule I HATE GUM. HATE IT WITH THE PASSION OF A THOUSAND FIERY SUNS. This goes back to my first year "gum in the hood" incident.)

"Yes." I said. "I'm going to be chewing gum for the next couple of days. If you want, you can chew it, too. But I don't want to see it or hear it."

In the midst of the resulting excitement ("YESSSSSS! We can chew gum!"), no one asked why. I was prepared. I was going to say, "I am trying to get over a highly addictive habit by developing new habits," and leave it at that. If they asked, I would have told the truth. As it turned out, they were too busy passing around sticks of newly legalised juicy fruit, their minds distracted by the brittle bars dissolving into sweet rubbery pulp, chomp chomp mmmmmmmm...

How I spent my standardized test day

The new rules for proctoring say: No internet, no walking around, no reading, no knitting (unfair!!); just sitting and staring at test-takers.

Ok, I said. If they can test for five hours, I can surely manage sitting.

Hour one started off HORRIBLY. No further comment except that I love my job and I especially love my co-workers. So hour one consisted of staring at my unsigned contract and working up the courage to sign "declined," thus forcing myself to find a new job.

Hour two I started writing. I decided, rather than dwell in the negative, to document my favorite/most memorable experiences teaching. I wrote on white legal paper using a Chase bank pen (whoops). I will share later.

Hour three I asked to be relieved for a minute to go get more coffee. I ate two snickers bars and a pack of animal crackers. I collected trash. I moved J---- because he kept hitting A---- in the back of the head.

Hour four I tossed an apple back and forth and shined it on my jeans. Shiniest apple ever. For the second half of hour four, I built a log cabin out of the popsicle sticks I gave them as bathroom passes.

Hour five (post-lunch) I glared at the students who were starting to get restless, transmitting via ESP "Don't you dare even THINK about talking I will hold you in detention for the rest of your life oh and by the way I know where you live."

The students came up with their own means of entertainment. My favorite was "drink all the water and then knock the water bottle over to produce that satisfying hollow sound as it rolls across the room." And so for the second half of hour five, I collected all the water bottles.

More tomorrow.

Teaching Shakespeare

In A Midsummer Night's Dream, Helena chases after her former love Demetrius, who wooed her and won her heart before turning his attention to Hermia instead. Helena cannot accept this. She chases after him for a good three acts, long after her charm has faded, professing love to the point where it becomes humiliating. She offers to be his "spaniel": "Spurn me, strike me, use me, neglect me," she implores, only let me stay by your side.

At this point, half my class sighs, "Poor Helena!"
"Poor Demetrius!" the other half argues.

We talk about love vs. obsession and the necessity of conflict in fiction; we make predictions about what might happen; and, God help us, we make real-life connections. Theirs are excusable; they are twelve. Mine are darker, buried, deeply embarrassing.

Because this is fiction, and because the conflict must be resolved, Demetrius eventually, unknowingly, submits to a magical enchantment whereby he's made to dote strongly, madly on Helena. The two couples (Helena and her brainwashed man, Hermia and hers) celebrate a joint wedding. How long will the enchantment last? Why not forever? No matter. This story has a happy ending, and that is why we call it a "comedy."

Icicle

You know the school is wasting money on air conditioning when, on April 12th, a student hijacked my scarf.

Yes, you read that right--I was wearing a scarf--WAS!--until it disapeared. The first one I ever knit. I am saddened by its loss and chilled by both the heinousness of the crime and the arctic air.

I'd be wearing gloves, too, if I had them with me.

Brrr.

On Advocacy

The premise: Children need an non-judgemental, "safe," adult figure they can turn to in order to talk about problems or life issues. Therefore, each teacher will be assigned 15-17 "advocacy" cases and meet with them thirty minutes a week.

The teacher next to me says: "I am not the person for this job. I am not warm and fuzzy enough. I don't care about their problems."

I say: "You do care about them."

She says: "I care about their math, and that is all."

She's right. I'm not that warm and fuzzy teacher, either. Nor do I want to be. Why don't we give them all kittens, instead?

Sometimes You Gotta Gobble

Spring heralds the coming of many things: Lovely warm breezes, budding flowers, longer days, rosy sunburned cheeks, flirtations, and, in my classroom, the animal noises start up again.

This year, the popular sounds are unidentified croaking frog noises ("grrruuuup"), bird whistles (this one will never go out of style), and "quack." (Periods of uncontrollable giggles, while not technically animal sounds, are popular as well.)

This morning: I am at my wit's end. One boy makes the frog noise. "Jonathan!" I hollar. "Hallway!"

He saunters outside and I accompany him, foot holding the door, one eye on the classroom. "Ok. You need to make animal noises? Now's your chance. Right now you have my permission to make whatever noises you want and get it out of your system."

He is silent.

"What, cat got your tongue? Go for it: quack, moo, bark, whatever."

Silence. After a hesitation, he lets out a small smirk, and a quick hiccuped "Gobble."

My class cracks up.

"Now can we please leave the noises in the hallway?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Metaphorically speaking...

How do you counteract a crummy, rainy, dreary day? Why, cutting and pasting, of course!

I threw ordinary lesson plans out the window and we made "metaphorical self-portraits" instead, based on a poem by Billy Collins called "Instructions to the Artist."

The idea is to paste together a "portrait" based in figurative language: flaming lava hair, city streets for ears, leafy eyebrows. And then make bold figurative statements about yourself:
"My head is foggy with words; my ears hear the music of distant cities."

Jose, aka "Gummy Bear," comes up to show me his portrait. I tell him I like it, but I want to know more about his choices. "Don't just write that your mouth is a Payday because you like Payday bars; tell me about swallowing up all the sweetness in the world, or something."

"Yeah," he says, returning to his seat. "Or, like, nuts!" Then he turns red and mumbles, "nevermind."

We all pretend I don't know why they're laughing. I give myself lightning bolts for eyes, and a zipper mouth.

Too many hats

I found out today that an eighth grade student at my school shot himself on Friday. The student body is, understandably, quite upset. Our counselor is doing double-duty as the "test coordinator" for tomorrow's writing TAKS, which, if you've been reading the papers, is no cakewalk. All day I've been in "test mode," dolling out last minute tidbits of wisdom and praying they're listening. "I'm sorry you're upset. I need you to focus on the task at hand because this is the last time you can ask questions before The Test." As if I should expect to have anyone's attention. It didn't really hit me until after school as I was driving home, what had actually happened. He was fourteen. Maybe fifteen.

I have mixed feelings about turning twenty-five.


Me and Jamie, Cambridge (?), 1995. (Aww... look at the flannel!)

Very, very tightly wound

Lately I've been feeling stress deep inside my body.

So much so that when I breathe deep, I feel tension like I might strain a muscle. Most days, it's hard to get out of bed. Today in school, I felt like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. By the end of the day, I had nothing more to say because I knew it would only end badly. I dismissed the students with a wave of my hand.

Driving makes it worse. I grip the steering wheel at 2 and 10 o'clock and yell at children and stray dogs who don't obey posted traffic signs. I'm always anxious, even when I'm driving someplace fun. Especially when I'm driving someplace fun.

I don't really know what I'm stressed and anxious about. There are no rational explanations, nothing that nags persistantly at my brain. Certainly not the upcoming TAKS test, because I really don't care. They'll do well. They've done well for the past two years. But there's this lingering anxiety and feeling of urgency.

Lately, I've been meeting boys and giving my number out like candy. I never call back. The effort it takes to initiate dating seems overwhelming, and I haven't felt swept away in years. A friend and I were talking tonight about how too many men seem attracted to young, flighty women who just want to bat their eyelashes and laugh at their funny jokes. This boggles me. For me, the attraction is only there if a person knows MORE than me... about books, about art, about silkscreening, about fish, about SOMETHING. Otherwise, what's the point? I don't want someone to laugh at my jokes. I want someone to call me out on it, and lead me towards something that will enable better jokes.

Maybe these two things are unrelated. But I doubt it.

Oh yeah? Well, you wear navy blue *EVERY DAY and you can't spell.

"Ms. D------ needs to buy a new woredrobe. No offince plese not take it officeofly. You need to know how to match. More brown."

Obviously my little fashionista twelve-year-olds need a lesson on "the rules" of dressing (ex: no white shoes after labor day) and how they do not apply to people like us.

*dress code

Well, it's not a cruise, but...

I got word today that all ten JMS teachers have been approved for the International Reading Association annual convention, to be held in San Antonio!

This means that for four days in early May, I'll be getting drunk on the Riverwalk attending various workshops led by the best of the best in reading/writing instruction while my students are doing worksheets with a substitute teacher.

Life is good.

New Rules

1. Listen carefully
2. Work quietly
3. Be productive
4. Respect others
5. No food or gum.

1. DO NOT BURST THE HAPPY BUBBLE.

Elevator Antics

It started in this e-mail to Lana:

"...also, we are doing a dialogue project where i give them a magazine cut-out of a person, and they have to name their character, describe their age, ocupation, likes and dislikes, etc.... and i'm afraid i've fallen in love with "Ron" who is 28 and in graduate school studying comparative literature, but moves furniture on the weekends to help pay the rent. He likes museums and espresso, but does not like cats. I'm afraid this may be a minor detriment to our relationship, that and the fact that he's a magazine clipping. Le sigh."

Later that class period, I had a minor panic attack when I temporarily misplaced Ron. "Has anyone seen Ron?" I asked the class. "We've formed sort of a special bond and I'll be very sad to lose him..."

Ron was recovered and by the end of the day, my 8th period wanted to know why "Ron" had a heart around his head. I blushed a little. Yes, I let my girly crush run away with me during the off-period. "Well, you know," I stalled, "...you have to fall in love with your characters. That's what writers do."

There were various "but mine's a DUDE!" outcries from the football players and I explained (as if they were crazy) "..not necessarily ROMANTIC love. You have to care about them and want to know everything about them." This settled them ("I guess he could be my brother.") and we were able to proceed with characterization.

Dialogue was another story. They don't understand why President George W. Bush would not say "hey wuz up dude" to a stranger if he were stuck in an elevator. I guess he might.

I'd like to be stuck in an elevator with Ron.

Two school stories

1. Fourth period, I babysit the last few stragglers taking their "snapshot" TAKS tests. The room is equally divided between students who just like to take their time and be careful, and the ones who have been zoning out until now. Rafael is one of two students who hasn't started the second section yet, and we have 15 minutes left in class. He asks me, "What happens if I don't finish the essay and just do the multiple choice?"

"Kiddo, you have to finish the essay. It's required. I can't let you leave this building for Christmas break until you do. I'll keep you here until 6pm on Thursday if I have to."

And he says, with no trace of sarcasm, "Ok."

Blink. Blink. "Excuse me?"

"Ok, I'd rather do that. Can I stay after school?"

Rafael doesn't realize that I have already called the bar, that they already know to have my margarita ready and waiting at 3:35 on Thursday, five minutes after the last bell rings and two weeks of freedom begin. I give him a big toothy smile.

"You could, but you'd have a VERY unhappy teacher on your hands, and I'd have to make sure that you're unhappy too."

"....or I could finish it now."


2. The best thing about the science field trip was the planetarium. Not so much for the crappy film about Saturn, but the few magical moments when I stood before my students in their cushy reclining chairs, and threatened to call their parents if they behaved badly in the presentation. As I projected my voice across the seats, it echoed off the domed ceiling and resounded around the theater, bouncing off the constellations. Ten times better than singing in the shower. I may have gone on for longer than necessary, because the film operator interjected by dimming the lights in a modern-day "give that woman the hook" maneuver. How much do you suppose planetarium operators get paid?

testing, testing...

I love standardized test days.

No, really, I am not being sarcastic, I really do.

And not just because I get to sit at my computer and check email and blog, although that's nice, too.

I love standardized test days because twice a year I get to sit back and just enjoy the fruits of my labor (or cringe due to a lack thereof). Are they brainstorming their ideas first? Have they chosen a "lead" from the possibilities I taught them? Is L---- checking his spelling? Is there action, dialogue, interesting details, a satisfying conclusion? etc etc etc.

And also twice a year I get to sit down and tear apart the multiple choice section, outlining places where the question is unclear or does not test the intended objective. I get super nitpicky about it, taking issue when a question asks for a definitive stance over a style issue. Marking up the test itself in red ink fills me with a silly glee and makes me feel smart, worthy of my English degree, and articulate. Yes, I understand that taking pleasure in correcting other people's wrongs (people who get paid more than me, mind you) is symptomatic of an overblown ego, but I just don't care. Somedays it's not enough to know more than the students; somedays I need to know more than the test-makers.

questionable forecast

The NPR weatherman promised an "unoffensive day" today (fat chance I think to myself, driving to school).

Sure enough, as I walked to the building I passed by an 8th grader pulling on his school shirt with his pants hanging precariously off his rear-end. "Mumble mumble mumble motherf-cker" I hear him say to his friend. He looks up and sees me glare at him. "Oh, sorry."

(What he doesn't realize is that I'm already late and I'm glaring because now that I heard it I have to say something about it, it's like my job, and frankly I'd rather finish my vanilla latte and change the date on the whiteboard before I have to discipline anyone.)

"ExCUSE me?" I spit out. "Would you please stop for a minute and get dressed and get yourself ready for school before you walk any further?"

He stops. I walk on.

Well, it was a nice thought.