Francesca showed up to school today wearing a ballerina costume. She is the only student in the entire school who did not follow school rules. She is the only kid who wore a costume.
“Don’t you love my tutu?” Francesca did a little twirl past my desk.
“Gorgeous.” I muttered. I couldn’t blame Francesca; it was her mother that I wanted to kill.
Class Mommy arrived, as scheduled, five minutes after recess. She carried with her a large Tupperware container and a giant shoulder bag. “Healthy snacks and party gifts!” she declared with enthusiasm.
Following Class Mommy’s orders, I began to pass around napkins and juice boxes to the children. I watched with a fearful eye as Class Mommy loosened the lid on her Tupperware container. As she pulled the lid from its base, students cheered with delight.
“Cookies!” They yelled. “Teacher never gives us cookies! You are so nice, Class Mommy!”
“Help yourselves, kids! I made enough for each of you to have four.”
Cookies? Four each. Oh my god.
I rushed over to Class Mommy. “School rules. We can only have healthy snacks in the classroom. No candy. No cookies.” I glared at her.
In an elegantly manicured hand, Class Mommy held up a cookie. “They’re oatmeal cookies. Oatmeal is healthy.”
I stared at the cookie. Painted in the center, in sugary frosting, was a picture of a devil. Horrified, I looked down at the large tray of cookies. On each cookie was an individual Halloween picture: devils, bats, witches, ghosts, and vampires.
“Happy Halloween, kids! I also brought you party favors.” Class Mommy reached into her shoulder bag and began to withdraw small treat bags. She circled the room, handing each student a treat bag.
I watched as Robbie tore open his treat bag. Inside were a pencil (with little ghosts all over it), Jack-o-Lantern stickers, and a tiny scroll. Rob unrolled the scroll. “Cool! Taylor, check it out! Magic spells!”
Magic what? I yanked the scroll from Robbie’s hands. In small, whimsical font were three spells: A Spell for Riches, A Spell for Love, and A Spell to Turn Someone into a Toad.
“NO!” I don’t think I have ever yelled in my classroom before. “No! No! No! Give me your treat bags. You can’t have them.” I scurried throughout the room, yanking treat bags from my students’ hands. The last thing I needed was to get fired for promoting witchcraft.
Class Mommy protested, “I didn’t put any candy in those bags.”
I ignored Class Mommy and continued to collect the Halloween paraphernalia. Once finished, I took a poll, “Raise your hand if your family does not celebrate Halloween. Be honest.”
Both Ajith and Gaby put their hands in the air. After explaining to them that they were not in any trouble, I sent them to Caroline’s classroom to work on their Science assignments. I felt guilty about targeting their religious beliefs, but I had to get them out of the classroom.
Class Mommy frowned disapprovingly at me, as if I were horribly mean. My actions may have seemed rather extreme, but The District has adamantly insisted that we take every precaution to avoid crossing any cultural or religious boundaries. Several years ago, a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses sued a school district in South Carolina for allowing their daughter to participate in a class Halloween party. I glared back at Class Mommy, wishing I could tell her that it was her fault that I was mean. I wanted to tell her to get out of my classroom and never come back.
Seething in fury, I allowed my students ten more minutes to finish their cookies. I did my best to avoid Class Mommy, but eventually she caught me.
“Don’t you think Francesca makes a beautiful ballerina?”
I could barely look that suburban sociopath in the eye, “Students were not supposed to wear their Halloween costumes to school today.”
Class Mommy feigned surprise, “Well! Francesca told me that you said she looked gorgeous!”
61- White Girl Ignorance
I think I’m guilty of what my boyfriend has coined “white- girl ignorance.”
It all started last week when I asked my student Mattie, who is also my neighbor, if she was going to go Trick-or-Treating in our neighborhood. I asked because I wanted to know what time to expect kids to come to my door.
Mattie surprised me by saying, “I don’t know if we’re going to go Trick-or-Treating or not. My mom says we can’t go if we don’t have costumes.”
I knew that Mattie’s family is very poor and that the likelihood of them being able to afford a costume for Mattie and her siblings was small. “Do you have a costume for yourself?” I asked.
“Not, yet.”
I also knew that Mattie liked cats, so I told her, “I have a pair of cat ears and a tail at home. You could borrow them for a costume, if you want. You could be a cat.”
Mattie’s face lit up and she said, “Yes, please!”
This morning I put the cat ears and tail in a little bag and brought them to school for Mattie. “I hope to see you out Trick-or-Treating.” I told her.
“Thank you!” Mattie beamed.
This afternoon, several hours after school, I was standing in the kitchen of my little apartment and happened to glance out the window. There was Mattie. Her head was down, the cat ears were in her hand, and she was headed in my direction. This is when it first dawned on me that I had done something wrong.
Oh, no. Please don’t be coming to my house!
Mattie is a polite girl. She had never come over to disturb me since discovering that we were neighbors. I prayed that she was just walking to a friend’s house up the street.
No such luck.
I heard a small, but firm knock, knock, knock on my front door.
I greeted Mattie with a warm smile. “Hello, Mattie! Come on in.”
The little Mexican girl stood nervously in my living room. She thrust the cat ears and tail into my hands. “My Mamma said to tell you ‘no thank you.’ We’re going to get our own costumes later today.”
“Oh, wonderful. Are you going to be able to go Trick-or-Treating after all?”
“No.” Mattie replied. “We are going to go to the church for a party and games.”
I felt guilty, “What will you dress up as?”
“A cat.” Mattie grinned.
I smiled, too, and we both laughed a little bit. Mattie fidgeted anxiously by the doorway. “Okay Mattie,” I grabbed my bowl of Halloween candy from the shelf. “Take some of these for yourself and your brother and sister.” I piled two large handfuls of chocolates into her arms.
“Thank you so much, Teacher!”
I watched as Mattie marched dutifully back down the street to her house. Arms full of candy, the girl looked delighted.
I felt bad. Not for Mattie, but for her parents. I had called them poor without realizing it. I had insulted their pride.
It all started last week when I asked my student Mattie, who is also my neighbor, if she was going to go Trick-or-Treating in our neighborhood. I asked because I wanted to know what time to expect kids to come to my door.
Mattie surprised me by saying, “I don’t know if we’re going to go Trick-or-Treating or not. My mom says we can’t go if we don’t have costumes.”
I knew that Mattie’s family is very poor and that the likelihood of them being able to afford a costume for Mattie and her siblings was small. “Do you have a costume for yourself?” I asked.
“Not, yet.”
I also knew that Mattie liked cats, so I told her, “I have a pair of cat ears and a tail at home. You could borrow them for a costume, if you want. You could be a cat.”
Mattie’s face lit up and she said, “Yes, please!”
This morning I put the cat ears and tail in a little bag and brought them to school for Mattie. “I hope to see you out Trick-or-Treating.” I told her.
“Thank you!” Mattie beamed.
This afternoon, several hours after school, I was standing in the kitchen of my little apartment and happened to glance out the window. There was Mattie. Her head was down, the cat ears were in her hand, and she was headed in my direction. This is when it first dawned on me that I had done something wrong.
Oh, no. Please don’t be coming to my house!
Mattie is a polite girl. She had never come over to disturb me since discovering that we were neighbors. I prayed that she was just walking to a friend’s house up the street.
No such luck.
I heard a small, but firm knock, knock, knock on my front door.
I greeted Mattie with a warm smile. “Hello, Mattie! Come on in.”
The little Mexican girl stood nervously in my living room. She thrust the cat ears and tail into my hands. “My Mamma said to tell you ‘no thank you.’ We’re going to get our own costumes later today.”
“Oh, wonderful. Are you going to be able to go Trick-or-Treating after all?”
“No.” Mattie replied. “We are going to go to the church for a party and games.”
I felt guilty, “What will you dress up as?”
“A cat.” Mattie grinned.
I smiled, too, and we both laughed a little bit. Mattie fidgeted anxiously by the doorway. “Okay Mattie,” I grabbed my bowl of Halloween candy from the shelf. “Take some of these for yourself and your brother and sister.” I piled two large handfuls of chocolates into her arms.
“Thank you so much, Teacher!”
I watched as Mattie marched dutifully back down the street to her house. Arms full of candy, the girl looked delighted.
I felt bad. Not for Mattie, but for her parents. I had called them poor without realizing it. I had insulted their pride.
60- Pink Shoes
Demarcus came to class today wearing a pair of pink sneakers. I didn’t notice until I heard Josh say, “What are you wearing on your feet, you little faggot?”
Demarcus, who is not very intelligent, responded with, “I got new shoes.” The poor kid had not idea what ‘faggot’ meant. I’m sure he didn’t know that Josh was making fun of him. He proudly pointed at his feet, “My sneakers!”
The boy’s sneakers were white and pink. They had pink laces and a little pink butterfly stitched onto each ankle.
I shot a few children, “I-Will-Kill-You” looks with my eyes when I heard them snickering.
Many of my students come from poor homes. Demarcus lives in a two bedroom shack with eight other family members. He is loved, but he is very poor. He is raised by his mother and his grandmother, while his dad serves time in the state prison.
Families like Demarcus’ rely heavily on charities and donations. I am sure that Demarcus got his shoes from some sort of church donation box. Although they are designed for girls, I felt relieved to see that his shoes were in good condition. The weather is starting to turn cold and a pair of thickly insulated, leather sneakers will protect the child’s feet.
Poverty is a delicate subject in our school. It makes me furious to hear children laugh and ridicule their more needy classmates. As a general classroom rule, we are never supposed to use put-downs. In a utopia, this rule may actually stick. In a public school classroom, kids are cruel.
Ironically, the meanest children come from the most affluent backgrounds. I don’t think these kids realize the true nature of poverty. Many times I have considered sending a letter home to individual families, requesting that parents talk with their children about the challenges that needy families face. I have not addressed the class as a whole, about poverty, because I don’t want to make any children feel uncomfortable.
Demarcus, who is not very intelligent, responded with, “I got new shoes.” The poor kid had not idea what ‘faggot’ meant. I’m sure he didn’t know that Josh was making fun of him. He proudly pointed at his feet, “My sneakers!”
The boy’s sneakers were white and pink. They had pink laces and a little pink butterfly stitched onto each ankle.
I shot a few children, “I-Will-Kill-You” looks with my eyes when I heard them snickering.
Many of my students come from poor homes. Demarcus lives in a two bedroom shack with eight other family members. He is loved, but he is very poor. He is raised by his mother and his grandmother, while his dad serves time in the state prison.
Families like Demarcus’ rely heavily on charities and donations. I am sure that Demarcus got his shoes from some sort of church donation box. Although they are designed for girls, I felt relieved to see that his shoes were in good condition. The weather is starting to turn cold and a pair of thickly insulated, leather sneakers will protect the child’s feet.
Poverty is a delicate subject in our school. It makes me furious to hear children laugh and ridicule their more needy classmates. As a general classroom rule, we are never supposed to use put-downs. In a utopia, this rule may actually stick. In a public school classroom, kids are cruel.
Ironically, the meanest children come from the most affluent backgrounds. I don’t think these kids realize the true nature of poverty. Many times I have considered sending a letter home to individual families, requesting that parents talk with their children about the challenges that needy families face. I have not addressed the class as a whole, about poverty, because I don’t want to make any children feel uncomfortable.
59- Flu Shot
I’m a hypochondriac. I try not to be, but sometimes my paranoia gets the best of me. If I get a bad headache, I worry that maybe it is early signs of an aneurism. If I have a stomach ache, I find myself wondering if my appendix is about to burst. Silly little things like that… I always tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying.
I also hate needles. I can’t look at them without feeling faint and a little nauseated. Last time a doctor had to take my blood, I cried-- and I was twenty- two years old at the time. Blood makes me sick, needles make me dizzy, and I’m a hypochondriac. I’m sure I would be terrible in an emergency.
Today I had to get the flu shot. I have agonized for weeks over this shot. At first I wasn’t going to get it at all, but then Caroline convinced me that getting sick with the flu could ruin my monthly 3-day weekend vacation plan. I agreed that it was time for me to act like a grown up. After school today, I marched myself down to the theater stage (where they were administering shots) and waited in line.
I purposely looked away, so that I could not see the other teachers getting their shots. One by one, they would get a flu shot and then be on their way. It appeared to be a piece of cake and I was doing a great job of staying brave. When the nurse called my name, I rushed over to her, smiling. If I could convince her I wasn’t scared, then maybe I could convince myself.
“Is this your first time getting the flu shot, honey?” The woman asked in a twangy country accent. She was fat and blonde and used a lot of hairspray.
“Yes, ma’am.” I answered.
The nurse’s jolly face crinkled into a frown. “Can you eat chicken and eggs?”
“Yes.” With every wrinkle in the nurses’ frown, a bit of courage drained from my body.
“Humph.” She handed me a clipboard full of forms. “Fill out this form and sign this waiver.”
Waiver? My heart started to thud in my chest. Medically thinking, waivers are not a good. “Is everything okay?” I asked. “I don’t really need to get a shot…”
The fat nurse smiled and all of her crinkles smoothed out. She became jolly again and explained to me that because it was my first flu shot, we did not know if I would have an adverse reaction. She went on to relay a horrific list of potential side effects: fever, muscle soreness, difficulty breathing, hoarseness or wheezing, hives, fast heartbeat, dizziness, or swelling of the throat.
“Don’t worry, honey, you’ll do just fine.” Sugar dripped off her poisonous tongue.
I was already experiencing several of the side effects she listed. I stared at the clipboard. The pen fell out of my wet, sweaty hand. I took a deep breath and looked around the room. The faces of my coworkers swam in my blurry vision.
I can’t let them know I’m afraid.
I picked up the pen and signed the waiver. “I’m ready.”
When the nurse had finished stabbing me with her needle, she asked me to wait on a nearby bench for a little while. A little while turned out to be thirty minutes. I watched the clock as each second ticked slowly by.
My throat felt dry, as I waited for it to swell up and block my air passages. My heart raced. I knew, at any minute, that I would be the first teacher to die of the flu shot. I took long, deep breaths, hoping to avoid a bout of panicked wheezing. I wondered if the nurse would be able to save my life.
Was she trained to revive people, or just administer shots? I wanted to ask, but my voice had left.
My muscles felt tight and sore. I had to shut my eyes to avoid passing out.
I suffered from every side effect the nurse had listed.
“Okay, hon.” She waddled her blubbery body over to my bench, pulled up my sleeve, barely glanced in the direction of my arm, and said, “Looks good here. You can go.”
I better not get the damn flu.
I also hate needles. I can’t look at them without feeling faint and a little nauseated. Last time a doctor had to take my blood, I cried-- and I was twenty- two years old at the time. Blood makes me sick, needles make me dizzy, and I’m a hypochondriac. I’m sure I would be terrible in an emergency.
Today I had to get the flu shot. I have agonized for weeks over this shot. At first I wasn’t going to get it at all, but then Caroline convinced me that getting sick with the flu could ruin my monthly 3-day weekend vacation plan. I agreed that it was time for me to act like a grown up. After school today, I marched myself down to the theater stage (where they were administering shots) and waited in line.
I purposely looked away, so that I could not see the other teachers getting their shots. One by one, they would get a flu shot and then be on their way. It appeared to be a piece of cake and I was doing a great job of staying brave. When the nurse called my name, I rushed over to her, smiling. If I could convince her I wasn’t scared, then maybe I could convince myself.
“Is this your first time getting the flu shot, honey?” The woman asked in a twangy country accent. She was fat and blonde and used a lot of hairspray.
“Yes, ma’am.” I answered.
The nurse’s jolly face crinkled into a frown. “Can you eat chicken and eggs?”
“Yes.” With every wrinkle in the nurses’ frown, a bit of courage drained from my body.
“Humph.” She handed me a clipboard full of forms. “Fill out this form and sign this waiver.”
Waiver? My heart started to thud in my chest. Medically thinking, waivers are not a good. “Is everything okay?” I asked. “I don’t really need to get a shot…”
The fat nurse smiled and all of her crinkles smoothed out. She became jolly again and explained to me that because it was my first flu shot, we did not know if I would have an adverse reaction. She went on to relay a horrific list of potential side effects: fever, muscle soreness, difficulty breathing, hoarseness or wheezing, hives, fast heartbeat, dizziness, or swelling of the throat.
“Don’t worry, honey, you’ll do just fine.” Sugar dripped off her poisonous tongue.
I was already experiencing several of the side effects she listed. I stared at the clipboard. The pen fell out of my wet, sweaty hand. I took a deep breath and looked around the room. The faces of my coworkers swam in my blurry vision.
I can’t let them know I’m afraid.
I picked up the pen and signed the waiver. “I’m ready.”
When the nurse had finished stabbing me with her needle, she asked me to wait on a nearby bench for a little while. A little while turned out to be thirty minutes. I watched the clock as each second ticked slowly by.
My throat felt dry, as I waited for it to swell up and block my air passages. My heart raced. I knew, at any minute, that I would be the first teacher to die of the flu shot. I took long, deep breaths, hoping to avoid a bout of panicked wheezing. I wondered if the nurse would be able to save my life.
Was she trained to revive people, or just administer shots? I wanted to ask, but my voice had left.
My muscles felt tight and sore. I had to shut my eyes to avoid passing out.
I suffered from every side effect the nurse had listed.
“Okay, hon.” She waddled her blubbery body over to my bench, pulled up my sleeve, barely glanced in the direction of my arm, and said, “Looks good here. You can go.”
I better not get the damn flu.
58- Negotiating Halloween
Class Mommy has been driving me nuts about throwing a Halloween Party. For a while, she had settled down and hadn’t been in much to disrupt my classroom. Class Mommy’s hiatus is clearly over, as she is now in full party planning mode.
Holiday parties are a touchy subject in public schools. We’re really not supposed to celebrate anymore. Halloween is particularly taboo. The good old days of dressing up, trick-or-treating through the school, and then eating candy are over. These days, there is a lot of pressure to respect religious differences. Muslims, Jews, and Evangelical Christians are among the religious groups that do not want Halloween celebrated in public schools. Halloween is considered to be a pagan holiday that celebrates The Devil.
When I broke the news to Class Mommy that Halloween was not allowed to be celebrated in our school, the woman flipped out. She is a modern day, head in the clouds, housewife who spends more time thinking about her tennis racket than worldly affairs.
Class Mommy argued that “Religious differences are ridiculous and that all children love candy.” I had to agree that most kids do like candy, but according to the new Cupcake Law, teachers are not allowed to give out sweets to kids in school.
Negotiating with Class Mommy is like negotiating with a deaf six year old. Apparently she’s got some strong connections in Heaven, because this afternoon Class Mommy told me, “Jesus wants the children to dress up and have treats on Halloween.”
Is she daring me to debate Jesus?
“Not all students worship Jesus.” I told her.
Class Mommy looked aghast. She peered around the room, closely studying my students, “Which ones?” she asked in a disapproving whisper. Her eyes settled on her own daughter, Francesca, who was chatting happily with Gaby on the Reading Rug. “It’s not Gaby, is it?”
Until I met Class Mommy, I didn’t realize that educated, affluent women could also be social retards. I avoided disclosing personal religious information about my students and agreed to let her plan some type of party for Halloween.
“No costumes. No candy. No Halloween decorations.” I repeated these rules several times. “Please, healthy snacks only.”
“Francesca really wants to wear her ballerina costume.” Class Mommy whined like a child.
“No costumes at school.” I stated for the billionth time. “And it has to be a short party- one that does not take a lot of time away from their usual lessons.”
Class Mommy stomped her foot a couple of times. She pressed her lips together and considered my party rules. “Fine,” was all she said before whisking herself out of my classroom.
Holiday parties are a touchy subject in public schools. We’re really not supposed to celebrate anymore. Halloween is particularly taboo. The good old days of dressing up, trick-or-treating through the school, and then eating candy are over. These days, there is a lot of pressure to respect religious differences. Muslims, Jews, and Evangelical Christians are among the religious groups that do not want Halloween celebrated in public schools. Halloween is considered to be a pagan holiday that celebrates The Devil.
When I broke the news to Class Mommy that Halloween was not allowed to be celebrated in our school, the woman flipped out. She is a modern day, head in the clouds, housewife who spends more time thinking about her tennis racket than worldly affairs.
Class Mommy argued that “Religious differences are ridiculous and that all children love candy.” I had to agree that most kids do like candy, but according to the new Cupcake Law, teachers are not allowed to give out sweets to kids in school.
Negotiating with Class Mommy is like negotiating with a deaf six year old. Apparently she’s got some strong connections in Heaven, because this afternoon Class Mommy told me, “Jesus wants the children to dress up and have treats on Halloween.”
Is she daring me to debate Jesus?
“Not all students worship Jesus.” I told her.
Class Mommy looked aghast. She peered around the room, closely studying my students, “Which ones?” she asked in a disapproving whisper. Her eyes settled on her own daughter, Francesca, who was chatting happily with Gaby on the Reading Rug. “It’s not Gaby, is it?”
Until I met Class Mommy, I didn’t realize that educated, affluent women could also be social retards. I avoided disclosing personal religious information about my students and agreed to let her plan some type of party for Halloween.
“No costumes. No candy. No Halloween decorations.” I repeated these rules several times. “Please, healthy snacks only.”
“Francesca really wants to wear her ballerina costume.” Class Mommy whined like a child.
“No costumes at school.” I stated for the billionth time. “And it has to be a short party- one that does not take a lot of time away from their usual lessons.”
Class Mommy stomped her foot a couple of times. She pressed her lips together and considered my party rules. “Fine,” was all she said before whisking herself out of my classroom.
57- Rumors
I’ve noticed, lately, that I am growing very popular with the student body. Not just my students, but all of the students in the school appear to have taken a special liking to me. They all seem to know my name. “Hi, Teacher! Hey, Teacher!” Kid after kid has been greeting me in the hallway. I figured that word of my niceness had finally caught wind.
Today I learned the true root of my newfound popularity. I was walking down the First Grade hallway when I saw two First Grade boys fighting over the water fountain. They were hitting and shoving each other, arguing about whom was allowed to get water next. I walked up behind them and let out a simple, “Ahem.”
In unison, they turned around and stared wide-eyed at me.
“It’s her.” One of the boys whispered. They had stopped arguing and were clutching each other, terrified.
First Graders take everything way too seriously, so I did my best to not freak them out.
“Boys,” I smiled, “You should not fight over the water fountain. Sharing is a very important life skill. You need to take turns drinking the water.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They quickly agreed, but remained frozen in place, staring at me.
“Well, go ahead,” I motioned toward the water fountain. “One after the other. Get some water.”
The boys still didn’t move. Their baby eyes barely blinked as they stared at me.
First graders are strange little people.
Perplexed, I stared back.
Finally one of them spoke. “Are you going to tell him?”
Him?
“Am I going to tell who?”
“The Undertaker.”
The undertaker?
“What?” These First Graders were starting to creep me out. “What are you talking about?”
One of the boys bravely responded, “We know all about it, Teacher. My brother, Darius, in Fifth Grade, told us your secret.”
My secret?
“What did Darius tell you?”
In hushed voices, the First Grade boys told me about a rumor that has been spreading through the school. Apparently a group of Fifth Grade boys have been telling other students that I grew up next door to a professional wrestler named The Undertaker. The Undertaker is on a famous wresting show called SmackDown! - This show is very popular with the boys in our school. The Undertaker is a huge, scary looking man who is great at beating people up.
According to the rumor, I am close friends with my old neighbor, The Undertaker. If I catch any students misbehaving, I report their name to the professional wrestler. The Undertaker then finds this student and “body-slams them until they want to puke their guts out.”
Students are terrified to cross me, for fear of the wrath of The Undertaker. I’m not sure who started this rumor, but it has spread across the entire school.
As the First Graders recounted the tale, their faces were animated with awe. When finished, they looked at me pleading. “Is it true, Teacher? Do you know The Undertaker?”
I hesitated for a moment and then became very serious. I looked up and down the hall, to make sure no one was listening, “Yes,” I whispered, “It’s true.”
The boys both gasped.
I looked at them sternly, “Now get some water!”
They jumped and then like little soldiers, the First Graders obediently lined up at the water fountain. One after the other they took turns drinking the water.
I laughed the whole way back to my classroom.
Today I learned the true root of my newfound popularity. I was walking down the First Grade hallway when I saw two First Grade boys fighting over the water fountain. They were hitting and shoving each other, arguing about whom was allowed to get water next. I walked up behind them and let out a simple, “Ahem.”
In unison, they turned around and stared wide-eyed at me.
“It’s her.” One of the boys whispered. They had stopped arguing and were clutching each other, terrified.
First Graders take everything way too seriously, so I did my best to not freak them out.
“Boys,” I smiled, “You should not fight over the water fountain. Sharing is a very important life skill. You need to take turns drinking the water.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They quickly agreed, but remained frozen in place, staring at me.
“Well, go ahead,” I motioned toward the water fountain. “One after the other. Get some water.”
The boys still didn’t move. Their baby eyes barely blinked as they stared at me.
First graders are strange little people.
Perplexed, I stared back.
Finally one of them spoke. “Are you going to tell him?”
Him?
“Am I going to tell who?”
“The Undertaker.”
The undertaker?
“What?” These First Graders were starting to creep me out. “What are you talking about?”
One of the boys bravely responded, “We know all about it, Teacher. My brother, Darius, in Fifth Grade, told us your secret.”
My secret?
“What did Darius tell you?”
In hushed voices, the First Grade boys told me about a rumor that has been spreading through the school. Apparently a group of Fifth Grade boys have been telling other students that I grew up next door to a professional wrestler named The Undertaker. The Undertaker is on a famous wresting show called SmackDown! - This show is very popular with the boys in our school. The Undertaker is a huge, scary looking man who is great at beating people up.
According to the rumor, I am close friends with my old neighbor, The Undertaker. If I catch any students misbehaving, I report their name to the professional wrestler. The Undertaker then finds this student and “body-slams them until they want to puke their guts out.”
Students are terrified to cross me, for fear of the wrath of The Undertaker. I’m not sure who started this rumor, but it has spread across the entire school.
As the First Graders recounted the tale, their faces were animated with awe. When finished, they looked at me pleading. “Is it true, Teacher? Do you know The Undertaker?”
I hesitated for a moment and then became very serious. I looked up and down the hall, to make sure no one was listening, “Yes,” I whispered, “It’s true.”
The boys both gasped.
I looked at them sternly, “Now get some water!”
They jumped and then like little soldiers, the First Graders obediently lined up at the water fountain. One after the other they took turns drinking the water.
I laughed the whole way back to my classroom.
56- Hit On
I didn’t want to come to work today. I decided not to tell Caroline about her husband and Ms. Viamonte. Maybe I’m the jackass now, but I don’t want to get involved. I want to be an Elementary School teacher, not a candidate for the Jerry Springer show. I saw Caroline in the hallway this morning and she was as smiley as ever. She doesn’t know. That makes me feel awful. And relieved.
My substitute on Friday was a useless slob. She did not follow any of the plans that I left and instead allowed the kids to watch cartoons all day. That is the price teachers have to pay for taking the day off from a school like this. Not many people want to be substitutes in our neighborhood, so the few that show up are often lazy and unreliable. Many times the sub will not show up at all and another teacher will have to take over your class. (No, this is not incentive enough for me to give up my precious 3-day weekends.)
I spent the day catching up on lessons that should have been taught on Friday. My students took turns recounting the ridiculous events with the substitute.
Robbie: That lady fell asleep while we were watching Reading Rainbow.
At least the sub had enough sense to put the TV on an educational channel.
Ajith: I liked her. She let me go to the restroom 11 times.
The other kids probably warned the substitute that Ajith wets his pants.
Kramer: That woman didn’t say nothin’ when Josh spit goobers on the ceiling.
It is easier to ignore certain behaviors than to correct them.
The worst part of my day was right before dismissal. I was reading a story to my students on the Reading Rug when Linda’s father, Mr. Villagomez walked into the room. He motioned for me to come speak with him, so I asked Hannah, one of the better readers, to continue reading the story.
Oh, god. Please don’t tell my boss that you saw me at that bar...
I met Mr. Villagomez by the door, where he greeted me with a big hug. This felt awkward; a parent has never touched me before.
Mr. Villagomez appeared nervous. Confused, I asked him if he were there to pick up Linda.
“No.” Mr. Villagomez, who spoke with a thick Mexican accent, shook his head. “Well… yes! Si. Yes, I will take Linda home, but before that…” His voice trailed off and I started to feel a little worried. The man hesitated a minute and then continued, “It was really great to see you at the bar the other night and…”
Oh, damn!
“…and I was wondering if I could take you on a date sometime.”
A date? God, no!
I unclenched my teeth and forced a smile. “Uh. Ummm. Gosh!” When I’m nervous or uncomfortable I fall into Leave-It-To-Beaver mode and sputter a lot of words like gosh and gee-wiz. “Gee, Mr. Villagomez…”
“Call me Juan.” He winked.
Is this guy kidding me?
I could feel my face turning beet red. “Juan, I’m flattered, but…”
“No buts, just say yes. I know how to treat a lady.” He winked again.
Gross.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Mr. Villagomez smiled arrogantly, “A boyfriend?” He looked amused. “You don’t need no boyfriend. You need a man that is good to his lady.”
I looked Mr. Villagomez up and down. At about 5 feet 5 inches, he stood an inch shorter than me. His dark hair was greased back on the sides and spiked on the top. He was wearing a blue silk shirt and several gold chains around his neck. Clearly this man thought he was suave.
“Look, sir, I am really flattered, but I can’t date the parents of my students. It’s a school rule.” I lied. “I could lose my job.”
Mr. Villagomez stepped closer to me. I could feel his breath on my face. He smelled like Doritos and heavy cologne. He put his hand on my shoulder, “No worries. I can be discreet.”
I slapped his hand away and stepped back.
Discreet? Has he mistaken me for a hooker?
I glared at him. “No.”
He tried to say something else, but I cut him off with another, “No.” I called Linda over to protect me. “Linda! Time to go. Grab your backpack.”
I went to my desk and pretended to grade papers.
What a stinky creep.
I ignored Mr. Villagomez and his daughter as they left my classroom. That jerk. I hope he got the message.
My substitute on Friday was a useless slob. She did not follow any of the plans that I left and instead allowed the kids to watch cartoons all day. That is the price teachers have to pay for taking the day off from a school like this. Not many people want to be substitutes in our neighborhood, so the few that show up are often lazy and unreliable. Many times the sub will not show up at all and another teacher will have to take over your class. (No, this is not incentive enough for me to give up my precious 3-day weekends.)
I spent the day catching up on lessons that should have been taught on Friday. My students took turns recounting the ridiculous events with the substitute.
Robbie: That lady fell asleep while we were watching Reading Rainbow.
At least the sub had enough sense to put the TV on an educational channel.
Ajith: I liked her. She let me go to the restroom 11 times.
The other kids probably warned the substitute that Ajith wets his pants.
Kramer: That woman didn’t say nothin’ when Josh spit goobers on the ceiling.
It is easier to ignore certain behaviors than to correct them.
The worst part of my day was right before dismissal. I was reading a story to my students on the Reading Rug when Linda’s father, Mr. Villagomez walked into the room. He motioned for me to come speak with him, so I asked Hannah, one of the better readers, to continue reading the story.
Oh, god. Please don’t tell my boss that you saw me at that bar...
I met Mr. Villagomez by the door, where he greeted me with a big hug. This felt awkward; a parent has never touched me before.
Mr. Villagomez appeared nervous. Confused, I asked him if he were there to pick up Linda.
“No.” Mr. Villagomez, who spoke with a thick Mexican accent, shook his head. “Well… yes! Si. Yes, I will take Linda home, but before that…” His voice trailed off and I started to feel a little worried. The man hesitated a minute and then continued, “It was really great to see you at the bar the other night and…”
Oh, damn!
“…and I was wondering if I could take you on a date sometime.”
A date? God, no!
I unclenched my teeth and forced a smile. “Uh. Ummm. Gosh!” When I’m nervous or uncomfortable I fall into Leave-It-To-Beaver mode and sputter a lot of words like gosh and gee-wiz. “Gee, Mr. Villagomez…”
“Call me Juan.” He winked.
Is this guy kidding me?
I could feel my face turning beet red. “Juan, I’m flattered, but…”
“No buts, just say yes. I know how to treat a lady.” He winked again.
Gross.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Mr. Villagomez smiled arrogantly, “A boyfriend?” He looked amused. “You don’t need no boyfriend. You need a man that is good to his lady.”
I looked Mr. Villagomez up and down. At about 5 feet 5 inches, he stood an inch shorter than me. His dark hair was greased back on the sides and spiked on the top. He was wearing a blue silk shirt and several gold chains around his neck. Clearly this man thought he was suave.
“Look, sir, I am really flattered, but I can’t date the parents of my students. It’s a school rule.” I lied. “I could lose my job.”
Mr. Villagomez stepped closer to me. I could feel his breath on my face. He smelled like Doritos and heavy cologne. He put his hand on my shoulder, “No worries. I can be discreet.”
I slapped his hand away and stepped back.
Discreet? Has he mistaken me for a hooker?
I glared at him. “No.”
He tried to say something else, but I cut him off with another, “No.” I called Linda over to protect me. “Linda! Time to go. Grab your backpack.”
I went to my desk and pretended to grade papers.
What a stinky creep.
I ignored Mr. Villagomez and his daughter as they left my classroom. That jerk. I hope he got the message.
55- Infidelity
Tonight I saw Ms. Viamonte making out with Caroline’s husband.
My day started out great. I managed to sleep until almost 9am. I went out to lunch with a girlfriend and then to the mall to shop for a Halloween costume. I am going be Harriet Potter, the girl version of Harry Potter. I know it sounds cheesy, but I am determined to not fall victim to the trend of looking like the biggest slut I can on Halloween. Many girls use Halloween as an excuse to wear skimpy clothing in public. If I’m going to risk running into another parent, my body is going to be adequately covered.
After shopping, I watched General Hospital and then went for a long jog near the river. I treated myself to a huge bowl of pasta for dinner and then got ready to meet “teacher-friends” at a pub on the other side of town. Mr. Thorpe’s band was playing and a group of teachers decided to meet up for some music and beers. We all agreed to wear costumes.
A usual crowd of revelers greeted me when I arrived at the bar. Mr. Thorpe, Caroline and Mark, and Ms. Viamonte were familiar faces among the group. Mr. Thorpe was dressed as Lurch from The Addams Family. As a tribute to their rivaling college teams, Caroline was dressed as a USC Gamecock and Mark was dressed as a Clemson Tiger. Ms. Viamonte was dressed as a… cowgirl? It was hard to tell what her costume was; she wore a lacy red lingerie top over a skimpy jean skirt. Her cowboy boots and hat made me think she was trying to be a cowgirl, but she pretty much looked like a slut.
We chatted, drank a few beers, and played a game of pool until it was time for Mr. Thorpe to go on stage. His band is a typical cover band with a few original songs. From the crowd drawn, it is obvious they appeal to fraternity and sorority kids who like The Dave Matthews Band and Widespread Panic. I thought Mr. Thorpe’s music sucked, but the beer and friends encouraged me to stay.
As the night grew later, our group got drunker. We started laughing too loud and calling other faculty members names that are too rude to repeat. I tried to behave myself, but the occasional slur did slip from my lips. Ms. Viamonte started her trademark sway-in-her-seat move, and I wondered if she would puke again tonight.
At one point in the evening, Mark got up to use the restroom. Caroline was distracted by the popular bar game, View Finder, and barely acknowledged her husband’s departure. A few moments later, Ms. Viamonte abruptly announced that she, too, needed to use the restroom. I felt concerned that Ms. Viamonte may be about to vomit, so I followed her to the bathroom.
When I reached the hallway leading to the bathrooms, I realized my big mistake. There was Ms. Viamonte and Mark engaged in a sloppy kiss. Their bodies were intertwined. Tiger enveloped cowgirl. Ms. Viamonte was forcefully pulling Mark’s hair, while he eagerly massaged her ass with both of his hands. They were making hungry groaning noises.
Shit. Shit! Why did I have to see this?
Suddenly, I was the one who felt sick. I rushed back to our table and sat down. I wasn’t sure what to do. I watched Caroline happily play her video game.
Should I tell her?
I sat there for a few minutes, fidgeting with my empty beer. I literally watched the clock on the wall as six minutes ticked by. Mr. Thorpe’s god-awful music wailed in my ears.
Are they still back there making out?
Caroline paused from her game and called to me, “Hey! Where’s Mark?” She rose as if she were about to go look for her husband.
Oh shit. What could I say? Your husband’s in the back, molesting the town slut. I realized that I may be about to witness a very ugly scene. I grabbed my purse and jumped out of my seat. I did not want to be involved with this kind of drama.
I don’t remember what excuse I mumbled to Caroline as I made my way toward the door. I hailed the first available taxi. On the ride home I debated with myself; should I call Caroline and tell her what I saw or should I stay out of it? By the time I’d reached my apartment, I’d made a decision.
I like Caroline, but I do not know her that well. I don’t know what type of relationship she has with Mark, but I do know that a drunken night is not the time to tell a woman that she married a jackass. Who knows how she would react?
I decided to get a good night’s sleep and reevaluate the situation in the morning.
My day started out great. I managed to sleep until almost 9am. I went out to lunch with a girlfriend and then to the mall to shop for a Halloween costume. I am going be Harriet Potter, the girl version of Harry Potter. I know it sounds cheesy, but I am determined to not fall victim to the trend of looking like the biggest slut I can on Halloween. Many girls use Halloween as an excuse to wear skimpy clothing in public. If I’m going to risk running into another parent, my body is going to be adequately covered.
After shopping, I watched General Hospital and then went for a long jog near the river. I treated myself to a huge bowl of pasta for dinner and then got ready to meet “teacher-friends” at a pub on the other side of town. Mr. Thorpe’s band was playing and a group of teachers decided to meet up for some music and beers. We all agreed to wear costumes.
A usual crowd of revelers greeted me when I arrived at the bar. Mr. Thorpe, Caroline and Mark, and Ms. Viamonte were familiar faces among the group. Mr. Thorpe was dressed as Lurch from The Addams Family. As a tribute to their rivaling college teams, Caroline was dressed as a USC Gamecock and Mark was dressed as a Clemson Tiger. Ms. Viamonte was dressed as a… cowgirl? It was hard to tell what her costume was; she wore a lacy red lingerie top over a skimpy jean skirt. Her cowboy boots and hat made me think she was trying to be a cowgirl, but she pretty much looked like a slut.
We chatted, drank a few beers, and played a game of pool until it was time for Mr. Thorpe to go on stage. His band is a typical cover band with a few original songs. From the crowd drawn, it is obvious they appeal to fraternity and sorority kids who like The Dave Matthews Band and Widespread Panic. I thought Mr. Thorpe’s music sucked, but the beer and friends encouraged me to stay.
As the night grew later, our group got drunker. We started laughing too loud and calling other faculty members names that are too rude to repeat. I tried to behave myself, but the occasional slur did slip from my lips. Ms. Viamonte started her trademark sway-in-her-seat move, and I wondered if she would puke again tonight.
At one point in the evening, Mark got up to use the restroom. Caroline was distracted by the popular bar game, View Finder, and barely acknowledged her husband’s departure. A few moments later, Ms. Viamonte abruptly announced that she, too, needed to use the restroom. I felt concerned that Ms. Viamonte may be about to vomit, so I followed her to the bathroom.
When I reached the hallway leading to the bathrooms, I realized my big mistake. There was Ms. Viamonte and Mark engaged in a sloppy kiss. Their bodies were intertwined. Tiger enveloped cowgirl. Ms. Viamonte was forcefully pulling Mark’s hair, while he eagerly massaged her ass with both of his hands. They were making hungry groaning noises.
Shit. Shit! Why did I have to see this?
Suddenly, I was the one who felt sick. I rushed back to our table and sat down. I wasn’t sure what to do. I watched Caroline happily play her video game.
Should I tell her?
I sat there for a few minutes, fidgeting with my empty beer. I literally watched the clock on the wall as six minutes ticked by. Mr. Thorpe’s god-awful music wailed in my ears.
Are they still back there making out?
Caroline paused from her game and called to me, “Hey! Where’s Mark?” She rose as if she were about to go look for her husband.
Oh shit. What could I say? Your husband’s in the back, molesting the town slut. I realized that I may be about to witness a very ugly scene. I grabbed my purse and jumped out of my seat. I did not want to be involved with this kind of drama.
I don’t remember what excuse I mumbled to Caroline as I made my way toward the door. I hailed the first available taxi. On the ride home I debated with myself; should I call Caroline and tell her what I saw or should I stay out of it? By the time I’d reached my apartment, I’d made a decision.
I like Caroline, but I do not know her that well. I don’t know what type of relationship she has with Mark, but I do know that a drunken night is not the time to tell a woman that she married a jackass. Who knows how she would react?
I decided to get a good night’s sleep and reevaluate the situation in the morning.
54- Personal Day
I’m taking a Personal Day tomorrow. It’ll be Friday and I don’t feel like working. I’ve been planning this for weeks. Actually, I went through the school year calendar and any month that we do not have at least a three-day-weekend, I’m taking one anyway. I’ve decided that I’m not going to work more than three consecutive full weeks in a row. It’s great. I love teaching, but vacation time is one of the main reasons I entered this profession.
According to my calculations, I only have to take 6 Personal Days this year to reach my goal of never working a full month. With all the vacation time and holidays teachers are given, I can have a long weekend every month and still save 6 days for an unpredicted illness. The days I save roll over to next year, too. Next year, I will be able to take a 4-day weekend every month.
My vacation plan works nicely.
According to my calculations, I only have to take 6 Personal Days this year to reach my goal of never working a full month. With all the vacation time and holidays teachers are given, I can have a long weekend every month and still save 6 days for an unpredicted illness. The days I save roll over to next year, too. Next year, I will be able to take a 4-day weekend every month.
My vacation plan works nicely.
53- Ladies' Man
I learned today that Mr. Love is a smooth operator. This morning, I saw him hug Gaby’s mom and then pat her on the ass. Gaby’s mom, Ms. Jackson, appeared to be delighted by the custodian’s affections. Gaby didn’t seem to think Mr. Love’s behavior was unusual.
At lunch, I tracked down Caroline, who loves to gossip and always has information. Caroline told me that Mr. Love is a regular player in the neighborhood. As a suave, 40 year old African American, Mr. Love has lived up to his name and proven himself to be popular with the local women. Several of those women are mothers of students in our school. It is rumored that Mr. Love has even fathered a few of the kids at our school.
This would explain why Mr. Love favors some students over others. Several times I have seen him stop a child in the hallway and inquire about their studies. Mr. Love seems to be genuinely in the progress that specific students are making in school. I always figured he just had favorites, like the rest of us, but now I wonder if Mr. Love is actually the father of some of these kids. I wonder if he’s Gaby’s father. I wonder if he wonders if he is Gaby’s father.
At lunch, I tracked down Caroline, who loves to gossip and always has information. Caroline told me that Mr. Love is a regular player in the neighborhood. As a suave, 40 year old African American, Mr. Love has lived up to his name and proven himself to be popular with the local women. Several of those women are mothers of students in our school. It is rumored that Mr. Love has even fathered a few of the kids at our school.
This would explain why Mr. Love favors some students over others. Several times I have seen him stop a child in the hallway and inquire about their studies. Mr. Love seems to be genuinely in the progress that specific students are making in school. I always figured he just had favorites, like the rest of us, but now I wonder if Mr. Love is actually the father of some of these kids. I wonder if he’s Gaby’s father. I wonder if he wonders if he is Gaby’s father.
52- Bulletin Board Wars
The teachers at my school are insanely competitive about bulletin boards. It’s like they expect Martha Stewart to burst into the school, at any second, to critique our hallways. Rather than focusing on displaying their students’ work, many teachers are obsessed with the display itself.
Principal is at fault- she loves pretty decorations and colorful displays. Many times I have heard Principal express her desire for “eye- catching bulletin boards that will ‘wow’ the parents and District Personnel.” She encourages teachers to create elaborate bulletin boards by gifting them with award ribbons and little presents. Word on the street is that the way to Principal’s heart is through a bulletin board.
As a first year teacher, I have much more pressing issues on my mind than cute bulletin boards. I proudly display my students’ work, but my displays lack the fluff and flare of the neighboring bulletin boards. Several times now I have been the butt of some sarcastic stab at my creative talent. Teachers have passed me in the hall, disdainfully looking from me to my walls, with unimpressed sneers on their faces. I don’t mind. I think their competitive attitudes are ridiculous. I am happy to have simple bulletin boards.
This morning, during the announcements, Principal declared a bulletin board contest for the holiday season. She explained that all teachers are required to participate. The winner will receive a $25.00 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble, and three lucky runners- up will win a $5.00 gift certificate to Sonic. All boards must be up by November 13th.
Sonic?
Principal is at fault- she loves pretty decorations and colorful displays. Many times I have heard Principal express her desire for “eye- catching bulletin boards that will ‘wow’ the parents and District Personnel.” She encourages teachers to create elaborate bulletin boards by gifting them with award ribbons and little presents. Word on the street is that the way to Principal’s heart is through a bulletin board.
As a first year teacher, I have much more pressing issues on my mind than cute bulletin boards. I proudly display my students’ work, but my displays lack the fluff and flare of the neighboring bulletin boards. Several times now I have been the butt of some sarcastic stab at my creative talent. Teachers have passed me in the hall, disdainfully looking from me to my walls, with unimpressed sneers on their faces. I don’t mind. I think their competitive attitudes are ridiculous. I am happy to have simple bulletin boards.
This morning, during the announcements, Principal declared a bulletin board contest for the holiday season. She explained that all teachers are required to participate. The winner will receive a $25.00 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble, and three lucky runners- up will win a $5.00 gift certificate to Sonic. All boards must be up by November 13th.
Sonic?
51- BRIBE
One of the greatest challenges I face as a teacher is to help my students become better readers. Schools all over the nation struggle with students who have no interest in books. The big questions is: How can teachers turn the students into lifelong readers? After plenty of trial and error, researchers found a mediocre answer to our nation’s reading dilemma: bribery.
My school is one of many within the United States to implement a popular reading incentive program. I have nicknamed the program BRIBE.
BRIBE awards students “points” as a prize for reading a book. Every time a child reads a book that is compatible with the BRIBE program, they are able to take a computerized test on the story. If the student makes an 80% or better on their test, they earn points. These points accumulate over the year as students strive to reach their reading goal. BRIBE texts are color-coded according to grade level and points are allotted according to difficulty. Teachers have mixed feelings about BRIBE, as there are many pros and cons.
Administrators are often the biggest fans of BRIBE. Principal and The Intimidator are often asking how our BRIBE scores are doing. The more points a class earns, the happier the administration. Teachers post their class roster of accumulated BRIBE points outside their classroom doors, for all to see. If a teacher does not have high BRIBE scores in her classroom, Principal will be concerned and ask if there’s a problem.
Teachers often set up additional incentive programs within their classrooms; if a student earns a specific amount of BRIBE points in a quarter, they are allowed to attend a special party. The Media Center has also set up a school wide contest; the two students (one boy and one girl) to earn the most points, before Christmas, will win a bicycle.
BRIBE has many flaws. There are thousands of titles listed with the program, but the collection is nowhere close to including all of the children’s books available. This makes students uninterested in any book that is not a BRIBE book. If they can’t earn BRIBE points, they’re not interested in reading.
BRIBE also creates a bad sense of self- esteem. Not all students in a grade read at the same level; this can make friends feel inferior (or superior). “Why does Gaby always get to read green, when I can only read pink?” Students learn to select books by color-code, rather than genuine interest. Many kids have no idea what type of stories they actually like to read.
Unfortunately, BRIBE does not help children learn to read. The reading incentive program is unintentionally biased; BRIBE caters to the skilled readers. The strong readers easily earn points, while a struggling reader can try their hardest and still be excluded from parties and prizes.
The list of BRIBE drawbacks is lengthy. Many students are so desperate to earn points, they barely bother to read. These children will find any BRIBE book they can, scan it quickly and then rush to the computer to take a test. These students are gamblers and usually fail BRIBE tests and earn few points. It is faster and easier to take several BRIBE tests a day, with hopes of earning a few points, than it is to spend time carefully reading an entire book. Gambler students are easily identified by their high accumulation of BRIBE points and low test score average.
Despite BRIBE’s few positive attributes, the incentive program does encourage students to read. The kids’ desires to earn points and prizes outweigh their dread of reading. During free time, students will ask if they can read a BRIBE book. Although the list is short, the fact that BRIBE does get students to read makes the program worthwhile.
My students, whom have been trained for years by previous teachers, are BRIBE addicts. They beg to take BRIBE tests on the computer. They compete with each other for the highest BRIBE test average and point accumulation. I don’t fight the BRIBE mania, but I don’t encourage it.
My school is one of many within the United States to implement a popular reading incentive program. I have nicknamed the program BRIBE.
BRIBE awards students “points” as a prize for reading a book. Every time a child reads a book that is compatible with the BRIBE program, they are able to take a computerized test on the story. If the student makes an 80% or better on their test, they earn points. These points accumulate over the year as students strive to reach their reading goal. BRIBE texts are color-coded according to grade level and points are allotted according to difficulty. Teachers have mixed feelings about BRIBE, as there are many pros and cons.
Administrators are often the biggest fans of BRIBE. Principal and The Intimidator are often asking how our BRIBE scores are doing. The more points a class earns, the happier the administration. Teachers post their class roster of accumulated BRIBE points outside their classroom doors, for all to see. If a teacher does not have high BRIBE scores in her classroom, Principal will be concerned and ask if there’s a problem.
Teachers often set up additional incentive programs within their classrooms; if a student earns a specific amount of BRIBE points in a quarter, they are allowed to attend a special party. The Media Center has also set up a school wide contest; the two students (one boy and one girl) to earn the most points, before Christmas, will win a bicycle.
BRIBE has many flaws. There are thousands of titles listed with the program, but the collection is nowhere close to including all of the children’s books available. This makes students uninterested in any book that is not a BRIBE book. If they can’t earn BRIBE points, they’re not interested in reading.
BRIBE also creates a bad sense of self- esteem. Not all students in a grade read at the same level; this can make friends feel inferior (or superior). “Why does Gaby always get to read green, when I can only read pink?” Students learn to select books by color-code, rather than genuine interest. Many kids have no idea what type of stories they actually like to read.
Unfortunately, BRIBE does not help children learn to read. The reading incentive program is unintentionally biased; BRIBE caters to the skilled readers. The strong readers easily earn points, while a struggling reader can try their hardest and still be excluded from parties and prizes.
The list of BRIBE drawbacks is lengthy. Many students are so desperate to earn points, they barely bother to read. These children will find any BRIBE book they can, scan it quickly and then rush to the computer to take a test. These students are gamblers and usually fail BRIBE tests and earn few points. It is faster and easier to take several BRIBE tests a day, with hopes of earning a few points, than it is to spend time carefully reading an entire book. Gambler students are easily identified by their high accumulation of BRIBE points and low test score average.
Despite BRIBE’s few positive attributes, the incentive program does encourage students to read. The kids’ desires to earn points and prizes outweigh their dread of reading. During free time, students will ask if they can read a BRIBE book. Although the list is short, the fact that BRIBE does get students to read makes the program worthwhile.
My students, whom have been trained for years by previous teachers, are BRIBE addicts. They beg to take BRIBE tests on the computer. They compete with each other for the highest BRIBE test average and point accumulation. I don’t fight the BRIBE mania, but I don’t encourage it.
50- The 6 Types of Parents
I survived Conference Day by the skin of my teeth. I’m exhausted. Parents are a pain in the ass. After you meet a parent, you gain a whole new perspective on their children. I now see why many of my students act the way they do; children’s behavior is a direct reflection of their parents’ personalities. I learned in a psychology class that there are many types of American parents. Listed below are the 6 kinds of parents I most commonly encounter in my classroom:
The 6 Types of Parents
1. Pathetic Parent- The Pathetic Parent doesn’t really want to help their child, they just want to appear like they want to help. Pathetic Parents acts as if they are greatly interested in helping their child, but for one reason or another can never follow through on their plans. They will fake enthusiasm for a new study program or suggestion to do at home with their child, “Oh, yes! I’ll read with my child, it’ll be great.” Four weeks later, they return and helplessly claim, “No, that plan didn’t work. What can I do now?” The study plan didn’t work because the Pathetic Parent never bothered to try.
2. The Evasive Parent- The Evasive Parent is the most difficult to get in touch with. They are the parents who come from sketchy home lives and usually have something to hide. Turd Boy, Josh, and Nelson are all children of evasive parents. They avoid teachers and school officials at all costs. These parents will do anything they can to keep conversation from turning to home life. Evasive Parents are notorious for insulting teachers, just to take the pressure off themselves, “Maybe if you learned how to teach better, my child wouldn’t act out.” If the Evasive Parent can keep others defensive, they can remove the focus from themselves.
3. The High- Horse Parent- Most parents are High- Horse Parents, and they are commonly found in middle to upper class families. These parents view anything their child has done as a direct reflection of themselves. High- Horse Parents take everything personally and often become defensive. If a teacher were to express concern that a child was not completing homework, the parent would be insulted, “I am a busy person, we’re all so tired by the end of the day… that homework assignment was too lengthy!” It’s also common for a High-Horse Parent to be in denial. “My child always completes her homework. We are from a good family where children value school.” Class Mommy is a prime example if a High- Horse Parent.
4. The Parent Who Hates Authority- The Parent Who Hates Authority is typically an individual who has been in trouble or in a state of rebellion throughout their life. These parents are stereotypically thugs and old hippies; they often refer to police officers as “pigs” and the government as “The Man.” Parents Who Hate Authority usually have had a past negative experience with an authority figure, and they now transfer their bad feelings onto all other authority figures. These parents do not respect teachers and encourage their children to be disrespectful as well.
5. The Respectful Parent- The opposite of The Parent Who hates Authority, The Respectful Parent loves teachers. The Respectful Parent commonly has other teachers, administrators, or military personnel in their lives. Gaby, Ajith, and Kathleen all come from Respectful Parent families. This type of parent is a pleasure to work with and their children are typically well behaved.
6. The Realistic Parent- There are only a few Realistic Parents. Realistic Parents are reasonable individuals who acknowledge when there is a problem with their child and dutifully look for a solution. If the teacher suggests that a child needs to spend more time studying, the Realistic Parent will make more study time for their child. Alternatively, if a Realistic Parent has an objection to a classroom procedure or policy, they will tactfully express their concerns in a polite manner. Hannah and Robbie both have Realistic Parents.
The 6 Types of Parents
1. Pathetic Parent- The Pathetic Parent doesn’t really want to help their child, they just want to appear like they want to help. Pathetic Parents acts as if they are greatly interested in helping their child, but for one reason or another can never follow through on their plans. They will fake enthusiasm for a new study program or suggestion to do at home with their child, “Oh, yes! I’ll read with my child, it’ll be great.” Four weeks later, they return and helplessly claim, “No, that plan didn’t work. What can I do now?” The study plan didn’t work because the Pathetic Parent never bothered to try.
2. The Evasive Parent- The Evasive Parent is the most difficult to get in touch with. They are the parents who come from sketchy home lives and usually have something to hide. Turd Boy, Josh, and Nelson are all children of evasive parents. They avoid teachers and school officials at all costs. These parents will do anything they can to keep conversation from turning to home life. Evasive Parents are notorious for insulting teachers, just to take the pressure off themselves, “Maybe if you learned how to teach better, my child wouldn’t act out.” If the Evasive Parent can keep others defensive, they can remove the focus from themselves.
3. The High- Horse Parent- Most parents are High- Horse Parents, and they are commonly found in middle to upper class families. These parents view anything their child has done as a direct reflection of themselves. High- Horse Parents take everything personally and often become defensive. If a teacher were to express concern that a child was not completing homework, the parent would be insulted, “I am a busy person, we’re all so tired by the end of the day… that homework assignment was too lengthy!” It’s also common for a High-Horse Parent to be in denial. “My child always completes her homework. We are from a good family where children value school.” Class Mommy is a prime example if a High- Horse Parent.
4. The Parent Who Hates Authority- The Parent Who Hates Authority is typically an individual who has been in trouble or in a state of rebellion throughout their life. These parents are stereotypically thugs and old hippies; they often refer to police officers as “pigs” and the government as “The Man.” Parents Who Hate Authority usually have had a past negative experience with an authority figure, and they now transfer their bad feelings onto all other authority figures. These parents do not respect teachers and encourage their children to be disrespectful as well.
5. The Respectful Parent- The opposite of The Parent Who hates Authority, The Respectful Parent loves teachers. The Respectful Parent commonly has other teachers, administrators, or military personnel in their lives. Gaby, Ajith, and Kathleen all come from Respectful Parent families. This type of parent is a pleasure to work with and their children are typically well behaved.
6. The Realistic Parent- There are only a few Realistic Parents. Realistic Parents are reasonable individuals who acknowledge when there is a problem with their child and dutifully look for a solution. If the teacher suggests that a child needs to spend more time studying, the Realistic Parent will make more study time for their child. Alternatively, if a Realistic Parent has an objection to a classroom procedure or policy, they will tactfully express their concerns in a polite manner. Hannah and Robbie both have Realistic Parents.
49- Volume
Even when they frustrate me, I have to admire my students’ creativity. All brains were in full imaginative throttle when I taught Math this afternoon. We are in the midst of a unit on geometry, and today I wanted to discuss volume. I began the lesson by testing the students’ prior knowledge. It is useful to pretest and find out what they know before you start to teach, this way you don’t waste valuable time going over information the kids are already familiar with.
To start, I simply asked, “Who can tell me what volume is?”
Hands shot into the air, and I felt relieved to see that volume would be a familiar topic.
I called on reliable Francesca to get the ball rolling. “Francesca, tell the class about volume.”
Francesca took a deep breath. “Well, a volume is one book of many books. Like if you got the C book from the set of encyclopedias, you would have picked Volume C.”
Okay- a perfectly intelligent and correct answer, just not the one I’m looking for.
“Yes. Francesca is correct. One type of volume is when you have a single book that forms a part or the whole of a set of written work. Can anyone tell me about another type of volume?” I saw Robbie waving his hand desperately in the air. “Robbie?”
Before Robbie could answer, Josh pointed at Robbie and screamed out, “SOAPY BUTT! SOAPY BUTT!”
Robbie turned bright red and laid his head on his desk.
Next, I called on Gaby, one of my best math students. Gaby, who loves to let others know how smart she is, stood up to answer. “Volume is how quiet or loud things get. For example, I like to watch The Gilmore Girls after school. Sometimes, when I am watching, my brothers get annoying and loud. I have to turn up the volume on the television, just to be able to hear my show. Volume.” Gaby repeated the last word as if she was in a Spelling Bee, and then she sat down.
Oh my god. She’s right, too!
Before I could reiterate that Gaby was correct, and that I was still looking for another meaning of volume, Robbie spoke up.
The kid had clearly recovered from Josh’s insult. “No, you stupid dummies,” Robbie is often frustrated by his classmates, most likely because he is mentally one step ahead of them. Since he is one of my favorites, I ignored the insult and let the boy continue.
Robbie went on sarcastically, “Didn’t anybody notice that we are having math class right now? We are studying geometry. Do you really think Teacher is talking about books and noise right now?”
His classmates sat still and quiet, waiting to hear what Robbie said next. I heard Gaby mutter, “I am not a dummy,” under her breath.
“Kramer’s pretty dumb!” Kathleen chimed in.
Why are these kids so mean to each other? I also ignored Kathleen’s insult.
“The kind of volume we’re talking about here is the math kind of volume. Duh! Volume is either the amount of space taken up by a three dimensional object, or the capacity of space that object can hold.” Robbie grinned at me. “Am I right, or what, Teacher?”
He was right, as usual. I jumped on Robbie’s correct answer and used it as a launching point for our lesson. The class, feeling challenged by Robbie, was determined to make up for their lack of knowledge. I had everyone’s attention.
Things were on a roll, until Hannah raised her hand. “Teacher, what about if someone said something like, ‘the actors received volumes of praise for their performance.’ What kind of volume would that be?”
I wanted to kill her.
To start, I simply asked, “Who can tell me what volume is?”
Hands shot into the air, and I felt relieved to see that volume would be a familiar topic.
I called on reliable Francesca to get the ball rolling. “Francesca, tell the class about volume.”
Francesca took a deep breath. “Well, a volume is one book of many books. Like if you got the C book from the set of encyclopedias, you would have picked Volume C.”
Okay- a perfectly intelligent and correct answer, just not the one I’m looking for.
“Yes. Francesca is correct. One type of volume is when you have a single book that forms a part or the whole of a set of written work. Can anyone tell me about another type of volume?” I saw Robbie waving his hand desperately in the air. “Robbie?”
Before Robbie could answer, Josh pointed at Robbie and screamed out, “SOAPY BUTT! SOAPY BUTT!”
Robbie turned bright red and laid his head on his desk.
Next, I called on Gaby, one of my best math students. Gaby, who loves to let others know how smart she is, stood up to answer. “Volume is how quiet or loud things get. For example, I like to watch The Gilmore Girls after school. Sometimes, when I am watching, my brothers get annoying and loud. I have to turn up the volume on the television, just to be able to hear my show. Volume.” Gaby repeated the last word as if she was in a Spelling Bee, and then she sat down.
Oh my god. She’s right, too!
Before I could reiterate that Gaby was correct, and that I was still looking for another meaning of volume, Robbie spoke up.
The kid had clearly recovered from Josh’s insult. “No, you stupid dummies,” Robbie is often frustrated by his classmates, most likely because he is mentally one step ahead of them. Since he is one of my favorites, I ignored the insult and let the boy continue.
Robbie went on sarcastically, “Didn’t anybody notice that we are having math class right now? We are studying geometry. Do you really think Teacher is talking about books and noise right now?”
His classmates sat still and quiet, waiting to hear what Robbie said next. I heard Gaby mutter, “I am not a dummy,” under her breath.
“Kramer’s pretty dumb!” Kathleen chimed in.
Why are these kids so mean to each other? I also ignored Kathleen’s insult.
“The kind of volume we’re talking about here is the math kind of volume. Duh! Volume is either the amount of space taken up by a three dimensional object, or the capacity of space that object can hold.” Robbie grinned at me. “Am I right, or what, Teacher?”
He was right, as usual. I jumped on Robbie’s correct answer and used it as a launching point for our lesson. The class, feeling challenged by Robbie, was determined to make up for their lack of knowledge. I had everyone’s attention.
Things were on a roll, until Hannah raised her hand. “Teacher, what about if someone said something like, ‘the actors received volumes of praise for their performance.’ What kind of volume would that be?”
I wanted to kill her.
48- Spanish Call
Josh and Taylor were back at school today. Taylor came in early with a somber apology for both me and Robbie. Josh came in as his usual defiant self; he refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and when I finally got him up, he recited some derogatory poem about Michael Jackson.
Friday is Conference Day, a day where parents come in to discuss the academic progress of their children. Students have this day off from school. My goal is to confer with every parent. This is ambitious, but I am determined to try. Predictably, most of the stay-at-home moms have already signed up for a conference time. A handful of other parents have also planned to take time away from work to come in for a conference. A few neurotic parents even signed up for two conference sessions, “just in case we need more time.” I have arranged for several telephone conferences, and have diligently been trying to track down the non-responsive parents.
After school today I received an unusual phone call. While sitting at my computer, frantically entering last minute comments for Report Cards, I heard my classroom telephone ring.
“Hello?” I answer, expecting it to be another teacher calling to borrow something. Instead, my greeting is returned by the small, squeaky voice of a child.
“Hi. Is this Ms. Teacher?” The child’s voice is thick with a Cuban accent.
Perplexed, I answer, “Yes… Who is this?”
The child boldly identified herself, “I am Maria, Yocelin’s sister. My mamma asked me to call you. She can’t speak no English, yet.” I heard muffled sounds, like the girl had set down the phone. I could hear a muffled exchange of words in Spanish, and then Maria was back on the phone. “My mamma, she want to talk about Yocelin. About school stuff.”
Talk about Yocelin? School stuff?
I could only assume that the child was returning my phone call about Conference Day for her mother. I felt a little confused and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “How old are you?”
“Four and three quarters,” the child proudly announced. “My birthday is January 3rd. Is Yocelin in trouble? Did she do something bad? Yesterday she pulled my hair, so mamma sent her to her room. Ha!”
“No. Yocelin is not in trouble. Please ask your Mom if she would like to come to school and talk to me this Friday.”
Was I really trying to talk school business with a four year old?
I waited.
After more muffled conversation, Maria returned with a response. “What time?” she asked.
“Eleven forty-five.”
“Doce menos quarto.” The girl relayed to her mother. I was impressed; the kid would make a great interpreter. “Okay!” Maria squeaked into the phone. “We will see you Friday. Adios!”
“Bye.” I hung up the phone.
We?
I guess it did make sense that the mother bring her interpreter to our conference. I have the feeling that Friday is going to be an eye- opening kind of day.
Friday is Conference Day, a day where parents come in to discuss the academic progress of their children. Students have this day off from school. My goal is to confer with every parent. This is ambitious, but I am determined to try. Predictably, most of the stay-at-home moms have already signed up for a conference time. A handful of other parents have also planned to take time away from work to come in for a conference. A few neurotic parents even signed up for two conference sessions, “just in case we need more time.” I have arranged for several telephone conferences, and have diligently been trying to track down the non-responsive parents.
After school today I received an unusual phone call. While sitting at my computer, frantically entering last minute comments for Report Cards, I heard my classroom telephone ring.
“Hello?” I answer, expecting it to be another teacher calling to borrow something. Instead, my greeting is returned by the small, squeaky voice of a child.
“Hi. Is this Ms. Teacher?” The child’s voice is thick with a Cuban accent.
Perplexed, I answer, “Yes… Who is this?”
The child boldly identified herself, “I am Maria, Yocelin’s sister. My mamma asked me to call you. She can’t speak no English, yet.” I heard muffled sounds, like the girl had set down the phone. I could hear a muffled exchange of words in Spanish, and then Maria was back on the phone. “My mamma, she want to talk about Yocelin. About school stuff.”
Talk about Yocelin? School stuff?
I could only assume that the child was returning my phone call about Conference Day for her mother. I felt a little confused and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “How old are you?”
“Four and three quarters,” the child proudly announced. “My birthday is January 3rd. Is Yocelin in trouble? Did she do something bad? Yesterday she pulled my hair, so mamma sent her to her room. Ha!”
“No. Yocelin is not in trouble. Please ask your Mom if she would like to come to school and talk to me this Friday.”
Was I really trying to talk school business with a four year old?
I waited.
After more muffled conversation, Maria returned with a response. “What time?” she asked.
“Eleven forty-five.”
“Doce menos quarto.” The girl relayed to her mother. I was impressed; the kid would make a great interpreter. “Okay!” Maria squeaked into the phone. “We will see you Friday. Adios!”
“Bye.” I hung up the phone.
We?
I guess it did make sense that the mother bring her interpreter to our conference. I have the feeling that Friday is going to be an eye- opening kind of day.
47- Grandparents' Day
We celebrated Grandparent’s Day at school today. I’m pretty sure Principal forgot about Grandparent’s Day for a while. It is usually celebrated at schools on one of the first days after the Labor Day holiday. That was five weeks ago.
It was very sweet to see how proud the kids are of their grandparents. The students have been preparing for weeks; they made welcome posters, wrote family narratives, and drew pictures of their beloved grandparents. The school set up a lunch buffet for our guests to enjoy.
At lunch I sat with the few students who did not have a grandparent come to school today. Each had their own explanation for their grandparent’s absence. Robbie, whose parents are old enough to be his grandparents, had an obvious excuse, “All my grandparents are dead.” Ajith solemnly stated, “My grandparents couldn’t come because India is a long way away.” Yocelin’s grandparents live in Cuba. Turd Boy sat by my side, offered no explanation, and predictably reeked of poop.
After lunch, my students invited their grandparents back to our classroom. The students took turns introducing their grandparents and then read a little poem or story they had written about their grandparent.
Ashleigh, an obsessive Boston Red Sox fan, read a poem about how much she had enjoyed going to a Red Sox game with her Grandmother. Both of Ashleigh’s grandmothers had flown in from New Jersey to be at school on this special day. The poem went on and on about how much she loved her grandmother and how much fun they’d had watching baseball. Ashleigh’s grandmothers both listened to their granddaughter’s poem with smug smiles on their faces. Every few moments, one would cast a suspicious glance at the other.
When Ashleigh had finished reading her poem, her grandmothers beamed and clapped enthusiastically. The taller of the two proudly announced, “I remember that game, Ashleigh. Didn’t we have spectacular seats?”
Before Ashleigh could respond, the shorter grandmother chimed in, “Pipe down, Irene! That poem was about the Boston game I took Ashleigh to last summer.”
Uh oh. Each woman was sure the poem was about herself. How could I delicately fix this mess? I glared at Ashleigh, who had started to giggle.
Irene stomped her foot a little, and jabbed her nose into the air. “Oh, please, Jean. Didn’t you hear the part about how fun it was to cheer wildly for our team? That’s what Ashleigh and I like to do together, cheer for the team.”
Grandma Jean’s skin tone changed to match the red in her hair. “Irene, you are too stuck up to cheer at a baseball game. Besides, you’re a Yankee fan and you’d never root for Boston!” Triumphantly, the red-faced granny turned towards Ashleigh, “Aren’t I right, honey? That poem was about me?”
Irene looked defeated.
Ashleigh stopped giggling. “Uh…. Umm…. Well.” The kid was finally beginning to realize the mess she had made. She looked from grandmother to grandmother, with an expression of despair upon her face.
Irene’s voice broke through the uncomfortable silence of the room. “Ashleigh, I bought you a baseball signed by all the best Red Sox players.”
Ashleigh exhaled heavily, “Okay, okay, okay. The poem is about Grandma Irene.”
Grandma Jean jumped out of her seat. She marched furiously out of the classroom and slammed the door behind her.
Irene remained seated, proud and tall. I spent the next hour trying to erase the awkwardness that Ashleigh’s poem had created. Luckily, the other grandparents were easily distracted by their own grandchildren’s stories.
Later that afternoon Ashleigh swore that she did not know that both grandmothers had planned to attend Grandparent’s Day. “It was a surprise,” she insisted. Ashleigh also admitted that the poem was really written out of her love for baseball, rather than a fondness for a particular grandmother. I suggested she explain this in an apology letter to both women.
It was very sweet to see how proud the kids are of their grandparents. The students have been preparing for weeks; they made welcome posters, wrote family narratives, and drew pictures of their beloved grandparents. The school set up a lunch buffet for our guests to enjoy.
At lunch I sat with the few students who did not have a grandparent come to school today. Each had their own explanation for their grandparent’s absence. Robbie, whose parents are old enough to be his grandparents, had an obvious excuse, “All my grandparents are dead.” Ajith solemnly stated, “My grandparents couldn’t come because India is a long way away.” Yocelin’s grandparents live in Cuba. Turd Boy sat by my side, offered no explanation, and predictably reeked of poop.
After lunch, my students invited their grandparents back to our classroom. The students took turns introducing their grandparents and then read a little poem or story they had written about their grandparent.
Ashleigh, an obsessive Boston Red Sox fan, read a poem about how much she had enjoyed going to a Red Sox game with her Grandmother. Both of Ashleigh’s grandmothers had flown in from New Jersey to be at school on this special day. The poem went on and on about how much she loved her grandmother and how much fun they’d had watching baseball. Ashleigh’s grandmothers both listened to their granddaughter’s poem with smug smiles on their faces. Every few moments, one would cast a suspicious glance at the other.
When Ashleigh had finished reading her poem, her grandmothers beamed and clapped enthusiastically. The taller of the two proudly announced, “I remember that game, Ashleigh. Didn’t we have spectacular seats?”
Before Ashleigh could respond, the shorter grandmother chimed in, “Pipe down, Irene! That poem was about the Boston game I took Ashleigh to last summer.”
Uh oh. Each woman was sure the poem was about herself. How could I delicately fix this mess? I glared at Ashleigh, who had started to giggle.
Irene stomped her foot a little, and jabbed her nose into the air. “Oh, please, Jean. Didn’t you hear the part about how fun it was to cheer wildly for our team? That’s what Ashleigh and I like to do together, cheer for the team.”
Grandma Jean’s skin tone changed to match the red in her hair. “Irene, you are too stuck up to cheer at a baseball game. Besides, you’re a Yankee fan and you’d never root for Boston!” Triumphantly, the red-faced granny turned towards Ashleigh, “Aren’t I right, honey? That poem was about me?”
Irene looked defeated.
Ashleigh stopped giggling. “Uh…. Umm…. Well.” The kid was finally beginning to realize the mess she had made. She looked from grandmother to grandmother, with an expression of despair upon her face.
Irene’s voice broke through the uncomfortable silence of the room. “Ashleigh, I bought you a baseball signed by all the best Red Sox players.”
Ashleigh exhaled heavily, “Okay, okay, okay. The poem is about Grandma Irene.”
Grandma Jean jumped out of her seat. She marched furiously out of the classroom and slammed the door behind her.
Irene remained seated, proud and tall. I spent the next hour trying to erase the awkwardness that Ashleigh’s poem had created. Luckily, the other grandparents were easily distracted by their own grandchildren’s stories.
Later that afternoon Ashleigh swore that she did not know that both grandmothers had planned to attend Grandparent’s Day. “It was a surprise,” she insisted. Ashleigh also admitted that the poem was really written out of her love for baseball, rather than a fondness for a particular grandmother. I suggested she explain this in an apology letter to both women.
46- Lesson Plans
The Intimidator announced during our faculty meeting this afternoon that all teachers need to submit their lesson plans for the week to her by tomorrow morning.
Anyone in the education profession knows that a demand like this is evil.
The strictness of lesson plans varies from school to school. Some principals review teacher plans on a weekly basis, others on a monthly basis, and some principals never ask to see lesson plans. I was beginning to think that we were one of the lucky schools where teachers are never required to submit lesson plans. The Intimidator shattered this dream for me today.
It’s not that I do not write lesson plans, because I do. I spend hours each night, planning for the lessons I will teach. My lessons are thoughtful and preplanned. I follow our pacing guides and consider all of The District’s recommendations. I’m nowhere near the “just wing it” philosophy that many of my school’s more experienced teachers have. I want to be a good teacher.
Like most teachers, I do not write my lesson plans in the formal format required by the Administration. My lessons are written in a way that only I can read. I use abbreviations and shorthand notes that only I would be able to understand. The Intimidator’s request meant that I would have to rewrite all of my lessons for the week in clear, legible print that would make sense to others.
The cruelty of The Intimidator’s request for lessons falls into one specific category: timing. She demanded formal lesson plans on Monday afternoon at 4:00pm to be submitted Tuesday morning at 7:30am. Deducting the time we need to eat, sleep, and interact with family, this gave the teachers about five hours to write a week’s worth of lesson plans. It was possible, but mean.
To make matters worse, Report Cards go out on Friday. All grades are due to the office by Thursday. This means that all week teachers will be frantically trying to get in last minute grades, organize tests, and enter data. This is the busiest week of the quarter. I had already prepared myself to stay late for the next few nights.
I left the school with a wicked headache at 8:00 this evening. Mr. Love locked up the school and turned on the alarms at about 6:30. Fortunately, the school’s alarm system only covers the interior hallways and core of the school. I was able to remain in my classroom and leave out the backdoor when I had finished editing all of my lesson plans. I am one of over a dozen teachers who stayed late tonight.
I know I’m not the only one who hates The Intimidator.
Anyone in the education profession knows that a demand like this is evil.
The strictness of lesson plans varies from school to school. Some principals review teacher plans on a weekly basis, others on a monthly basis, and some principals never ask to see lesson plans. I was beginning to think that we were one of the lucky schools where teachers are never required to submit lesson plans. The Intimidator shattered this dream for me today.
It’s not that I do not write lesson plans, because I do. I spend hours each night, planning for the lessons I will teach. My lessons are thoughtful and preplanned. I follow our pacing guides and consider all of The District’s recommendations. I’m nowhere near the “just wing it” philosophy that many of my school’s more experienced teachers have. I want to be a good teacher.
Like most teachers, I do not write my lesson plans in the formal format required by the Administration. My lessons are written in a way that only I can read. I use abbreviations and shorthand notes that only I would be able to understand. The Intimidator’s request meant that I would have to rewrite all of my lessons for the week in clear, legible print that would make sense to others.
The cruelty of The Intimidator’s request for lessons falls into one specific category: timing. She demanded formal lesson plans on Monday afternoon at 4:00pm to be submitted Tuesday morning at 7:30am. Deducting the time we need to eat, sleep, and interact with family, this gave the teachers about five hours to write a week’s worth of lesson plans. It was possible, but mean.
To make matters worse, Report Cards go out on Friday. All grades are due to the office by Thursday. This means that all week teachers will be frantically trying to get in last minute grades, organize tests, and enter data. This is the busiest week of the quarter. I had already prepared myself to stay late for the next few nights.
I left the school with a wicked headache at 8:00 this evening. Mr. Love locked up the school and turned on the alarms at about 6:30. Fortunately, the school’s alarm system only covers the interior hallways and core of the school. I was able to remain in my classroom and leave out the backdoor when I had finished editing all of my lesson plans. I am one of over a dozen teachers who stayed late tonight.
I know I’m not the only one who hates The Intimidator.
45- Dares
A quarter of the way through my first year of teaching, and I’ve learned that children can be quite eccentric characters. I am baffled by the unusual choices they make. This morning, Hannah thanked me for “whatever you wrote on that note”, because last night her parents bought her a jumbo sized bag of chicken nuggets for her to eat when ever she wants. “I just have to make sure they’re hot.” Hannah bragged. Botulism would be a terrible fate for a child.
My Wolverine student, Robbie, has won the award for worst decision maker. During recess, Robbie followed through with a wicked dare from Josh and Taylor. Each afternoon, on the playground and unbeknownst to the teachers, a small group of boys have been challenging each other to dares. It started with silly bets, like, “I bet you won’t eat this cookie that dropped on the ground” and “I bet you are too chicken to ask Gaby to marry you.” Over time these childish bets have escalated into more serious dares, “I dare you to eat this booger” and “I dare you to throw this pinecone at Ajith’s head.”
The boys pride themselves on being brave and brag that they can accept any dare. Of course, if I or any of the other teachers had known what was happening, we would have put an immediate end to the revelers’ games. Unfortunately, we were unaware, and today the dares reached a new level of severity.
It all started when Robbie asked for permission to go to the restroom during recess. I allowed him to go. I checked my watch and waited three, five, ten minutes. Robbie did not return. Annoyed, I asked Caroline and Esther to watch over my class while I went to check on Robbie.
Standing outside of the boys’ restroom door, I knocked. For legal reasons, teachers are not allowed to enter student restrooms. I was able to swing the main door open and hold it with my foot. I could hear whimpering inside.
Maybe the kid is constipated and now I’m interrupting him.
I felt guilty, but I had to check. “Robbie! Are you in there?”
“Yes.” A strained voice called back. “Can you call my mom, please?”
Call his mom? Why?
“Are you feeling all right?” I called.
“I’m feeling fine. I need my mom. WILL YOU PLEASE CALL MY MOM?” Robbie started to cry.
Robbie is a tough kid, not the crying type. I could tell by the sound of his voice that something was truly wrong. I did call his mom, and Principal, too. Principal waited outside the restroom for the boy’s mother to arrive, and I met the rest of my students on the playground. The other teachers and I speculated that the kid must have a severe case of constipation or diarrhea.
About an hour later, The Intimidator arrived in my classroom; she was looking for Josh and Taylor. Both had been acting suspiciously quiet since recess ended. Several times Josh had suddenly erupted into fits of laughter. At the sight of The Intimidator, both boys looked panic stricken. Before removing the boys from my classroom, The Intimidator filled me in on what had been happening.
The playground scandal was uncovered. Robbie confessed when his mother arrived. The latest dare, thought up by Josh and supported by Taylor, was for Robbie to visit the restroom and insert a small chunk of soap into his rear end. The plan was for Rob to hold the soap in place for the rest of the day, and then after school he would deposit the soap in his own home toilet for Josh and Taylor to see. Robbie had accepted the challenge.
The boy actually went into the bathroom and shoved a piece of soap up his own rear-end. He confessed to his mother while still seated on the school’s toilet. Apparently the sting of the soap was making it very difficult for Robbie to expel the object properly. Principal declared that bathroom off-limits for the rest of the day, and Robbie spent the next few hours crying to his mother.
Thankfully, Robbie’s mom exhibited a tough love attitude and insisted that her son had gotten what he deserved. I was worried that she may have been angry at me for failing to prevent the situation. We all agreed that the boy had learned a lesson. Josh and Taylor were suspended for two days.
I couldn’t help but wish it had been Turd Boy who had taken the dare.
My Wolverine student, Robbie, has won the award for worst decision maker. During recess, Robbie followed through with a wicked dare from Josh and Taylor. Each afternoon, on the playground and unbeknownst to the teachers, a small group of boys have been challenging each other to dares. It started with silly bets, like, “I bet you won’t eat this cookie that dropped on the ground” and “I bet you are too chicken to ask Gaby to marry you.” Over time these childish bets have escalated into more serious dares, “I dare you to eat this booger” and “I dare you to throw this pinecone at Ajith’s head.”
The boys pride themselves on being brave and brag that they can accept any dare. Of course, if I or any of the other teachers had known what was happening, we would have put an immediate end to the revelers’ games. Unfortunately, we were unaware, and today the dares reached a new level of severity.
It all started when Robbie asked for permission to go to the restroom during recess. I allowed him to go. I checked my watch and waited three, five, ten minutes. Robbie did not return. Annoyed, I asked Caroline and Esther to watch over my class while I went to check on Robbie.
Standing outside of the boys’ restroom door, I knocked. For legal reasons, teachers are not allowed to enter student restrooms. I was able to swing the main door open and hold it with my foot. I could hear whimpering inside.
Maybe the kid is constipated and now I’m interrupting him.
I felt guilty, but I had to check. “Robbie! Are you in there?”
“Yes.” A strained voice called back. “Can you call my mom, please?”
Call his mom? Why?
“Are you feeling all right?” I called.
“I’m feeling fine. I need my mom. WILL YOU PLEASE CALL MY MOM?” Robbie started to cry.
Robbie is a tough kid, not the crying type. I could tell by the sound of his voice that something was truly wrong. I did call his mom, and Principal, too. Principal waited outside the restroom for the boy’s mother to arrive, and I met the rest of my students on the playground. The other teachers and I speculated that the kid must have a severe case of constipation or diarrhea.
About an hour later, The Intimidator arrived in my classroom; she was looking for Josh and Taylor. Both had been acting suspiciously quiet since recess ended. Several times Josh had suddenly erupted into fits of laughter. At the sight of The Intimidator, both boys looked panic stricken. Before removing the boys from my classroom, The Intimidator filled me in on what had been happening.
The playground scandal was uncovered. Robbie confessed when his mother arrived. The latest dare, thought up by Josh and supported by Taylor, was for Robbie to visit the restroom and insert a small chunk of soap into his rear end. The plan was for Rob to hold the soap in place for the rest of the day, and then after school he would deposit the soap in his own home toilet for Josh and Taylor to see. Robbie had accepted the challenge.
The boy actually went into the bathroom and shoved a piece of soap up his own rear-end. He confessed to his mother while still seated on the school’s toilet. Apparently the sting of the soap was making it very difficult for Robbie to expel the object properly. Principal declared that bathroom off-limits for the rest of the day, and Robbie spent the next few hours crying to his mother.
Thankfully, Robbie’s mom exhibited a tough love attitude and insisted that her son had gotten what he deserved. I was worried that she may have been angry at me for failing to prevent the situation. We all agreed that the boy had learned a lesson. Josh and Taylor were suspended for two days.
I couldn’t help but wish it had been Turd Boy who had taken the dare.
44- Chicken Nuggets
I don’t have any specific rules about food in my classroom. My students are allowed to bring a healthy snack to eat if they get hungry. I keep snacks (fruit, granola bars, and juice) in my storage closet for anyone who may be in need. I strongly believe that a learning brain works best on a fed stomach. So far, the kids and I are pleased with this arrangement.
Independent Reading is a popular time for my students to eat their snacks. They lounge on the floor with their books and their food, savoring the peaceful minutes of silence. It was during this time today that I noticed Hannah acting suspiciously about her snack. She would quickly reach into her jacket pocket, dart glances around the room, and then shove something into her mouth. Burying her face into her book, Hannah would chew, chew, chew as fast as she could and then reach into her pocket for more.
Some children eat hurriedly, and usually those are the kids who do not get a lot to eat at home; these children rely on school as their main supplier of food. Hannah does not fall into the needy category. She comes from a comfortable home, with parents who attend to her every need. Hannah’s suspicious behavior meant that she was eating something I wouldn’t approve of.
I assumed she was eating a forbidden snack (cookies, chips, candy, etc) and decided to investigate. As I approached the child, who is a bit of a tomboy, she stiffened. Her chewing slowed and she swallowed with a large gulp. Hoping I didn’t notice her, Hannah shoved her stringy dark hair out of her eyes and stared intently at the pages in her book. A reading child is rarely disturbed by a teacher.
I didn’t want to embarrass Hannah, so I squatted down on the floor next to her and whispered, “Hannah, what are you eating?”
Hannah let her hair fall into her face, hiding her eyes. As a child who never lied, she chose to not answer.
“Come on,” I prodded. “Spit it out.”
Hannah made a spitting motion with her mouth and I jumped back. “Not literally!” I laughed.
The joke made Hannah smile. “I’m eating chicken nuggets.”
“Chicken nuggets?” Weird snack. I asked, “You brought chicken nuggets from home? Ok…. Do they taste good cold?”
“Not from home. I got them at lunch.”
“Lunch?” I was confused. “We haven’t gone to lunch yet.”
“I saved them from another lunch. They’re leftovers. In case I got hungry. Like right now, I’m a little hungry.” Hannah reached into her pocket and withdrew a half eaten chicken nugget.
Another lunch?
Chicken nuggets are on Rotation Day 8 of our school lunch menu. So that meant… I calculated in my head, “Hannah!” My voice lost its whisper. “Are these nuggets from last Tuesday?” That would mean the nuggets were 9 days old.
Hannah bent her head down and started picking at a hole in her Converse sneaker. “Yep.” She muttered. “Last Tuesday.”
I confiscated the rest of her nuggets. There were six more in her pocket. Apparently, chicken nuggets are a favorite of Hannah’s. Last Tuesday, in the cafeteria, she convinced several classmates to give her their chicken nuggets. Hannah stored all the nuggets in her jacket pocket and has been snacking on them throughout the past week.
I sent Hannah to the nurse. The girl appeared to be in fine health, but I just wanted to cover all of my bases. Nurse returned Hannah to my classroom, thirty minutes later, with a little note that said:
I think all of the chemicals and preservatives in the nuggets may have saved her. Send her back if you notice vomit or fever.
-Nurse
At the end of the day, Hannah still seemed to be fine. I had tried to call her parents, with no luck, so I ended up sending a note home summarizing the day’s events. I included a copy of the note from Nurse.
Independent Reading is a popular time for my students to eat their snacks. They lounge on the floor with their books and their food, savoring the peaceful minutes of silence. It was during this time today that I noticed Hannah acting suspiciously about her snack. She would quickly reach into her jacket pocket, dart glances around the room, and then shove something into her mouth. Burying her face into her book, Hannah would chew, chew, chew as fast as she could and then reach into her pocket for more.
Some children eat hurriedly, and usually those are the kids who do not get a lot to eat at home; these children rely on school as their main supplier of food. Hannah does not fall into the needy category. She comes from a comfortable home, with parents who attend to her every need. Hannah’s suspicious behavior meant that she was eating something I wouldn’t approve of.
I assumed she was eating a forbidden snack (cookies, chips, candy, etc) and decided to investigate. As I approached the child, who is a bit of a tomboy, she stiffened. Her chewing slowed and she swallowed with a large gulp. Hoping I didn’t notice her, Hannah shoved her stringy dark hair out of her eyes and stared intently at the pages in her book. A reading child is rarely disturbed by a teacher.
I didn’t want to embarrass Hannah, so I squatted down on the floor next to her and whispered, “Hannah, what are you eating?”
Hannah let her hair fall into her face, hiding her eyes. As a child who never lied, she chose to not answer.
“Come on,” I prodded. “Spit it out.”
Hannah made a spitting motion with her mouth and I jumped back. “Not literally!” I laughed.
The joke made Hannah smile. “I’m eating chicken nuggets.”
“Chicken nuggets?” Weird snack. I asked, “You brought chicken nuggets from home? Ok…. Do they taste good cold?”
“Not from home. I got them at lunch.”
“Lunch?” I was confused. “We haven’t gone to lunch yet.”
“I saved them from another lunch. They’re leftovers. In case I got hungry. Like right now, I’m a little hungry.” Hannah reached into her pocket and withdrew a half eaten chicken nugget.
Another lunch?
Chicken nuggets are on Rotation Day 8 of our school lunch menu. So that meant… I calculated in my head, “Hannah!” My voice lost its whisper. “Are these nuggets from last Tuesday?” That would mean the nuggets were 9 days old.
Hannah bent her head down and started picking at a hole in her Converse sneaker. “Yep.” She muttered. “Last Tuesday.”
I confiscated the rest of her nuggets. There were six more in her pocket. Apparently, chicken nuggets are a favorite of Hannah’s. Last Tuesday, in the cafeteria, she convinced several classmates to give her their chicken nuggets. Hannah stored all the nuggets in her jacket pocket and has been snacking on them throughout the past week.
I sent Hannah to the nurse. The girl appeared to be in fine health, but I just wanted to cover all of my bases. Nurse returned Hannah to my classroom, thirty minutes later, with a little note that said:
I think all of the chemicals and preservatives in the nuggets may have saved her. Send her back if you notice vomit or fever.
-Nurse
At the end of the day, Hannah still seemed to be fine. I had tried to call her parents, with no luck, so I ended up sending a note home summarizing the day’s events. I included a copy of the note from Nurse.
43- Mexican Junk
The first voice I heard this morning was The Intimidator’s. She was living up to her nickname by intimidating children. Her booming voice wound through two hallways and traveled over 400 feet to reach my ears. Her yells were muffled, but as I neared the mad woman, her words became clear.
“DON’T YOU EVER LET ME HEAR YOU SPEAKING THAT JUNK IN MY SCHOOL AGAIN. OH, NO! NOT IN MY SCHOOL!”
I figured that some kids must have been caught using profanity, giving The Intimidator a perfect excuse to exercise her iron lungs of discipline. As I approached the commotion, I started to get a little nervous. It sounded like The Intimidator’s voice was awfully close to my classroom.
“THERE IS NO ROOM FOR THAT KIND OF LANGUAGE IN THIS SCHOOL. IN THIS SCHOOL, STUDENTS SPEAK ENGLISH. ENGLISH! NONE OF THAT MEXICAN JUNK.”
Mexican junk? What was The Intimidator talking about?
My fears were confirmed as I turned onto the hallway of my classroom. Backed against the wall, next to my classroom door were two of my ESOL (English as a Second Language) students. The Intimidator had crouched down to be at eye level with the girls. She wagged and waved her arms in the air while she ranted; taking breaks only to point a menacing finger in each child’s face. One of the girls, Yocelin from Cuba, had started to cry. The other, Linda from Mexico, defiantly held The Intimidator’s stare.
“AH! YOUR TEACHER WILL TELL ME IF SHE CATCHES YOU SPEAKING THAT MEXICAN TALK IN YOUR CLASSROOM.” The Intimidator’s white teeth gleamed in my direction. I gave a little nod, because unless I wanted to find a new job, I had to pretend that I supported The Intimidator.
Even though I had no idea what was happening, I paused outside of my classroom door and put my hands on my hips. I looked at my students and tried to send them apologies with my eyes.
“These students know that they are not supposed to speak Spanish in our school. Unless they are in ESOL or Spanish class, they must speak English. I can’t be having my students run around here speaking the wrong language. Oh, no!” The Intimidator’s finger wagged in the children’s faces. “WHAT LANGUAGE ARE YOU GOING TO SPEAK AROUND HERE?” She poked the girls in the chest with her fat finger, “I’M ASKING YOU!”
Yocelin began to stutter. “Ingles! Ingles! Ingles!” The small girl had barely lived in the United States 6 months and was struggling greatly with her English.
Linda coldly allowed one word to slip from her lips, “English.”
“ENGLISH!” The Intimidator barked back. Then, the blubbery battleaxe turned and marched briskly up the hallway and out of sight.
Normally, my students sit in the hallway outside of the classroom until the homeroom bell rings. This morning, I allowed Linda and Yocelin to come in early. I didn’t say a word about the incident with The Intimidator, but I did give them each a granola bar and a juice box. I turned on the TV and let them watch cartoons until the bell rang.
How could The Intimidator, a school administrator, be so ignorant and so cruel?
“DON’T YOU EVER LET ME HEAR YOU SPEAKING THAT JUNK IN MY SCHOOL AGAIN. OH, NO! NOT IN MY SCHOOL!”
I figured that some kids must have been caught using profanity, giving The Intimidator a perfect excuse to exercise her iron lungs of discipline. As I approached the commotion, I started to get a little nervous. It sounded like The Intimidator’s voice was awfully close to my classroom.
“THERE IS NO ROOM FOR THAT KIND OF LANGUAGE IN THIS SCHOOL. IN THIS SCHOOL, STUDENTS SPEAK ENGLISH. ENGLISH! NONE OF THAT MEXICAN JUNK.”
Mexican junk? What was The Intimidator talking about?
My fears were confirmed as I turned onto the hallway of my classroom. Backed against the wall, next to my classroom door were two of my ESOL (English as a Second Language) students. The Intimidator had crouched down to be at eye level with the girls. She wagged and waved her arms in the air while she ranted; taking breaks only to point a menacing finger in each child’s face. One of the girls, Yocelin from Cuba, had started to cry. The other, Linda from Mexico, defiantly held The Intimidator’s stare.
“AH! YOUR TEACHER WILL TELL ME IF SHE CATCHES YOU SPEAKING THAT MEXICAN TALK IN YOUR CLASSROOM.” The Intimidator’s white teeth gleamed in my direction. I gave a little nod, because unless I wanted to find a new job, I had to pretend that I supported The Intimidator.
Even though I had no idea what was happening, I paused outside of my classroom door and put my hands on my hips. I looked at my students and tried to send them apologies with my eyes.
“These students know that they are not supposed to speak Spanish in our school. Unless they are in ESOL or Spanish class, they must speak English. I can’t be having my students run around here speaking the wrong language. Oh, no!” The Intimidator’s finger wagged in the children’s faces. “WHAT LANGUAGE ARE YOU GOING TO SPEAK AROUND HERE?” She poked the girls in the chest with her fat finger, “I’M ASKING YOU!”
Yocelin began to stutter. “Ingles! Ingles! Ingles!” The small girl had barely lived in the United States 6 months and was struggling greatly with her English.
Linda coldly allowed one word to slip from her lips, “English.”
“ENGLISH!” The Intimidator barked back. Then, the blubbery battleaxe turned and marched briskly up the hallway and out of sight.
Normally, my students sit in the hallway outside of the classroom until the homeroom bell rings. This morning, I allowed Linda and Yocelin to come in early. I didn’t say a word about the incident with The Intimidator, but I did give them each a granola bar and a juice box. I turned on the TV and let them watch cartoons until the bell rang.
How could The Intimidator, a school administrator, be so ignorant and so cruel?
42- Nelson Gone
Make-up day for school pictures was today. Nelson was the only child on my roster who hadn’t already had his picture taken. He wasn’t absent on the original Picture Day, but I told him he could wait the few weeks for make-up day. I wanted to give the bruises on his face time to heal.
Time did help Nelson’s wounds heal. The bruises faded as the boy spent days collecting classmates’ autographs on his neon-orange cast. Nelson dutifully came to school each day and did his best to preoccupy himself from the drama of his home life. He joked and played with his classmates like a regular child. Nelson’s frequent complaints of the foster home subsided, although he never stopped vocalizing his concerns about when he would be able to see his mother again.
Nelson did not come to school today. He was also absent yesterday and last Friday. Hoping he was just sick, I went to Mr. Thorpe’s office to inquire about the boy. Mr. Thorpe told me not to expect Nelson to ever return to my classroom. A woman from the Department of Social Services had withdrawn Nelson from our school with little explanation. Mr. Thorpe speculated that the mental condition of Nelson’s mother was worse than we had realized. Nelson has probably been placed in a more permanent foster home in another school district.
At the end of the day I decided to clean out Nelson’s desk. I read through his writer’s journal; I laughed at all the silly stories had written and admired his creative spelling. Picturing his face in my mind, with his big, puppy-dog brown eyes, I found it difficult to throw away Nelson’s things. I decided to save his stuff in my storage closet. Kids in this school are transient; they come and go all the time. Maybe, if I keep my fingers crossed, Nelson will come back. And, maybe, if I cross both my fingers and my toes, a loving family will adopt Nelson and he will live a happy and safe life.
Time did help Nelson’s wounds heal. The bruises faded as the boy spent days collecting classmates’ autographs on his neon-orange cast. Nelson dutifully came to school each day and did his best to preoccupy himself from the drama of his home life. He joked and played with his classmates like a regular child. Nelson’s frequent complaints of the foster home subsided, although he never stopped vocalizing his concerns about when he would be able to see his mother again.
Nelson did not come to school today. He was also absent yesterday and last Friday. Hoping he was just sick, I went to Mr. Thorpe’s office to inquire about the boy. Mr. Thorpe told me not to expect Nelson to ever return to my classroom. A woman from the Department of Social Services had withdrawn Nelson from our school with little explanation. Mr. Thorpe speculated that the mental condition of Nelson’s mother was worse than we had realized. Nelson has probably been placed in a more permanent foster home in another school district.
At the end of the day I decided to clean out Nelson’s desk. I read through his writer’s journal; I laughed at all the silly stories had written and admired his creative spelling. Picturing his face in my mind, with his big, puppy-dog brown eyes, I found it difficult to throw away Nelson’s things. I decided to save his stuff in my storage closet. Kids in this school are transient; they come and go all the time. Maybe, if I keep my fingers crossed, Nelson will come back. And, maybe, if I cross both my fingers and my toes, a loving family will adopt Nelson and he will live a happy and safe life.
41- An American
There are many culturally confused students in our school. Lots of children are from biracial families. Our school is a true Melting Pot community. This is wonderful because the students have the opportunity to learn about and respect other cultures.
The cultural diversity can also be trouble because not all students know what race they are. Every kid wants to feel a sense of belonging to a specific culture, yet somewhere down the line, their culture has been lost. Today Gaby came up to me and literally asked, “Teacher, what color am I?”
What color is she? What kind of question is that? At first, I did not understand what she was asking. I figured it out when Kramer hollered out, “You white, Gaby!”
“No she isn’t. She’s black, like me.” objected Kathleen.
I took a close look at the girl. I had no idea what race Gaby was. Her skin had an olive brown glow to it, her eyes were greenish-brown, and her hair was a wiry, jet black. She could be any race. I didn’t know how to answer.
“What race are your parents?” I asked. Unless I went to her permanent records, I would have no idea what Gaby’s race was.
“My momma looks like me.”
Helpful.
“What country were you born in?”
“America.” Gaby replied.
“Okay, then, sweetie- you’re an American. Now, go sit down.” I held my breath, waiting for Gaby to ask me another tricky question.
Luckily, she did go sit down and on the way to her seat, Gaby glanced proudly examined her skin tone and exclaimed, “I’m an American!”
The cultural diversity can also be trouble because not all students know what race they are. Every kid wants to feel a sense of belonging to a specific culture, yet somewhere down the line, their culture has been lost. Today Gaby came up to me and literally asked, “Teacher, what color am I?”
What color is she? What kind of question is that? At first, I did not understand what she was asking. I figured it out when Kramer hollered out, “You white, Gaby!”
“No she isn’t. She’s black, like me.” objected Kathleen.
I took a close look at the girl. I had no idea what race Gaby was. Her skin had an olive brown glow to it, her eyes were greenish-brown, and her hair was a wiry, jet black. She could be any race. I didn’t know how to answer.
“What race are your parents?” I asked. Unless I went to her permanent records, I would have no idea what Gaby’s race was.
“My momma looks like me.”
Helpful.
“What country were you born in?”
“America.” Gaby replied.
“Okay, then, sweetie- you’re an American. Now, go sit down.” I held my breath, waiting for Gaby to ask me another tricky question.
Luckily, she did go sit down and on the way to her seat, Gaby glanced proudly examined her skin tone and exclaimed, “I’m an American!”
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