My new student, Jamie, has settled into our class with ease. He is a likable boy with a good sense of humor, so the other students quickly decided they liked him. And, true to Mrs. Goat’s word, Jamie is a mighty smart youngin’. He reads well and is good at math. His mother obviously adores him; every morning, clad in plastic high heels and a clingy bathrobe, Mrs. Goats walks her son to the door of his classroom and showers him with kisses. Given the hours of her occupation, I am impressed that she makes the effort. Jamie always looks mildly embarrassed, but dutifully kisses his mother back.
It has been a pleasure to include Jamie into our daily routine. His enthusiasm about learning is contagious, and rubs off onto his classmates. Jamie may be the one child who single-handedly makes learning cool.
This afternoon, after a Health lesson on Fire Safety, Jamie volunteered to share some disturbing news with the class. After hearing his story, I felt a new sense of respect for the Texan child. It began like this…
Jamie politely raised his hand to speak. I called on him, “Yes, Jamie?”
With a serious face, the boy began his lecture. Some kids may think that Fire Safety is stupid. Lots of kids think playing with fire is cool, but not me. I know that fire can be very dangerous because I was caught on fire once. It was not cool.
At first, I didn’t know if I should take Jamie’s claim too seriously. Many times kids have small accidents that they exaggerate to sound worse. Nevertheless, the kid was encouraging Fire Safety, so I asked him to elaborate.
It was very bad. Back in Texas, my dad, he built us a big campfire. Me and all my cousins were sittin’ around that campfire, laughin’ and playin’. One of my cousins, he stuck this big long stick into a can of gasoline and then splashed some gasoline onto my shirt. I didn’t think that was no big deal, and the grown-ups weren’t payin’ no attention. We kept laughin’ and playin’, and then…
Jamie’s face got flushed when he got to this part of the story. He looked sadly around at his classmates, and considered if he should continue his story. All of my students were quiet; they had been hanging on to every word of Jamie’s story. Jamie took a long, deep breath, and then went on.
…then a spark, a little glowin’ piece of wood, popped out of the fire. It jumped out of that fire and landed on my shirt. Well, Jamie nodded gravely, that one, tiny little ember made my shirt explode into flames. They say it must have been the gasoline that made it so bad, but no matter, I caught on fire. I caught on fire quick.
It was scary. People were screamin’ and I was runnin’ around. I didn’t know what to do; all I could see was orange flames all around me. I had to shut my eyes tight. I was burnin’ and it hurt. It hurt badly, all over my body.
My daddy, he jumped on top of me and crashed me to the ground. I remember my daddy using his body to put out the flames. He rolled me and yelled. “Roll, son! Roll!” I couldn’t think, but I tried to do what he said. I tried. My daddy got burned, too.
They took me straightaway to the hospital in Dallas, and I stayed there for weeks. Jamie lifted up his shirt to reveal his stomach and chest, in the place of smooth, white skin were bumpy, red and purple scars. His burned skin looked thin and itchy. The wounds wrapped around his body and covered most of his front and backside.
The hospital had to do a lot of surgeries and stuff. The surgeries all hurt. A lot. I still have to go back for more. There is a special burn hospital in Atlanta, that’s why my family moved here- to be closer to Atlanta. Now I have to wear a special undershirt, see? Jamie pointed to a thin layer of cloth underneath his T-Shirt. This will keep my burns from getting irritated. I also have to put special sunscreen on my burns forever now. The sun could make my skin burn all over again.
Jamie had the entire classroom’s attention. He concluded his story with a single warning. Fire Safety is important; playing with fire is not cool. Just look at me.
Once again, I was left feeling choked up by one of my student’s experiences. I am continually amazed at what they can endure. I feel grateful that Jamie was able to teach his classmates a valuable lesson about Fire Safety.
83- Ringworm
One of those grubby little twerps gave me ringworm. It itches like hell.
I woke up three days ago with an itchy spot on my arm. At first I figured it must be a bug bite, but two days later, a clear, bumpy red ring had surfaced on my skin. I have never had ringworm before, but the red ring gave me a heads up.
Grossed out, I went to my neighborhood pharmacist and showed him my arm. “Is this ringworm?” I asked.
The pharmacist confirmed my fears and told me that, yes, I did have ringworm. Luckily, it’s not really a worm, but a fungus- similar to athlete’s foot. The pharmacist recommended an antifungal cream and told me the fungus would be killed within two weeks.
Before leaving the pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist how one acquires ringworm. The man told me that humans can get ringworm from infected pets, from other infected humans- particularly children, and from dirt.
Infected humans? Particularly children!
I don’t have any pets. I rarely make contact with dirt.
I’ve got to quit hugging those damn kids.
I woke up three days ago with an itchy spot on my arm. At first I figured it must be a bug bite, but two days later, a clear, bumpy red ring had surfaced on my skin. I have never had ringworm before, but the red ring gave me a heads up.
Grossed out, I went to my neighborhood pharmacist and showed him my arm. “Is this ringworm?” I asked.
The pharmacist confirmed my fears and told me that, yes, I did have ringworm. Luckily, it’s not really a worm, but a fungus- similar to athlete’s foot. The pharmacist recommended an antifungal cream and told me the fungus would be killed within two weeks.
Before leaving the pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist how one acquires ringworm. The man told me that humans can get ringworm from infected pets, from other infected humans- particularly children, and from dirt.
Infected humans? Particularly children!
I don’t have any pets. I rarely make contact with dirt.
I’ve got to quit hugging those damn kids.
82- Prophecy
It is common for the kids to approach me at recess, they like to use that time as an opportunity to interact with me on a more personal level. We often chat about what they’re going to do on the weekend or what our favorite movies are- it’s good bonding time.
Today, while I was walking my students back into the school building from recess, Yocelin came running up to me. Yocelin is from Cuba and speaks very little English. She is learning quickly, but is shy and usually refuses to speak. Today the girl was excited and looked as if she really wanted to tell me something.
“Teacher! Teacher!” Yocelin called, with a thick foreign accent.
I was thrilled to see that the child wanted to speak.
“Yes?” I asked and reached out my hand towards the girl.
As soon as our hands made contact, something eerie happened. Just like a scene from a movie, time seemed to freeze and all sounds were sucked out of the air. I felt my heart slam into my throat, and had to gasp to breathe. I looked down to find Yocelin studying my palm.
The little girl kept her head down, but slowly lifted her eyes to meet my gaze. I could only see the whites of Yocelin’s eyes, and in a perfect, adult English voice, she said, “YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ANY CHILDREN.”
A chill ran down my spine and goose-bumps covered my flesh. I yanked my hand from her grasp. “What?”
The second our contact was broken, the atmosphere regained its normalcy. Kids were laughing, trees were rustling in the wind, and I could breathe again.
Yocelin ran off to join Linda in line. The two girls were already laughing and giggling at something Robbie had said.
You will never have any children.
The ominous prophecy left me baffled. These kids were really starting to give me the creeps.
“Yocelin!” I chased after her, “What did you say?”
I shoved my palm in the girl’s face. “What?”
The girl looked intently into my palm and then brushed it away. She shrugged indifferently, “Yeah,” she confirmed, “No children.” Yocelin then threw her hands into the air, in a gesture that indicated that my fate was beyond her control, and then she went back to her conversation with Linda.
I was utterly perplexed. I am not a superstitious person, but Yocelin’s bizarre declaration freaked me out.
No children?
I also felt a little relieved.
Today, while I was walking my students back into the school building from recess, Yocelin came running up to me. Yocelin is from Cuba and speaks very little English. She is learning quickly, but is shy and usually refuses to speak. Today the girl was excited and looked as if she really wanted to tell me something.
“Teacher! Teacher!” Yocelin called, with a thick foreign accent.
I was thrilled to see that the child wanted to speak.
“Yes?” I asked and reached out my hand towards the girl.
As soon as our hands made contact, something eerie happened. Just like a scene from a movie, time seemed to freeze and all sounds were sucked out of the air. I felt my heart slam into my throat, and had to gasp to breathe. I looked down to find Yocelin studying my palm.
The little girl kept her head down, but slowly lifted her eyes to meet my gaze. I could only see the whites of Yocelin’s eyes, and in a perfect, adult English voice, she said, “YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ANY CHILDREN.”
A chill ran down my spine and goose-bumps covered my flesh. I yanked my hand from her grasp. “What?”
The second our contact was broken, the atmosphere regained its normalcy. Kids were laughing, trees were rustling in the wind, and I could breathe again.
Yocelin ran off to join Linda in line. The two girls were already laughing and giggling at something Robbie had said.
You will never have any children.
The ominous prophecy left me baffled. These kids were really starting to give me the creeps.
“Yocelin!” I chased after her, “What did you say?”
I shoved my palm in the girl’s face. “What?”
The girl looked intently into my palm and then brushed it away. She shrugged indifferently, “Yeah,” she confirmed, “No children.” Yocelin then threw her hands into the air, in a gesture that indicated that my fate was beyond her control, and then she went back to her conversation with Linda.
I was utterly perplexed. I am not a superstitious person, but Yocelin’s bizarre declaration freaked me out.
No children?
I also felt a little relieved.
81- Scissors
Josh’s tendency towards violence is getting worse. Today he went way beyond his usual pencil throwing, book slamming behavior… today Josh threatened to poke Robbie’s eyes out with a pair of scissors.
During a geometry lesson, I grouped my students into teams of four and had them cut out a special pattern from a piece of card stock that would later be folded to create a certain geometric shape. The goal of this exercise was to teach about three dimensional shapes and to help the kids learn to work as a team. The teams were responsible for assigning jobs. One of the jobs, The Cutter, required the use of scissors.
Robbie and Josh both wanted to be The Cutter. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they both grabbed for the pair of scissors. Robbie reached them first.
“I am The Cutter!” The wolverine announced.
“No way, Soapy Butt, I’m going to be The Cutter,” argued Josh.
I ignored the argument, and the insult, because I hoped that the boys would find a way to come to an agreement.
“Give me those damn scissors!” Josh grabbed the scissors out of Robbie’s hands.
“No!” Robbie resisted Josh’s grab.
In a split second, before I had time to run across the room to the boys, Josh had the scissors in his hand. He held the scissors in his fist like a weapon, so that each blade stuck out from between two of his knuckles.
By the time I reached their table, Josh had cornered Robbie. The psycho kid was holding the scissors so that the blades were pointed directly one inch away from each of Robbie’s eyes. “I am The Cutter. Say it! Say I am The Cutter or I’ll stab out your eyes!”
Josh made a punching motion with his scissored fist. Robbie flinched.
I must have actually screamed because the classroom grew silent and Josh jumped a little. I grabbed the kid by the back of his shirt and yanked him backwards, away from Robbie.
Josh resisted. He did not let go of the pair of scissors. “Let go of me,” he yelled.
I grabbed Josh’s wrist and tried to shake the scissors free. “Drop the scissors, Josh. Drop them.”
The students started to back away. Josh struggled against my grasp, fighting to get away from me. After several long minutes, he gave up and dropped the scissors.
I have never seen a kid look so angry. Josh’s face had turned bright red and he looked at me as if he were considering punching me. I was afraid.
“Josh, go to the office!” I tried to keep my voice strong, but I think my nervousness peeked through.
Josh remained frozen in his place, refusing to leave my classroom. I went to the phone and called the school secretary. I told her that I had a bad situation in my classroom and that I needed help.
Josh heard every word of my telephone conversation with the secretary, yet he still did not move. Within seconds, both Mr. Thorpe and The Intimidator were in my classroom. Without saying a word, each grabbed hold of one of Josh’s arms and dragged him, kicking and screaming from the room. We could hear the boy yelling all the way down the hallway.
My students were shaken up and I saw Robbie wipe one terrified tear from his cheek. I reassured them that Josh would not return to our classroom today. Kids are amazingly resilient; they easily fell back into doing the geometry assignment, but I did notice that Robbie no longer wanted to be The Cutter.
Mr. Thorpe came by during my planning period and had me write down exactly what had happened. He told me that they called Josh’s mother and had suspended the boy from school for the rest of the week.
The rest of the week?
I was hoping that he would get permanently expelled.
During a geometry lesson, I grouped my students into teams of four and had them cut out a special pattern from a piece of card stock that would later be folded to create a certain geometric shape. The goal of this exercise was to teach about three dimensional shapes and to help the kids learn to work as a team. The teams were responsible for assigning jobs. One of the jobs, The Cutter, required the use of scissors.
Robbie and Josh both wanted to be The Cutter. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they both grabbed for the pair of scissors. Robbie reached them first.
“I am The Cutter!” The wolverine announced.
“No way, Soapy Butt, I’m going to be The Cutter,” argued Josh.
I ignored the argument, and the insult, because I hoped that the boys would find a way to come to an agreement.
“Give me those damn scissors!” Josh grabbed the scissors out of Robbie’s hands.
“No!” Robbie resisted Josh’s grab.
In a split second, before I had time to run across the room to the boys, Josh had the scissors in his hand. He held the scissors in his fist like a weapon, so that each blade stuck out from between two of his knuckles.
By the time I reached their table, Josh had cornered Robbie. The psycho kid was holding the scissors so that the blades were pointed directly one inch away from each of Robbie’s eyes. “I am The Cutter. Say it! Say I am The Cutter or I’ll stab out your eyes!”
Josh made a punching motion with his scissored fist. Robbie flinched.
I must have actually screamed because the classroom grew silent and Josh jumped a little. I grabbed the kid by the back of his shirt and yanked him backwards, away from Robbie.
Josh resisted. He did not let go of the pair of scissors. “Let go of me,” he yelled.
I grabbed Josh’s wrist and tried to shake the scissors free. “Drop the scissors, Josh. Drop them.”
The students started to back away. Josh struggled against my grasp, fighting to get away from me. After several long minutes, he gave up and dropped the scissors.
I have never seen a kid look so angry. Josh’s face had turned bright red and he looked at me as if he were considering punching me. I was afraid.
“Josh, go to the office!” I tried to keep my voice strong, but I think my nervousness peeked through.
Josh remained frozen in his place, refusing to leave my classroom. I went to the phone and called the school secretary. I told her that I had a bad situation in my classroom and that I needed help.
Josh heard every word of my telephone conversation with the secretary, yet he still did not move. Within seconds, both Mr. Thorpe and The Intimidator were in my classroom. Without saying a word, each grabbed hold of one of Josh’s arms and dragged him, kicking and screaming from the room. We could hear the boy yelling all the way down the hallway.
My students were shaken up and I saw Robbie wipe one terrified tear from his cheek. I reassured them that Josh would not return to our classroom today. Kids are amazingly resilient; they easily fell back into doing the geometry assignment, but I did notice that Robbie no longer wanted to be The Cutter.
Mr. Thorpe came by during my planning period and had me write down exactly what had happened. He told me that they called Josh’s mother and had suspended the boy from school for the rest of the week.
The rest of the week?
I was hoping that he would get permanently expelled.
77- Thanksgiving
Today was a half day for students; school was dismissed at 11:30. We get the last three days of this week off for Thanksgiving. Vacation time is definitely a perk to this job.
To make the day fun, I had my students reenact the original Thanksgiving feast. Some kids dressed as Pilgrims and others dressed as Indians. As a special treat I brought in turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. The kids and I pushed all the desks into a long row and sat together to eat. We took turns sharing things that we were thankful for.
Kramer: I am thankful that my mom got me a cute little baby sister to play with.
Mattie: I am thankful that my daddy will be home this year to eat Thanksgiving with us, because last year he had to work.
Ajith: I am thankful that my grandparents still live in India, because my grandmother is a little scary and she doesn’t eat turkey.
Ashleigh: I am thankful for baseball and especially for Boston. Go Red Sox!
Josh: I am thankful that Ajith didn’t pee in his pants one time this whole week.
Robbie: It’s only Tuesday morning, Ajith has plenty of time left to pee in his pants.
Josh: Well I’m not thankful that Jorge (Turd Boy) smells like crap all the time.
Gaby: I’m thankful that I don’t have to see any of you rude boys for five whole days.
After all of the students had left, teachers were free to finish up any work they needed to do in their classroom. I used this time as an opportunity to redo the bulletin board that I had clawed down in haste last week. This time, I did not use monkeys. Instead, I used plain red construction paper to back the board and then I lined it with a plain green border. It looks dull, but only took me thirty minutes to put up.
While I was working in the hallway, I could hear laughter coming from Caroline’s classroom. She and Ms. Viamonte, who are new best-friends, were inside chatting away. I’d like to believe that the kiss I saw between Ms. Viamonte and Mark was a one time, drunken mistake, but from their body language I could tell that they were familiar with each other. Ms. Viamonte wants Caroline’s husband, and the sorostitute knows that spending time with Caroline will get her closer to Mark.
That home-wrecking slut!
I have been dealing with a lot of guilt. Sometimes I feel like I should tell Caroline what I saw, but other times… other times I feel like I need to stay out of it.
To make the day fun, I had my students reenact the original Thanksgiving feast. Some kids dressed as Pilgrims and others dressed as Indians. As a special treat I brought in turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. The kids and I pushed all the desks into a long row and sat together to eat. We took turns sharing things that we were thankful for.
Kramer: I am thankful that my mom got me a cute little baby sister to play with.
Mattie: I am thankful that my daddy will be home this year to eat Thanksgiving with us, because last year he had to work.
Ajith: I am thankful that my grandparents still live in India, because my grandmother is a little scary and she doesn’t eat turkey.
Ashleigh: I am thankful for baseball and especially for Boston. Go Red Sox!
Josh: I am thankful that Ajith didn’t pee in his pants one time this whole week.
Robbie: It’s only Tuesday morning, Ajith has plenty of time left to pee in his pants.
Josh: Well I’m not thankful that Jorge (Turd Boy) smells like crap all the time.
Gaby: I’m thankful that I don’t have to see any of you rude boys for five whole days.
After all of the students had left, teachers were free to finish up any work they needed to do in their classroom. I used this time as an opportunity to redo the bulletin board that I had clawed down in haste last week. This time, I did not use monkeys. Instead, I used plain red construction paper to back the board and then I lined it with a plain green border. It looks dull, but only took me thirty minutes to put up.
While I was working in the hallway, I could hear laughter coming from Caroline’s classroom. She and Ms. Viamonte, who are new best-friends, were inside chatting away. I’d like to believe that the kiss I saw between Ms. Viamonte and Mark was a one time, drunken mistake, but from their body language I could tell that they were familiar with each other. Ms. Viamonte wants Caroline’s husband, and the sorostitute knows that spending time with Caroline will get her closer to Mark.
That home-wrecking slut!
I have been dealing with a lot of guilt. Sometimes I feel like I should tell Caroline what I saw, but other times… other times I feel like I need to stay out of it.
76- Secret Santa
I signed up to do Secret Santa this year. Everyone participating puts their name in a hat and then we all draw to see who we will buy gifts for. Our school has organized it so that Secret Santa goes on for the three weeks before we leave for the holidays. We are supposed to buy our Secret Pal one small ($5.00) gift for each of the three weeks and then a better ($15.00) gift to give at the faculty Christmas Party.
When the hat came around, I pulled out The Intimidator’s name. Just my luck! Maybe I should buy her a bunch of bananas.
When the hat came around, I pulled out The Intimidator’s name. Just my luck! Maybe I should buy her a bunch of bananas.
75- Underground Railroad
Everyday, I find myself even less surprised that our state’s education system is ridiculed by others. There are a lot of dumb teachers in this school. I keep thinking- if there are a lot of dumb teachers in this school, there must be hundreds of dumb teachers across the state. Unless somebody weeds these duds out fast, some of our kids won’t have a fighting chance in the adult world.
I’m learning that there is a huge difference between being stupid and being uneducated. I fear that Esther may be both.
Today is Friday, so Esther, Caroline, and I met together to plan for our future lessons. Our grade has been studying the Civil War, and we all agreed that we should teach the students about Harriet Tubman after Thanksgiving break. While discussing which books on Tubman to share with our students, Esther vomited out another puddle of horrific ignorance.
“I just admire Harriet Tubman so much, I mean God Bless her! Imagine how difficult it must be to build an entire railroad under the ground. My stars!”
Build a railroad under the ground? I waited for Esther to laugh. Please be kidding. She didn’t laugh.
Caroline, who usually is trying to complete seven tasks at once, had frozen in place. Her jaw had dropped and I could see little bits of cookie clinging to her tongue because she had ceased chewing.
“Esther!” Caroline was horrified. “Harriet Tubman did not build a railroad track underground. What the hell are you thinking?”
I started to feel embarrassed for Esther, who defensively responded to Caroline.
“Well, of course she didn’t build it. I know that!” The older woman laughed nervously and fidgeted with the gold Palmetto Tree that hung from her neck. “I just admire how Harriet helped all those slave people find their way through all those tunnels. It must have been dark and scary.”
All those tunnels?
Caroline jumped from her seat and threw her hands into the air. Like a stereotypical Italian woman, Caroline began ranting to herself in a loud, angry voice. “How many years has this woman been teaching? Harriet Tubman and underground tunnels! Good Lord, please help her students!” Caroline’s hands dropped and she made the sign of the cross on her chest. After muttering a quick prayer under her breath, Caroline regained her composure.
Esther, who has worked with Caroline for many years, is accustomed to these kinds of outbursts, but never has she been the cause of the northerner’s tirade of frustration.
I sat uncomfortably in my seat and pretended to be absorbed with writing lesson plans.
Caroline returned to our table to sit directly across from Esther. Southern Baptist versus Yankee Catholic; the two sat face to face, prepared to debate the historical facts of the Underground Railroad.
Caroline began; she spoke to Esther as if she were speaking to a student. “The Underground Railroad is a figurative term. It does not literally mean that people traveled underground by train. In fact, people did not travel underground at all. In this case, underground means hidden or in secret.”
Esther’s face had turned a deep shade of red. I felt sorry for her.
Determined to save face, Esther argued her point, “It says here,” she pointed to a page in a Harriet Tubman book, “that Harriet was forced to hide underground.”
“Yes,” Caroline calmly replied, “Harriet was forced to hide underground- in cellars and basements, not in secret tunnels dug beneath the surface of the earth!”
Esther grew silent. She frantically flipped through her book, desperate to find information that would prove that Harriet Tubman had led slaves through underground tunnels.
Caroline rolled her eyes and stood up again. She collected all of her things and turned towards the door. Before she left, Caroline turned and spoke, “Esther,” she said in a disappointed voice, “You really should know all of this already.”
And then I was left alone, to sit in awkward silence with Esther.
I’m learning that there is a huge difference between being stupid and being uneducated. I fear that Esther may be both.
Today is Friday, so Esther, Caroline, and I met together to plan for our future lessons. Our grade has been studying the Civil War, and we all agreed that we should teach the students about Harriet Tubman after Thanksgiving break. While discussing which books on Tubman to share with our students, Esther vomited out another puddle of horrific ignorance.
“I just admire Harriet Tubman so much, I mean God Bless her! Imagine how difficult it must be to build an entire railroad under the ground. My stars!”
Build a railroad under the ground? I waited for Esther to laugh. Please be kidding. She didn’t laugh.
Caroline, who usually is trying to complete seven tasks at once, had frozen in place. Her jaw had dropped and I could see little bits of cookie clinging to her tongue because she had ceased chewing.
“Esther!” Caroline was horrified. “Harriet Tubman did not build a railroad track underground. What the hell are you thinking?”
I started to feel embarrassed for Esther, who defensively responded to Caroline.
“Well, of course she didn’t build it. I know that!” The older woman laughed nervously and fidgeted with the gold Palmetto Tree that hung from her neck. “I just admire how Harriet helped all those slave people find their way through all those tunnels. It must have been dark and scary.”
All those tunnels?
Caroline jumped from her seat and threw her hands into the air. Like a stereotypical Italian woman, Caroline began ranting to herself in a loud, angry voice. “How many years has this woman been teaching? Harriet Tubman and underground tunnels! Good Lord, please help her students!” Caroline’s hands dropped and she made the sign of the cross on her chest. After muttering a quick prayer under her breath, Caroline regained her composure.
Esther, who has worked with Caroline for many years, is accustomed to these kinds of outbursts, but never has she been the cause of the northerner’s tirade of frustration.
I sat uncomfortably in my seat and pretended to be absorbed with writing lesson plans.
Caroline returned to our table to sit directly across from Esther. Southern Baptist versus Yankee Catholic; the two sat face to face, prepared to debate the historical facts of the Underground Railroad.
Caroline began; she spoke to Esther as if she were speaking to a student. “The Underground Railroad is a figurative term. It does not literally mean that people traveled underground by train. In fact, people did not travel underground at all. In this case, underground means hidden or in secret.”
Esther’s face had turned a deep shade of red. I felt sorry for her.
Determined to save face, Esther argued her point, “It says here,” she pointed to a page in a Harriet Tubman book, “that Harriet was forced to hide underground.”
“Yes,” Caroline calmly replied, “Harriet was forced to hide underground- in cellars and basements, not in secret tunnels dug beneath the surface of the earth!”
Esther grew silent. She frantically flipped through her book, desperate to find information that would prove that Harriet Tubman had led slaves through underground tunnels.
Caroline rolled her eyes and stood up again. She collected all of her things and turned towards the door. Before she left, Caroline turned and spoke, “Esther,” she said in a disappointed voice, “You really should know all of this already.”
And then I was left alone, to sit in awkward silence with Esther.
74- Stripper Mom
I get a new student today; a little white boy from Texas. His mother brought him in this morning. The student’s name is Jamie and he speaks with an adorable cowboy accent. A Texas accent is quite different from a Carolina accent; it’s heavier and a little less charming. After speaking with Jamie for only a few minutes, I figured out that he is a smart boy with great manners.
Jamie’s mother, on the other hand, is an overweight, loud-mouthed redneck. The woman looks like fat Pamela Anderson. My jaw dropped when I saw that she was wearing a low-cut, leopard print dress that clung to her every curve and jelly roll. Pink, plastic high-heeled shoes buckled under the weight of her body.
She introduced her son proudly, “Hello, Teacher, my name is Cheryl Goats. You can call me Cheryl. Or Destiny. That’s my stage name. Destiny...”
Stage name?
“…and this is my son, Jamie Goats.” Mrs. Goats shoved her hand into mine and pumped enthusiastically. Her voice was loud and her lipstick was bright. “My boy, here, is a mighty smart youngin’. You’ll find that out real quick.”
It took every bit of will power to force my eyes not to wander to the lady’s enormous breasts. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m delighted to have Jamie in my class.” I shook her hand and smiled.
I gave Jamie and Mrs. Goats a tour of the classroom and explained the rules and expectations. Mother and child listened obediently, and marveled at the newness of their surroundings.
My new student settled comfortably into his new seat and began his first writing assignment; a questionnaire that I had created at the beginning of the year to get to know my students’ interests. As Jamie worked, I walked his mother to the door.
She shook my hand again, and in her booming Texas twang insisted that I call her if I ever needed help. “I always helped little Jamie’s teachers in Texas. Parties, snacks, games- you name it, honey, and I’ll do it! I ain’t one of those do-nothin’-for-nobody types.” Mrs. Goats shook her bubble of over-moussed hair with a chubby hand. “Call me anytime. Anytime. I work nights, so I’m free in the day. My number’s on this here paper.”
Mrs. Goats handed me a form with all of her contact information. After blowing 18 kisses to Jamie, the woman walked heavily out of my classroom.
I glanced down at Mrs. Goat’s information sheet.
Employer: Diamond’s Dancing Girls, Inc.
Occupation: Stripper
Jamie’s mother, on the other hand, is an overweight, loud-mouthed redneck. The woman looks like fat Pamela Anderson. My jaw dropped when I saw that she was wearing a low-cut, leopard print dress that clung to her every curve and jelly roll. Pink, plastic high-heeled shoes buckled under the weight of her body.
She introduced her son proudly, “Hello, Teacher, my name is Cheryl Goats. You can call me Cheryl. Or Destiny. That’s my stage name. Destiny...”
Stage name?
“…and this is my son, Jamie Goats.” Mrs. Goats shoved her hand into mine and pumped enthusiastically. Her voice was loud and her lipstick was bright. “My boy, here, is a mighty smart youngin’. You’ll find that out real quick.”
It took every bit of will power to force my eyes not to wander to the lady’s enormous breasts. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m delighted to have Jamie in my class.” I shook her hand and smiled.
I gave Jamie and Mrs. Goats a tour of the classroom and explained the rules and expectations. Mother and child listened obediently, and marveled at the newness of their surroundings.
My new student settled comfortably into his new seat and began his first writing assignment; a questionnaire that I had created at the beginning of the year to get to know my students’ interests. As Jamie worked, I walked his mother to the door.
She shook my hand again, and in her booming Texas twang insisted that I call her if I ever needed help. “I always helped little Jamie’s teachers in Texas. Parties, snacks, games- you name it, honey, and I’ll do it! I ain’t one of those do-nothin’-for-nobody types.” Mrs. Goats shook her bubble of over-moussed hair with a chubby hand. “Call me anytime. Anytime. I work nights, so I’m free in the day. My number’s on this here paper.”
Mrs. Goats handed me a form with all of her contact information. After blowing 18 kisses to Jamie, the woman walked heavily out of my classroom.
I glanced down at Mrs. Goat’s information sheet.
Employer: Diamond’s Dancing Girls, Inc.
Occupation: Stripper
73- Plants Vs. Planets
The Resource Teacher called in sick today, which meant that I had to keep Demarcus and Turd Boy in my classroom all day long. This is usually not a problem. Demarcus is sweet and tries hard to follow along with our routine lessons. (Last week I brought Demarcus one of my old camping sleeping bags to take home. Call it white-girl ignorance, but I don’t want that child to freeze at night.) Turd Boy plays a lot and smells bad, but is no more disruptive than my other students. I like having the boys in my classroom; it gives them a chance to spend time with other children.
Today, I taught a lesson about the parts of a plant. I introduced the topic to the class and then spent a few minutes discussing background knowledge, by asking, “What do you already know about plants?” I wrote PLANTS in huge letters on the board.
One by one, my students volunteered facts about plants. I was impressed when Turd Boy told me that plants need sunlight to survive and when Demarcus said that plants can be both big and small. I wrote down all of the information that the kids knew about plants on the board, even when Josh told us that people can smoke certain plants to get high.
After reviewing the kids’ background knowledge, I projected a large diagram of a plant on the wall. In clear print, all the major parts of the plant were labeled and under each was a brief blurb describing its function. As a class, we discussed the functions of the parts of a plant. This was all review for the kids and was fairly simple.
For the conclusion of the lesson I asked the students to draw and label their own diagram of a plant in their Science notebooks. Kids seem to love anything that has to do with drawing and creativity, so they all went about this task with little resistance.
I circled the room, inspecting each diagram for accuracy. The drawings varied from elaborate detail to skimpy sketches, and I didn’t care as long as the information was correct.
I noticed Demarcus drawing intently, so I wandered over to his desk to see how things were going. Looking down at his notebook, I realized he had missed the boat. I knew not to expect much writing from the boy, but I did think he could at least draw a picture of a plant.
On the poor kid’s paper, floating amid dozens of yellow stars was a bright, beautiful drawing of Saturn.
Why is this kid drawing the solar system?
“Demarcus,” I asked, “What are you drawing?”
“A planet.” He held up his paper proudly. “Saturn.”
A planet.
I heard a few students giggle, so I turned around and gave Death Looks to random children.
“Well, Demarcus, do you see on the wall?” I pointed to the diagram. “We are studying plants today. Can you draw a plant for me?”
“I did! See?” He shoved his notebook close to my face. “Saturn.”
I tool out my pen and wrote plant and planet on a sheet of paper. I drew a picture under each word. “I know they look very similar, but the words are different. Planets in space have an “e” in their word, while plants that grow on the Earth do not.”
Demarcus looked glumly down at his picture. “Oh, I thought you said planets.”
I felt sad to see him look so disappointed. “Well, your picture of Saturn looks wonderful. I’d love to hang it on the wall by my desk. Right now, though, we are drawing a plant.”
Demarcus nodded and flipped to a new sheet in his notebook. He slapped himself in the forehead a few times and muttered, “Plants, plants, plants….”
Today, I taught a lesson about the parts of a plant. I introduced the topic to the class and then spent a few minutes discussing background knowledge, by asking, “What do you already know about plants?” I wrote PLANTS in huge letters on the board.
One by one, my students volunteered facts about plants. I was impressed when Turd Boy told me that plants need sunlight to survive and when Demarcus said that plants can be both big and small. I wrote down all of the information that the kids knew about plants on the board, even when Josh told us that people can smoke certain plants to get high.
After reviewing the kids’ background knowledge, I projected a large diagram of a plant on the wall. In clear print, all the major parts of the plant were labeled and under each was a brief blurb describing its function. As a class, we discussed the functions of the parts of a plant. This was all review for the kids and was fairly simple.
For the conclusion of the lesson I asked the students to draw and label their own diagram of a plant in their Science notebooks. Kids seem to love anything that has to do with drawing and creativity, so they all went about this task with little resistance.
I circled the room, inspecting each diagram for accuracy. The drawings varied from elaborate detail to skimpy sketches, and I didn’t care as long as the information was correct.
I noticed Demarcus drawing intently, so I wandered over to his desk to see how things were going. Looking down at his notebook, I realized he had missed the boat. I knew not to expect much writing from the boy, but I did think he could at least draw a picture of a plant.
On the poor kid’s paper, floating amid dozens of yellow stars was a bright, beautiful drawing of Saturn.
Why is this kid drawing the solar system?
“Demarcus,” I asked, “What are you drawing?”
“A planet.” He held up his paper proudly. “Saturn.”
A planet.
I heard a few students giggle, so I turned around and gave Death Looks to random children.
“Well, Demarcus, do you see on the wall?” I pointed to the diagram. “We are studying plants today. Can you draw a plant for me?”
“I did! See?” He shoved his notebook close to my face. “Saturn.”
I tool out my pen and wrote plant and planet on a sheet of paper. I drew a picture under each word. “I know they look very similar, but the words are different. Planets in space have an “e” in their word, while plants that grow on the Earth do not.”
Demarcus looked glumly down at his picture. “Oh, I thought you said planets.”
I felt sad to see him look so disappointed. “Well, your picture of Saturn looks wonderful. I’d love to hang it on the wall by my desk. Right now, though, we are drawing a plant.”
Demarcus nodded and flipped to a new sheet in his notebook. He slapped himself in the forehead a few times and muttered, “Plants, plants, plants….”
72- Legal
South Carolina is one of the lowest ranked states in education. I am not surprised. Despite all the political debate, there is some merit to the demand for “highly qualified” teachers. An uneducated teacher will yield uneducated students. Principal must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came time for hiring day, because some of the teachers in our school are downright stupid. I’m not saying they’re all bad, but there are a few that have no business educating others.
I had hoped that Mrs. Frankenstein, who wanted to teach kids about the Canadian government of Alaska, was the only bad egg in the basket. Unfortunately, when I observed another teacher today, I learned that there are many bad eggs in our school’s basket.
Per suggestion by Principal, I elected to watch Esther teach a Language Arts lesson. This would be interesting because I have been planning with Esther during our grade level meetings, but have never actually watched her teach. I wanted to compare our teaching styles, since we often teach the same lessons.
The woman cheerfully welcomed me into her classroom and explained that they would be working on vocabulary. I took a seat in an unobtrusive place and quietly observed.
Esther had projected a chart of vocabulary words onto a large screen. Each child was to record the contents of the chart into their notebooks.
The teacher discussed each vocabulary with her students. Rather then having them fill out the chart themselves, she dictated what needed to be written. The kids dutifully followed instructions and asked few questions.
Things were going fine until Esther came to the third vocabulary word: legal. She wrote legal in the appropriate column, and then she asked if anyone knew what the antonym would be.
Several students raised their hands, but Esther ignored them. She answered her own question, “The antonym of legal is illegal.” She wrote this down and then paused, “Now, ‘y’all see that now don’tcha?”
I couldn’t help but wonder, if they don’t know what “legal” means, how would they know what “illegal” means? Luckily it appeared that all of the kids were familiar with these words.
Next, Esther did write down the definition of legal. “Legal means lawful, y’all.”
Esther smiled warmly at her classroom. “Now, does anybody know what part of speech legal would be?”
A few hands shot into the air, but I guess it was another rhetorical question, because the woman answered herself, “Legal is a noun, folks.” She wrote noun in the Parts of Speech column.
Now, think about that for a second. Legal is a noun?
The kids sat in silence. They were a quiet bunch. Most of them accepted their teacher’s answer and obediently filled in the charts in their notebooks.
I felt a little alarm go off in my heart. Oh, no! Not again. Another case of a teacher spreading bad information. I waited for Esther to realize her mistake and correct herself.
She didn’t. The lady went on to dictate the next vocabulary word.
Luckily, a smart kid raised his hand.
“Yes, Chris?” Esther called on the child.
Chris was a nerdy looking boy with thick glasses and blonde curly hair. “Wouldn’t legal be an adjective?” he asked.
Good, boy! I wanted to throw him a piece of candy.
“What?” Esther frowned. She looked up at her chart. “No,” she insisted, “It’s a noun.”
Chris was not satisfied with her answer. He knew that his teacher was not correct. The boy pulled a small dictionary out of his desk and started flipping frantically through its pages. I saw a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes when he came upon the word he was looking for.
“I found it! Look, here!”
Esther was clearly annoyed, “What?” she snapped.
“Legal is an adjective. The dictionary says so.” The kid looked smug, and
rightfully so.
Esther must be a stubborn woman, because she refused to believe the dictionary.
“Class,” her aging southern voice was husky, “Think about it, y’all. Legal. Legal.” She repeated the word several times and then began listing examples. “Legal document. Legal advice. Legal papers. Legal is a noun, ‘y’all!”
The kids nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”
I felt embarrassed. What kind of school do I work in?
When time was up, I thanked Esther for allowing me to observe her lesson. As I left the room, I strained my neck to be able to see Chris’ paper. He had scratched out noun and had written adjective.
Thank god.
Maybe I’m being too harsh on Esther. There have been times during our planning when I have questioned her intelligence. I guess it’s one thing to plan lessons, but another thing to teach the lessons. All teachers make mistakes, but a mistake like that…. She’s just not the sharpest crayon in the box.
I had hoped that Mrs. Frankenstein, who wanted to teach kids about the Canadian government of Alaska, was the only bad egg in the basket. Unfortunately, when I observed another teacher today, I learned that there are many bad eggs in our school’s basket.
Per suggestion by Principal, I elected to watch Esther teach a Language Arts lesson. This would be interesting because I have been planning with Esther during our grade level meetings, but have never actually watched her teach. I wanted to compare our teaching styles, since we often teach the same lessons.
The woman cheerfully welcomed me into her classroom and explained that they would be working on vocabulary. I took a seat in an unobtrusive place and quietly observed.
Esther had projected a chart of vocabulary words onto a large screen. Each child was to record the contents of the chart into their notebooks.
The teacher discussed each vocabulary with her students. Rather then having them fill out the chart themselves, she dictated what needed to be written. The kids dutifully followed instructions and asked few questions.
Things were going fine until Esther came to the third vocabulary word: legal. She wrote legal in the appropriate column, and then she asked if anyone knew what the antonym would be.
Several students raised their hands, but Esther ignored them. She answered her own question, “The antonym of legal is illegal.” She wrote this down and then paused, “Now, ‘y’all see that now don’tcha?”
I couldn’t help but wonder, if they don’t know what “legal” means, how would they know what “illegal” means? Luckily it appeared that all of the kids were familiar with these words.
Next, Esther did write down the definition of legal. “Legal means lawful, y’all.”
Esther smiled warmly at her classroom. “Now, does anybody know what part of speech legal would be?”
A few hands shot into the air, but I guess it was another rhetorical question, because the woman answered herself, “Legal is a noun, folks.” She wrote noun in the Parts of Speech column.
Now, think about that for a second. Legal is a noun?
The kids sat in silence. They were a quiet bunch. Most of them accepted their teacher’s answer and obediently filled in the charts in their notebooks.
I felt a little alarm go off in my heart. Oh, no! Not again. Another case of a teacher spreading bad information. I waited for Esther to realize her mistake and correct herself.
She didn’t. The lady went on to dictate the next vocabulary word.
Luckily, a smart kid raised his hand.
“Yes, Chris?” Esther called on the child.
Chris was a nerdy looking boy with thick glasses and blonde curly hair. “Wouldn’t legal be an adjective?” he asked.
Good, boy! I wanted to throw him a piece of candy.
“What?” Esther frowned. She looked up at her chart. “No,” she insisted, “It’s a noun.”
Chris was not satisfied with her answer. He knew that his teacher was not correct. The boy pulled a small dictionary out of his desk and started flipping frantically through its pages. I saw a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes when he came upon the word he was looking for.
“I found it! Look, here!”
Esther was clearly annoyed, “What?” she snapped.
“Legal is an adjective. The dictionary says so.” The kid looked smug, and
rightfully so.
Esther must be a stubborn woman, because she refused to believe the dictionary.
“Class,” her aging southern voice was husky, “Think about it, y’all. Legal. Legal.” She repeated the word several times and then began listing examples. “Legal document. Legal advice. Legal papers. Legal is a noun, ‘y’all!”
The kids nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”
I felt embarrassed. What kind of school do I work in?
When time was up, I thanked Esther for allowing me to observe her lesson. As I left the room, I strained my neck to be able to see Chris’ paper. He had scratched out noun and had written adjective.
Thank god.
Maybe I’m being too harsh on Esther. There have been times during our planning when I have questioned her intelligence. I guess it’s one thing to plan lessons, but another thing to teach the lessons. All teachers make mistakes, but a mistake like that…. She’s just not the sharpest crayon in the box.
71- Derogatory Bulletin Board
I hate this job. I’m going to quit. The Intimidator is a jackass on a power trip and I hate her worse than my stupid job.
During my planning period today, The Intimidator came to visit. I was cleaning out student cubbies when the woman bowled her fat body into my classroom. She had a shit-eating grin plastered from ear to ear. I recognized that smile immediately; it was her “I-Really-Hate-You” smile. I knew I was in trouble, I just didn’t know why.
The Intimidator had the audacity to take a seat behind my desk. Rolls of blubber from her ass spilled over each side of my desk chair. She gestured for me to take a seat at one of the closest student tables.
Puzzled, I sat down in a tiny plastic chair and waited for the woman to speak.
The Intimidator stared me down with her terrible grin for a full minute before she spoke. I could see bits of breakfast clinging to the crevices of her teeth.
“I’m a direct woman, Teacher, so I’ll get straight to the point.”
Holy God, what did I do?
Cracking her knuckles, The Intimidator stopped smiling.
Here it comes.
“Your jungle bulletin board is highly inappropriate. You need to take it down.”
My bulletin board. Inappropriate? I wondered if she was joking, but the stern look on The Intimidator’s face let me know that she was dead serious.
“What?” I was blatantly surprised. “I don’t understand. Did something happen?” I started to worry that a student had defaced my display.
“The content of your bulletin board is inappropriate. As a proud African American woman, I am offended by your display. It is derogatory and offensive and it better be off our school’s walls by the end of today.”
Derogatory? I was becoming more confused by the second. I knew it was wrong to challenge an administrator, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Take it down? I spent thirty bucks in materials for that bulletin board!” I shook my head. “I just don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
The Intimidator’s voice grew shrill. “You don’t need to talk back to me.” She waved her finger in a zigzag motion. “I wouldn’t expect a white girl like you to understand.” She shook her fist. “Monkeys are offensive to my people. They’re racist and I won’t stand for no display of no monkeys on the walls of my school. Oh, no!”
This woman is out of her mind.
“I’m so sorry.” I lied. And to piss her off, I added, “I didn’t realize that monkeys were racists.”
“No, girl, monkeys are not racists, but monkeys represent racism!” The fat lunatic dislodged her ass from my chair and stood to leave. “Don’t you get it?”
I felt a little frightened. “Honestly, I have never heard that before. But, I would never want to do anything to offend you or the students.”
The Intimidator rolled her eyes, “Of course not, a sheltered little white girl like you. Probably never even heard of racism before. Just take down those damn monkeys.”
“I’ll take down the display today.”
“Oh, I know you will!” Those were the last words out of The Intimidator’s mouth as she thundered out of my classroom, slamming the door behind her.
I followed the Intimidator out into the hallway and in 30 seconds I managed to pull down the bulletin board that had taken me 2 hours to create.
Monkeys are offensive?
There goes my gift certificate to Sonic.
During my planning period today, The Intimidator came to visit. I was cleaning out student cubbies when the woman bowled her fat body into my classroom. She had a shit-eating grin plastered from ear to ear. I recognized that smile immediately; it was her “I-Really-Hate-You” smile. I knew I was in trouble, I just didn’t know why.
The Intimidator had the audacity to take a seat behind my desk. Rolls of blubber from her ass spilled over each side of my desk chair. She gestured for me to take a seat at one of the closest student tables.
Puzzled, I sat down in a tiny plastic chair and waited for the woman to speak.
The Intimidator stared me down with her terrible grin for a full minute before she spoke. I could see bits of breakfast clinging to the crevices of her teeth.
“I’m a direct woman, Teacher, so I’ll get straight to the point.”
Holy God, what did I do?
Cracking her knuckles, The Intimidator stopped smiling.
Here it comes.
“Your jungle bulletin board is highly inappropriate. You need to take it down.”
My bulletin board. Inappropriate? I wondered if she was joking, but the stern look on The Intimidator’s face let me know that she was dead serious.
“What?” I was blatantly surprised. “I don’t understand. Did something happen?” I started to worry that a student had defaced my display.
“The content of your bulletin board is inappropriate. As a proud African American woman, I am offended by your display. It is derogatory and offensive and it better be off our school’s walls by the end of today.”
Derogatory? I was becoming more confused by the second. I knew it was wrong to challenge an administrator, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Take it down? I spent thirty bucks in materials for that bulletin board!” I shook my head. “I just don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
The Intimidator’s voice grew shrill. “You don’t need to talk back to me.” She waved her finger in a zigzag motion. “I wouldn’t expect a white girl like you to understand.” She shook her fist. “Monkeys are offensive to my people. They’re racist and I won’t stand for no display of no monkeys on the walls of my school. Oh, no!”
This woman is out of her mind.
“I’m so sorry.” I lied. And to piss her off, I added, “I didn’t realize that monkeys were racists.”
“No, girl, monkeys are not racists, but monkeys represent racism!” The fat lunatic dislodged her ass from my chair and stood to leave. “Don’t you get it?”
I felt a little frightened. “Honestly, I have never heard that before. But, I would never want to do anything to offend you or the students.”
The Intimidator rolled her eyes, “Of course not, a sheltered little white girl like you. Probably never even heard of racism before. Just take down those damn monkeys.”
“I’ll take down the display today.”
“Oh, I know you will!” Those were the last words out of The Intimidator’s mouth as she thundered out of my classroom, slamming the door behind her.
I followed the Intimidator out into the hallway and in 30 seconds I managed to pull down the bulletin board that had taken me 2 hours to create.
Monkeys are offensive?
There goes my gift certificate to Sonic.
70- Francesca's Story
Every morning, for about five minutes, I gather my students in a circle on the classroom rug. We use this time to ask questions, talk about our interests, and get to know each other. This morning, Francesca, raised her hand to speak. Even though Francesca’s mother is the most irritating woman on earth (Class Mommy), Francesca is a good kid.
Francesca’s classmates got quiet and listened intently as she excitedly told her story, “This boy told me that, in another grade, there’s this really, really, really, really, nice teacher. He’s bald, and,” she took a deep breath, “If you’re good for a whole month, he’ll let you draw on his head!”
Draw on his head? Is that the type of incentive kids need?
I couldn’t stifle back a laugh at this one.
Francesca’s eyes were lit up, and with her news, the rest of the class started to perk up, too. There were “Ooohs” and “Aahhs” and then quiet as they looked eagerly at me, waiting for me to disclose the location of this bald teacher’s classroom. I had to break the news to them that the only male teacher at our school was the PE Teacher, and he had a full head of hair. My kids looked disappointed, but still delighted to know that somewhere out there, students were drawing on a teacher’s head.
Francesca’s classmates got quiet and listened intently as she excitedly told her story, “This boy told me that, in another grade, there’s this really, really, really, really, nice teacher. He’s bald, and,” she took a deep breath, “If you’re good for a whole month, he’ll let you draw on his head!”
Draw on his head? Is that the type of incentive kids need?
I couldn’t stifle back a laugh at this one.
Francesca’s eyes were lit up, and with her news, the rest of the class started to perk up, too. There were “Ooohs” and “Aahhs” and then quiet as they looked eagerly at me, waiting for me to disclose the location of this bald teacher’s classroom. I had to break the news to them that the only male teacher at our school was the PE Teacher, and he had a full head of hair. My kids looked disappointed, but still delighted to know that somewhere out there, students were drawing on a teacher’s head.
69- Bike Contest
The library’s BRIBE contest is in full swing. Students are competing to win a brand new Schwinn Road Bike. There is a pink girl’s bicycle for a female winner and a blue boy’s bicycle for a male winner. The bikes are on display in the middle of the library, for all children to see. The winners are to be announced the Friday before the Holiday vacation.
My students have been frantically reading BRIBE books. They want to accumulate as many BRIBE points as possible before Christmas. Most of the gifted readers are ahead in the contest, but my neighbor, Mattie is in the lead. Her only competition is a smart girl from Caroline’s class named Sara. Caroline and I have agreed to rig the contest so that my Mattie will win.
Since the beginning of the year, Mattie has been reading as much as she can, not because she wants to win that bike, but because she loves reading. The little girl is not a naturally gifted reader, but her effort has helped her to become very successful. I have seen Mattie playing on our neighborhood street and I know she does not have a bicycle. The girl’s face lights up with desire at the mention of that pink Schwinn.
Sara, on the other hand, comes from a fortunate family. Reading has always been easy for Sara, and her parents are intelligent people with lots of money. I’m sure Sara already has three bicycles of her own sitting at home in her garage.
Maybe it’s unethical, but Caroline and I have decided that Mattie should win that BRIBE contest. That little girl deserves a pink bicycle and we’re going to make sure she gets it.
My students have been frantically reading BRIBE books. They want to accumulate as many BRIBE points as possible before Christmas. Most of the gifted readers are ahead in the contest, but my neighbor, Mattie is in the lead. Her only competition is a smart girl from Caroline’s class named Sara. Caroline and I have agreed to rig the contest so that my Mattie will win.
Since the beginning of the year, Mattie has been reading as much as she can, not because she wants to win that bike, but because she loves reading. The little girl is not a naturally gifted reader, but her effort has helped her to become very successful. I have seen Mattie playing on our neighborhood street and I know she does not have a bicycle. The girl’s face lights up with desire at the mention of that pink Schwinn.
Sara, on the other hand, comes from a fortunate family. Reading has always been easy for Sara, and her parents are intelligent people with lots of money. I’m sure Sara already has three bicycles of her own sitting at home in her garage.
Maybe it’s unethical, but Caroline and I have decided that Mattie should win that BRIBE contest. That little girl deserves a pink bicycle and we’re going to make sure she gets it.
68- Monkey Board
I stayed late after school today to put up my bulletin board. It took me until a little after 5pm to finish all of my routine teacher tasks and then create the bulletin board. My students have just finished writing research papers about rainforests, so I decided to use their final papers as the highlight for our classroom display.
Yesterday, at Wal-Mart, I found these ridiculous cutouts for a holiday jungle scene- perfect for my display theme. The set included adorable little monkeys dressed as elves and different rainforest trees decked with holiday lights. You can find the most bizarre junk at Wal-Mart.
I think the bulletin board contest is stupid. Teachers have more important things to think about than if the wall outside their classroom looks “cute.” Despite my dislike for the displays, I’m smart enough to know that I must feign genuine interest in my bulletin boards. I want to stay on Principal’s good side. Everyone in an Elementary School is a suck-up. Favored faculty members are given special breaks and allowances. I’m human- I want special treatment, too. So, for selfish reasons, I spent an hour and a half of my life hot-gluing pictures of little monkeys to a wall.
Yesterday, at Wal-Mart, I found these ridiculous cutouts for a holiday jungle scene- perfect for my display theme. The set included adorable little monkeys dressed as elves and different rainforest trees decked with holiday lights. You can find the most bizarre junk at Wal-Mart.
I think the bulletin board contest is stupid. Teachers have more important things to think about than if the wall outside their classroom looks “cute.” Despite my dislike for the displays, I’m smart enough to know that I must feign genuine interest in my bulletin boards. I want to stay on Principal’s good side. Everyone in an Elementary School is a suck-up. Favored faculty members are given special breaks and allowances. I’m human- I want special treatment, too. So, for selfish reasons, I spent an hour and a half of my life hot-gluing pictures of little monkeys to a wall.
67- Election Day
Schools are closed on Election Day- they are used as voting centers. I spent almost the entire day in my apartment, grading papers and writing comments for Interim Reports that are due on Friday. Interim Reports go home to parents midway through a quarter. Their purpose is to keep parents informed of their child’s academic progress. Similar to Report Cards, I have to write thoughtful comments about each student’s progress in each academic subject. This task took me four hours.
As a patriotic citizen, I did go vote. After voting, I went shopping at Wal-Mart and Target for classroom supplies and bulletin board material. I keep a separate register for all the money I spend on school related items. Excluding the $250 stipend from The District, I have spent $307.62 of my own money on school supplies in the last three months.
As a patriotic citizen, I did go vote. After voting, I went shopping at Wal-Mart and Target for classroom supplies and bulletin board material. I keep a separate register for all the money I spend on school related items. Excluding the $250 stipend from The District, I have spent $307.62 of my own money on school supplies in the last three months.
66- No Heat
South Carolina has a reputation for having warm and sunny weather. People come from all over the country to vacation here. Our falls and winters are much milder than those of our northern neighbors. Despite the state’s beachy reputation, the temperatures still get cold. By Halloween the weather has changed from warm to cool. We’re entering the second week of November and the temperatures are dropping.
Demarcus came into school this morning with bloodshot eyes and a cranky attitude. He threw his book bag into his cubby and then flung himself into his desk seat. Even though the school’s electricity had warmed up the room, the kid refused to take off his heavy jacket. He sat still, with a pouty face and tired eyes, until I instructed the children to begin their morning work. I didn’t say anything as Demarcus yanked his notebook carelessly out of his desk. Children are delicate creatures; their moods are unpredictable and are often better left ignored.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Demarcus tried to write. He appeared agitated and kept writing and then erasing as if he were never satisfied with what he had written. At one point, the lead on Demarcus’ pencil broke. Usually, when this happens, my students will raise their hand for permission to go to the pencil sharpener. Today, when Demarcus’ lead broke, he took one look at the broken point, threw the pencil on the ground, and then started to cry.
I called the boy to my desk. Obediently, Demarcus trudged slowly up to my chair. I gave him a quick hug and asked, “Is everything all right this morning?”
Crocodile tears began to flow down Demarcus’ cheeks. “No, ma’am.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s the matter?”
“I didn’t get no sleep last night.” The boy cried.
I hugged the kid again, and when I did, he started bawling. His little arms held tightly onto my waist and his sobs grew heavy. Demarcus’ tears ran so fast, I could barely understand what he was saying.
Eventually, I got the boy to calm down. Between gulps of air, he told me why he was so upset.
We ain’t got no heat in my house. It was so cold. I was so cold, I was crying. Ma’amma told me to go to sleep. I did lie down, but… but I was so cold, I couldn’t get sleepy. I tried.
I knew from stories he’d told me before that Demarcus didn’t have a bed. He slept on the floor with his mother. His grandmother slept on their only couch.
The floor was like ice, so I put on more clothes. And my jacket. Demarcus patted the jacket he was wearing and I noticed that beneath he had at least three layers of shirts.
The temperature had gotten down to 40 degrees last night.
We ain’t got many blankets. Grandma, she sick. She needed the blanket. Ma’amma tried to get me warm by puttin’ some couch pillows on me. The pillows kept fallin’ off. They ain’t do nothin’ bout keepin’ me warm. My ma’amma, she hugged me tight and I falled asleep for a time, but I kept wakin’ up again.
Demarcus wiped the last of his tears from his eyes. He stared at me, wearily, and sighed. I hugged him once more and the boy started crying all over again.
I was so cold. Cold. Sleepy. And I ain’t get no breakfast this mornin’!
When his sobs had subsided, I sent Demarcus with a banana and a juice box to the Nurse’s Office. I wrote a little note explaining the situation and asked her to let the child take a short nap.
Demarcus returned to my classroom 5 minutes later, with the following note:
Sorry, no naps allowed at school.
District’s rules.
-Nurse
Next, I called the Resource Teacher and told her that Demarcus was working on an important project in my classroom. I gave Demarcus the pillow from my rocking chair, and then sent him to the Reading Rug. I told him to find a comfy spot to rest his eyes. The child fell asleep 10 minutes later, and I left him there until lunch time.
Demarcus came into school this morning with bloodshot eyes and a cranky attitude. He threw his book bag into his cubby and then flung himself into his desk seat. Even though the school’s electricity had warmed up the room, the kid refused to take off his heavy jacket. He sat still, with a pouty face and tired eyes, until I instructed the children to begin their morning work. I didn’t say anything as Demarcus yanked his notebook carelessly out of his desk. Children are delicate creatures; their moods are unpredictable and are often better left ignored.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Demarcus tried to write. He appeared agitated and kept writing and then erasing as if he were never satisfied with what he had written. At one point, the lead on Demarcus’ pencil broke. Usually, when this happens, my students will raise their hand for permission to go to the pencil sharpener. Today, when Demarcus’ lead broke, he took one look at the broken point, threw the pencil on the ground, and then started to cry.
I called the boy to my desk. Obediently, Demarcus trudged slowly up to my chair. I gave him a quick hug and asked, “Is everything all right this morning?”
Crocodile tears began to flow down Demarcus’ cheeks. “No, ma’am.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s the matter?”
“I didn’t get no sleep last night.” The boy cried.
I hugged the kid again, and when I did, he started bawling. His little arms held tightly onto my waist and his sobs grew heavy. Demarcus’ tears ran so fast, I could barely understand what he was saying.
Eventually, I got the boy to calm down. Between gulps of air, he told me why he was so upset.
We ain’t got no heat in my house. It was so cold. I was so cold, I was crying. Ma’amma told me to go to sleep. I did lie down, but… but I was so cold, I couldn’t get sleepy. I tried.
I knew from stories he’d told me before that Demarcus didn’t have a bed. He slept on the floor with his mother. His grandmother slept on their only couch.
The floor was like ice, so I put on more clothes. And my jacket. Demarcus patted the jacket he was wearing and I noticed that beneath he had at least three layers of shirts.
The temperature had gotten down to 40 degrees last night.
We ain’t got many blankets. Grandma, she sick. She needed the blanket. Ma’amma tried to get me warm by puttin’ some couch pillows on me. The pillows kept fallin’ off. They ain’t do nothin’ bout keepin’ me warm. My ma’amma, she hugged me tight and I falled asleep for a time, but I kept wakin’ up again.
Demarcus wiped the last of his tears from his eyes. He stared at me, wearily, and sighed. I hugged him once more and the boy started crying all over again.
I was so cold. Cold. Sleepy. And I ain’t get no breakfast this mornin’!
When his sobs had subsided, I sent Demarcus with a banana and a juice box to the Nurse’s Office. I wrote a little note explaining the situation and asked her to let the child take a short nap.
Demarcus returned to my classroom 5 minutes later, with the following note:
Sorry, no naps allowed at school.
District’s rules.
-Nurse
Next, I called the Resource Teacher and told her that Demarcus was working on an important project in my classroom. I gave Demarcus the pillow from my rocking chair, and then sent him to the Reading Rug. I told him to find a comfy spot to rest his eyes. The child fell asleep 10 minutes later, and I left him there until lunch time.
65- Rat Poison
The bulletin board contest is in full swing. Teachers have already started setting up the backdrops to their gorgeous creations. They’re just dying to win those gift certificates to Sonic. Cheap, greasy food and fattening milkshakes is just what we need to kick off the holiday season.
I have heard rumors that the First Grade teachers are planning to attach blinking Christmas lights to their boards, so when you walk down their hall, you’ll feel like you’re on 42nd Street in New York City. I wouldn’t be surprised if they posted a few children out to pose as prostitutes.
I have been a little worried about my student, Ashleigh, because she hasn’t been to school since Monday. Ashleigh’s mom is the type who takes school very seriously, so after three days, I worried that the child was very ill. I planned to call home today, during my Planning Period, to find out if everything was all right.
Luckily, Ashleigh arrived at school a few minutes past the tardy bell this morning. She was escorted, hand in hand, by her mother. Upon sight of her classmates, Ashleigh’s tough, tomboy demeanor surfaced. She pried her hand out of her mother’s, straightened her Boston Red Sox sweatshirt, and strutted into the classroom.
“HI, TEACHER!” Ashleigh announced herself loudly.
“Hello, Ashleigh!” I made a big fuss about the little girl being back at school. Kids need to feel like they have been missed. “How are you? We missed you so much. It’s good to see you back.” I hugged her and ruffled her hair.
Ashleigh grinned wildly, showing off two missing front teeth. “I ATE RAT POISON AND LIVED!” The tomboy announced to the class.
Her classmates were ecstatic. “Cool,” they yelled.
Ashleigh’s best partner in crime, Hannah, ran over to her friend and gave her a high five.
I glanced over in the direction of Ashleigh’s mom, who sent me I’ll-Have-To-Explain-Later looks with her eyes.
I allowed Ashleigh a couple minutes to answer her classmate’s questions.
Hannah: How did it taste?
Ashleigh: (Sincere) Kinda fizzy and yuck.
Robbie: Did you meet the Grim Reaper?
Ashleigh: (Confused) Huh?
Josh: Did you die and then go to Hell to meet Satan?
Ashleigh: (Annoyed) No.
Francesca: What kind of person eats rat poison?
Ashleigh: (Offended.) Any true Red Sox fan would gladly eat rat poison! Gosh.
I ended the interview there.
Apparently, Ashleigh’s older brother had forced her to eat rat poison. He told her that if she did not eat it, he would make her wear his New York Yankees socks for the rest of the year. Ashleigh, a loyal Boston fan, downed several spoonfuls of rat poison before her mother figured out what was happening. The girl was rushed to the hospital, where they pumped her stomach and then kept her under observations for two days. Ashleigh’s mom then kept her at home for an additional day, “just in case.” I used this opportunity as a “teachable moment” to talk to the children about the importance of exercising good judgment.
I have heard rumors that the First Grade teachers are planning to attach blinking Christmas lights to their boards, so when you walk down their hall, you’ll feel like you’re on 42nd Street in New York City. I wouldn’t be surprised if they posted a few children out to pose as prostitutes.
I have been a little worried about my student, Ashleigh, because she hasn’t been to school since Monday. Ashleigh’s mom is the type who takes school very seriously, so after three days, I worried that the child was very ill. I planned to call home today, during my Planning Period, to find out if everything was all right.
Luckily, Ashleigh arrived at school a few minutes past the tardy bell this morning. She was escorted, hand in hand, by her mother. Upon sight of her classmates, Ashleigh’s tough, tomboy demeanor surfaced. She pried her hand out of her mother’s, straightened her Boston Red Sox sweatshirt, and strutted into the classroom.
“HI, TEACHER!” Ashleigh announced herself loudly.
“Hello, Ashleigh!” I made a big fuss about the little girl being back at school. Kids need to feel like they have been missed. “How are you? We missed you so much. It’s good to see you back.” I hugged her and ruffled her hair.
Ashleigh grinned wildly, showing off two missing front teeth. “I ATE RAT POISON AND LIVED!” The tomboy announced to the class.
Her classmates were ecstatic. “Cool,” they yelled.
Ashleigh’s best partner in crime, Hannah, ran over to her friend and gave her a high five.
I glanced over in the direction of Ashleigh’s mom, who sent me I’ll-Have-To-Explain-Later looks with her eyes.
I allowed Ashleigh a couple minutes to answer her classmate’s questions.
Hannah: How did it taste?
Ashleigh: (Sincere) Kinda fizzy and yuck.
Robbie: Did you meet the Grim Reaper?
Ashleigh: (Confused) Huh?
Josh: Did you die and then go to Hell to meet Satan?
Ashleigh: (Annoyed) No.
Francesca: What kind of person eats rat poison?
Ashleigh: (Offended.) Any true Red Sox fan would gladly eat rat poison! Gosh.
I ended the interview there.
Apparently, Ashleigh’s older brother had forced her to eat rat poison. He told her that if she did not eat it, he would make her wear his New York Yankees socks for the rest of the year. Ashleigh, a loyal Boston fan, downed several spoonfuls of rat poison before her mother figured out what was happening. The girl was rushed to the hospital, where they pumped her stomach and then kept her under observations for two days. Ashleigh’s mom then kept her at home for an additional day, “just in case.” I used this opportunity as a “teachable moment” to talk to the children about the importance of exercising good judgment.
64- Farting
I cherish the time during the day when my students go to Related Areas: Art, Music, PE, Chorus, Computer Lab, etc. This is the free time during my day when I have the opportunity to get my head straight. Sometimes I grade papers, sometimes I make copies, other times I plan lessons. The 40 minute break is also the time when I regain my strength; I soothe my vocal chords and rest my eyes.
This afternoon, while the students were at Art, I happily graded papers in silence. The serenity of my classroom was abruptly interrupted by Josh. He crashed through the door and stomped over to the front of my desk. Frowning, he threw a crumpled note at the floor and then stomped over to his own desk. I didn’t say a word, but watched as he took a seat and buried his head in his arms.
Oh, brother. I rolled my eyes and reached down to retrieve the note. What did he do this time?
I smoothed out the crinkles in the note. Reading it once, I blinked in disbelief. I smoothed out a few more crinkles to make sure I had read the note correctly. Sure enough, after reading it three times, I confirmed that the note contained one simple sentence, signed by Ms. Williamson the Art teacher.
Josh won’t stop farting.
-K. Williamson
Won’t stop farting?
I looked up from the paper just in time to see Josh raise his head from his arms. Our eyes met. I blinked. He blinked and then let a loud, ripping fart. “Pfffffffaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrtt!” His chair vibrated under the force.
I choked back a gasp.
Josh raised his hand to his forehead and gave me a brisk, military salute.
Jesus, this kid is a whacko.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” I asked him.
“No, ma’am.” The boy replied sweetly.
We spent the rest of my Planning Period sitting in my classroom together. I refused to play Josh’s game and deliberately ignored the boy. I knew things would get worse if I indulged his attention getting scheme. Every few minutes the silence would be broken by a brand new, roaring fart. Luckily, they all seemed to be odorless.
This afternoon, while the students were at Art, I happily graded papers in silence. The serenity of my classroom was abruptly interrupted by Josh. He crashed through the door and stomped over to the front of my desk. Frowning, he threw a crumpled note at the floor and then stomped over to his own desk. I didn’t say a word, but watched as he took a seat and buried his head in his arms.
Oh, brother. I rolled my eyes and reached down to retrieve the note. What did he do this time?
I smoothed out the crinkles in the note. Reading it once, I blinked in disbelief. I smoothed out a few more crinkles to make sure I had read the note correctly. Sure enough, after reading it three times, I confirmed that the note contained one simple sentence, signed by Ms. Williamson the Art teacher.
Josh won’t stop farting.
-K. Williamson
Won’t stop farting?
I looked up from the paper just in time to see Josh raise his head from his arms. Our eyes met. I blinked. He blinked and then let a loud, ripping fart. “Pfffffffaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrtt!” His chair vibrated under the force.
I choked back a gasp.
Josh raised his hand to his forehead and gave me a brisk, military salute.
Jesus, this kid is a whacko.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” I asked him.
“No, ma’am.” The boy replied sweetly.
We spent the rest of my Planning Period sitting in my classroom together. I refused to play Josh’s game and deliberately ignored the boy. I knew things would get worse if I indulged his attention getting scheme. Every few minutes the silence would be broken by a brand new, roaring fart. Luckily, they all seemed to be odorless.
63- Friendly Neighbor
Ms. Viamonte visited us in the cafeteria today. I could smell that bimbo’s perfume from twenty feet away, and the stench only got stronger as she clickety-clacked her hooker heels over to our table.
She sat down next to Caroline and they started chatting as if they were old friends. Immediately, my ears perked up. I didn’t think Caroline liked Ms. Viamonte. Caroline is always telling me about Ms. Viamonte’s terrible reputation as the neighborhood tramp. I strained my ears and caught bits and pieces of their conversation. It sounded like they were talking about pies and paint colors.
When Ms. Viamonte finally walked away, I casually asked Caroline about their conversation. “So, are you teaching your new neighbor how to bake pies?”
In the education profession you should never start a conversation by saying something negative about someone else. Even though I knew Caroline enjoyed making fun of Ms. Viamonte, I approached the topic as if their newfound friendship was not at all unusual. People’s opinions change faster than the weather in a place like this, and you never want to step on any toes. My tactic proved smart, because Caroline replied with an out of character tune.
“Oh yeah,” my Yankee coworker replied. “That girl isn’t so bad. I think she needs a friend. Someone to take her under their wing. Don’t you ever feel like that, being a new teacher and all?”
“Sure.” I replied. “It’s great to have somebody with more experience to go to for advice.”
“Exactly!” Caroline punched me in the arm. “That Viamonte, she needs guidance. So, hey,” Caroline shrugged, “Somebody’s gotta help that kid out.”
I waited for Caroline to finish chewing a bite of food. “Besides,” she continued, “That girl brought a fresh baked pumpkin pie over to our house. Mark loved it, ate a huge piece right away.”
She brought over a pie? Uh oh.
“She brought over a pie?”
“Yeah!” Caroline punched me again. “I’m telling you, that girl is not so bad. Mark’s going to help her repaint the interior of her house in a few weeks.”
The news just kept getting worse. Mark is a professional house painter; he runs his business outside of their home. He has a team of painters who travel with him from job to job in his Paint Truck, but occasionally he does independent side jobs. It sounded to me like Ms. Viamonte had found a way to sink her claws a little deeper into Caroline’s husband.
A wave of nausea splashed through my stomach when I realized the trap Caroline was walking into.
Should I tell her?
“Why does Ms. Viamonte need her house painted? I thought she just bought it brand new?” Maybe if I acted negative enough Caroline would remember that she thinks Ms. Viamonte is a home wrecking whore.
Caroline shrugged. “She wants different colors. Who cares? She’s willing to pay good money. Lighten up!” Caroline punched me for the third time. Then she stood to indicate that lunch time and our conversation were over.
Like a snake in the grass, Ms. Viamonte is slithering her way into destroying Caroline’s life.
She sat down next to Caroline and they started chatting as if they were old friends. Immediately, my ears perked up. I didn’t think Caroline liked Ms. Viamonte. Caroline is always telling me about Ms. Viamonte’s terrible reputation as the neighborhood tramp. I strained my ears and caught bits and pieces of their conversation. It sounded like they were talking about pies and paint colors.
When Ms. Viamonte finally walked away, I casually asked Caroline about their conversation. “So, are you teaching your new neighbor how to bake pies?”
In the education profession you should never start a conversation by saying something negative about someone else. Even though I knew Caroline enjoyed making fun of Ms. Viamonte, I approached the topic as if their newfound friendship was not at all unusual. People’s opinions change faster than the weather in a place like this, and you never want to step on any toes. My tactic proved smart, because Caroline replied with an out of character tune.
“Oh yeah,” my Yankee coworker replied. “That girl isn’t so bad. I think she needs a friend. Someone to take her under their wing. Don’t you ever feel like that, being a new teacher and all?”
“Sure.” I replied. “It’s great to have somebody with more experience to go to for advice.”
“Exactly!” Caroline punched me in the arm. “That Viamonte, she needs guidance. So, hey,” Caroline shrugged, “Somebody’s gotta help that kid out.”
I waited for Caroline to finish chewing a bite of food. “Besides,” she continued, “That girl brought a fresh baked pumpkin pie over to our house. Mark loved it, ate a huge piece right away.”
She brought over a pie? Uh oh.
“She brought over a pie?”
“Yeah!” Caroline punched me again. “I’m telling you, that girl is not so bad. Mark’s going to help her repaint the interior of her house in a few weeks.”
The news just kept getting worse. Mark is a professional house painter; he runs his business outside of their home. He has a team of painters who travel with him from job to job in his Paint Truck, but occasionally he does independent side jobs. It sounded to me like Ms. Viamonte had found a way to sink her claws a little deeper into Caroline’s husband.
A wave of nausea splashed through my stomach when I realized the trap Caroline was walking into.
Should I tell her?
“Why does Ms. Viamonte need her house painted? I thought she just bought it brand new?” Maybe if I acted negative enough Caroline would remember that she thinks Ms. Viamonte is a home wrecking whore.
Caroline shrugged. “She wants different colors. Who cares? She’s willing to pay good money. Lighten up!” Caroline punched me for the third time. Then she stood to indicate that lunch time and our conversation were over.
Like a snake in the grass, Ms. Viamonte is slithering her way into destroying Caroline’s life.
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