A few days ago, I found a note next to the printer in our Teacher’s Lounge. An exchange between two students, scrawled in almost illegible handwriting, this it what it said:
How do you know that? My brother sometimes hang out with him and that’s how I now he had a gun. he is not going to shot me or my brother or my b-friend. he pointed at my cousin. What the gun? I would had took the gun and point the gun at him. NO. I wasn’t about to go to Jail. Who did it to you? MY COUSIN!!! Ohh. But why is he on crack? He NOT he too young to be smoking. How old is he? 14 and he is not in school.
Too young to be smoking crack?
Of course this exchange is disturbing on a number of levels. I could tell that it had been written by an older student, so I went to the 4th and 5th grade teachers to ask if they had already seen the note. None of the teachers had ever seen it before, so I made a copy and gave the original to the principal. Next, I went to each of the 4th and 5th grade classes and asked them all the same question:
“Take this seriously,” I pleaded, “Think about my question and take a moment before you answer.” Pausing for dramatic effect, I finally asked, “At what age is a good age to start smoking crack?”
With the 5th graders, my question only lingered for a few seconds before kids began to call out “Never! No age is a good age to smoke crack!” None of them were fooled by my rhetorical question.
“Great!” I congratulated them, but still felt skeptical. Among the sea of faces, I knew that the statistical odds were against them. At least one of those cute little boogers would fall victim to deadly drug use. “Please remember- nothing is safe for you to smoke, no matter how old or mature you are.”
The 4th graders had a different answer to my question.
“At what age is a good age to start smoking crack?” I repeated.
After a longer and more thoughtful pause, a few students raised their hands into the air. Hoping to get straight to my point, I called on one of the more advanced kids to clear things up. “Tevin, what’s a good age?”
Tevin very matter-of-factly answered, “Eighteen.”
I was stunned. I honestly expected the kid to say, “Never.” They had a substitute that day and she shot me a rather confused and startled glance. The rest of the class innocently waited with blank expressions upon their faces, wondering if Tevin was correct.
“No,” I replied. “It’s not okay to smoke crack when you’re eighteen.” I called on another reliable student to help clear things up, “Monica?”
“Twenty-three?” She guessed hopefully.
“Twenty-three?” I repeated. “Do you guys think that it would be okay to smoke crack when you turn twenty-three?”
“No!” Hollered a boy from the back of the room, “You better wait until you’re forty!”
“Yeah, forty!” Another kid agreed.
“No! No! Definitely thirteen!”
After a round of random number calling, I quieted the class down. “Guys, the correct answer is never. You should never, ever smoke crack or any other substance. Smoking is bad for your mind and body, no matter what it is that you’re smoking or how old you are.”
The kids looked uncomfortably at one another. They were quiet.
I knew what they were thinking, so I continued my lecture, “It does not matter if your cousin, or your older sister, or your uncle smokes crack. That is a bad choice, and it is a choice that you do not have to make. You should never smoke crack or any other substance. Do you understand?”
Many students nodded and muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”
Antonio, who sat at the front of the room, piped up, “Teacher! Teacher! My momma don’t smoke crack, but she sure do like to smoke a little dope.”
I shook my head. “Kids,” I reiterated, hoping my message would sink in with at least a few of them, “Your parents will sometimes make choices that are not the best. You do not have to do what they do. Make choices that are good for you. Don’t smoke anything
91- Holiday Faculty Meeting
The air is full of holiday spirit. The kids are excited. The teachers are excited. Almost everyone is looking forward to the winter break. I say almost because there are a few students who would rather be at school than at home. For some kids, school is the only place that they receive love, warmth, and food. These kids get cranky before holidays and often cry that they do not want to leave.
I am concerned about Demarcus and Turd Boy, but neither of them seems too upset by the upcoming holiday. Demarcus’ family loves him, and will do their best to make him comfortable. Turd Boy’s family ignores him and I worry about how he will get food. I am planning to send home a package of fruit and cheese and crackers with Turd Boy on the last day before the break. This is another situation where I don’t give a damn if people say I have white-girl-ignorance; I don’t want my students to go hungry. My only fear is that Turd Boy’s parents will eat all of his food.
At the faculty meeting this afternoon I smiled guiltily at Coach and tried to wave a peaceful apology from across the room. He acknowledged my smile with a nod, but made no attempt to talk to me.
Principal spent most of the Faculty Meeting preaching about how we must not start the class parties until the last day of school before the holiday, “We must make use of our precious teaching time, y’all. This is still a school.”
Principal waited until the last minute to announce the winners of the Holiday Bulletin Board contest. “I was very impressed with some of your Bulletin Boards… and,” Her voiced trailed off for a minute. “…and not so impressed with others.” She looked disapprovingly in my direction.
Oh my god! The Intimidator made me take mine down! Didn’t Principal know?
The Intimidator crossed her arms over her fat chest and glared at me.
That buffoon!
Principal began to announce the winners. Esther, Ms. Viamonte, and some Kindergarten teacher all won the $5.00 gift certificates to Sonic.
Whoop-dee-doo, I hope Ms. Viamonte chokes on her cheeseburger.
Nobody was surprised when Mrs. Reeve, another First Grade teacher, won the $25.00 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble. Mrs. Reeve had attached blinking lights and moving reindeer to her bulletin board. When you passed by the display, a little motion detector would sense your presence and would begin playing Christmas carols. For all her hard work, that lunatic deserved to win the gift certificate.
I am concerned about Demarcus and Turd Boy, but neither of them seems too upset by the upcoming holiday. Demarcus’ family loves him, and will do their best to make him comfortable. Turd Boy’s family ignores him and I worry about how he will get food. I am planning to send home a package of fruit and cheese and crackers with Turd Boy on the last day before the break. This is another situation where I don’t give a damn if people say I have white-girl-ignorance; I don’t want my students to go hungry. My only fear is that Turd Boy’s parents will eat all of his food.
At the faculty meeting this afternoon I smiled guiltily at Coach and tried to wave a peaceful apology from across the room. He acknowledged my smile with a nod, but made no attempt to talk to me.
Principal spent most of the Faculty Meeting preaching about how we must not start the class parties until the last day of school before the holiday, “We must make use of our precious teaching time, y’all. This is still a school.”
Principal waited until the last minute to announce the winners of the Holiday Bulletin Board contest. “I was very impressed with some of your Bulletin Boards… and,” Her voiced trailed off for a minute. “…and not so impressed with others.” She looked disapprovingly in my direction.
Oh my god! The Intimidator made me take mine down! Didn’t Principal know?
The Intimidator crossed her arms over her fat chest and glared at me.
That buffoon!
Principal began to announce the winners. Esther, Ms. Viamonte, and some Kindergarten teacher all won the $5.00 gift certificates to Sonic.
Whoop-dee-doo, I hope Ms. Viamonte chokes on her cheeseburger.
Nobody was surprised when Mrs. Reeve, another First Grade teacher, won the $25.00 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble. Mrs. Reeve had attached blinking lights and moving reindeer to her bulletin board. When you passed by the display, a little motion detector would sense your presence and would begin playing Christmas carols. For all her hard work, that lunatic deserved to win the gift certificate.
90- Kramer's Tongue
Kramer came up to me today complaining that his tongue hurt. “When I woke up this morning, my tongue hurt real bad, and it felt a little itchy,” he told me.
“Did you tell your mother?” I asked him.
“Yes, but she was so busy with my baby sister, she didn’t have time to listen to what I was saying.” Kramer looked sadly at me with his big, brown eyes.
“Okay, let me see your tongue.” I put down the papers I was grading and gave the kid my full attention.
The boy stretched out his tongue as far as he could. “Aaaaaaaahhh,” he said as if he were in a doctor’s office.
What I saw made me want to vomit.
Covering the tip of his tongue, a full inch in diameter, was a bright red rash. The rash was lined with a teal blue ring that had an iridescent glow, and in the center of the rash was a yellowish boil.
What the hell is that? The kid’s tongue is rotting off!
“Oh, boy. That does look itchy.” I casually scooted farther away from Kramer. “Why don’t you go let the nurse take a look at your tongue?”
I sent Kramer to the nurse without a note. His tongue was enough of an explanation.
The boy never returned to the classroom. Instead the nurse sent an office aid in to collect Kramer’s his things. The aid told me that Kramer’s mother was on her way to pick up her son to take him to the doctor.
“Did you tell your mother?” I asked him.
“Yes, but she was so busy with my baby sister, she didn’t have time to listen to what I was saying.” Kramer looked sadly at me with his big, brown eyes.
“Okay, let me see your tongue.” I put down the papers I was grading and gave the kid my full attention.
The boy stretched out his tongue as far as he could. “Aaaaaaaahhh,” he said as if he were in a doctor’s office.
What I saw made me want to vomit.
Covering the tip of his tongue, a full inch in diameter, was a bright red rash. The rash was lined with a teal blue ring that had an iridescent glow, and in the center of the rash was a yellowish boil.
What the hell is that? The kid’s tongue is rotting off!
“Oh, boy. That does look itchy.” I casually scooted farther away from Kramer. “Why don’t you go let the nurse take a look at your tongue?”
I sent Kramer to the nurse without a note. His tongue was enough of an explanation.
The boy never returned to the classroom. Instead the nurse sent an office aid in to collect Kramer’s his things. The aid told me that Kramer’s mother was on her way to pick up her son to take him to the doctor.
89- Mattie Moved
On my way home from work yesterday, I saw Mattie’s father dragging a lot of garbage from their house to the street curb. I was surprised at the amount of garbage that one tiny house could produce. There were at least two dozen garbage bags on the street, laced with lots of loose objects, like broken furniture and old toys. I figured the family was just doing some much needed cleaning.
I became suspicious today, when Mattie did not show up for school. The girl is rarely absent and had showed no signs of sickness yesterday. During my planning period, I went to the main office to investigate. I went to the heart of the school, the School Secretary.
Secretary is a sassy woman in her late fifties. She is usually dressed in trendy, all black clothing, and wears lots of funky jewelry. Her hair is bleached a shocking white and her raspy voice reveals a love for chain-smoking cigarettes. It is known that the Secretary “holds the keys to the school.” This must be true, both figuratively and literally. She is the woman with all the information.
When asked about Mattie, Secretary’s response broke my heart, “You didn’t get the note? I sent you a note earlier today.”
“No, I didn’t get the note. What happened?” I already knew the answer.
Secretary spent a few seconds coughing up a piece of her lung and then answered me, “Mrs. Gomez called and withdrew Mattie and her siblings from school yesterday afternoon. They have moved to Raleigh, North Carolina.”
Mattie moved?
“Is it a permanent move?” I knew it was a silly question, but kids come and go in neighborhoods like ours. Mattie could move back.
Secretary peered at me from behind her rhinestone studded glasses with a look of contempt. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, indicating that I was wasting her time. “Kids move, honey. Get used to it.”
Not my Mattie! My heart hurt a little bit. I really liked that kid. She had potential. I would miss her.
To add the cherry on top, Mattie had been ahead in the BRIBE bicycle contest. Caroline and I weren’t going to have to rig the contest. If Mattie had not moved, she would definitely have been the winner of the pink bicycle.
I became suspicious today, when Mattie did not show up for school. The girl is rarely absent and had showed no signs of sickness yesterday. During my planning period, I went to the main office to investigate. I went to the heart of the school, the School Secretary.
Secretary is a sassy woman in her late fifties. She is usually dressed in trendy, all black clothing, and wears lots of funky jewelry. Her hair is bleached a shocking white and her raspy voice reveals a love for chain-smoking cigarettes. It is known that the Secretary “holds the keys to the school.” This must be true, both figuratively and literally. She is the woman with all the information.
When asked about Mattie, Secretary’s response broke my heart, “You didn’t get the note? I sent you a note earlier today.”
“No, I didn’t get the note. What happened?” I already knew the answer.
Secretary spent a few seconds coughing up a piece of her lung and then answered me, “Mrs. Gomez called and withdrew Mattie and her siblings from school yesterday afternoon. They have moved to Raleigh, North Carolina.”
Mattie moved?
“Is it a permanent move?” I knew it was a silly question, but kids come and go in neighborhoods like ours. Mattie could move back.
Secretary peered at me from behind her rhinestone studded glasses with a look of contempt. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, indicating that I was wasting her time. “Kids move, honey. Get used to it.”
Not my Mattie! My heart hurt a little bit. I really liked that kid. She had potential. I would miss her.
To add the cherry on top, Mattie had been ahead in the BRIBE bicycle contest. Caroline and I weren’t going to have to rig the contest. If Mattie had not moved, she would definitely have been the winner of the pink bicycle.
88- Holiday Party
Class Mommy has been hounding me about the kid’s holiday party. She desperately wants to start planning and has been in my classroom everyday for the past week with questions about the party. After her horrific disregard for the Halloween Party rules, I really don’t want the woman working on the next holiday party.
I have explained to class Mommy several times that there are students in our class who are not Christian, and their religious beliefs will make it impossible to have a traditional Christmas party. Gaby and Kramer celebrate Kwanza, Ajith is Islamic, Ashleigh is Jewish, and Taylor comes from a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. One fourth of my class does not celebrate Christmas.
I want to be able to include all of my students in the festivities, and figure that if we call our party a Holiday Party we can turn it into a fun and educational experience that will be acceptable to parents of various religions. We will incorporate holiday traditions from many different cultures into our celebration; focusing on the differences between Christmas, Kwanza, and Hanukkah.
If I let Class Mommy plan this party, she will surely try to bring in a Christmas Tree, Santa Claus, and even Baby Jesus himself. I knew I had to do something to stop the woman from undermining my Holiday Party plan.
Class Mommy stopped by my classroom after school to pick up Francesca. The lady was in full throttle pushy mode, and aggressively bullied me to allow her to plan the class party. I was at a loss of words and feeling frustrated, when my own angel walked through the door.
Wobbling on a pair of yellow heels that laced up her leg to the knee, Mrs. Goats entered my classroom. She was wearing the tightest leather miniskirt I have ever seen on a fat woman.
How does she fit into these outfits?
“Jamieeeeee!” Mrs. Goat’s shrill country voice made Class Mommy cringe.
With her jaw dropped, Class Mommy stared disapprovingly at Mrs. Goats, “Who is that—?”
Before Class Mommy could finish her question, I seized my opportunity to introduce the two women. “Mrs. Goats!” I smiled and waved the woman over.
Cheerfully, Mrs. Goats introduced herself to Class Mommy. “I just want to thank you so much; your girl and the other kids have been so nice to my boy, Jamie.”
Class Mommy gritted her teeth and forced a smile.
A little light bulb went off in my head, and I quickly asked, “So, Mrs. Goats, does your offer still stand to help with class parties?”
Class Mommy gasped.
“Well, heck yes! I’d love to help.” Mrs. Goats beamed.
Ah, ha! Take that, Class Mommy!
“Class Mommy was just volunteering to help organize this year’s Holiday Party and it would be great if you could help her out. The two of you could work together.”
“Two heads are better than one!” Mrs. Goats agreed. She laughed and gave Class Mommy a friendly pat on the back. “Sounds like we’re going to be buddies!”
Class Mommy looked stunned. Her skin had paled and she started to stammer, “Uhhh. Ummm.. Eh… Oh, yes!” Trying desperately to regain her classy composure, she flashed a brilliant row of white teeth and agreed, “This will be wonderful!”
I explained my idea for a multicultural Holiday celebration to Mrs. Goats and Class Mommy. They both acted liked they loved the idea, so I left them alone to discuss a few details.
It was great to watch them exchange numbers, and I heard Mrs. Goats say, “You can call me Cheryl. Or Destiny. That’s my stage name…”
Ah, sweet revenge.
At least I could trust Mrs. Goats to keep Class Mommy in line.
I have explained to class Mommy several times that there are students in our class who are not Christian, and their religious beliefs will make it impossible to have a traditional Christmas party. Gaby and Kramer celebrate Kwanza, Ajith is Islamic, Ashleigh is Jewish, and Taylor comes from a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. One fourth of my class does not celebrate Christmas.
I want to be able to include all of my students in the festivities, and figure that if we call our party a Holiday Party we can turn it into a fun and educational experience that will be acceptable to parents of various religions. We will incorporate holiday traditions from many different cultures into our celebration; focusing on the differences between Christmas, Kwanza, and Hanukkah.
If I let Class Mommy plan this party, she will surely try to bring in a Christmas Tree, Santa Claus, and even Baby Jesus himself. I knew I had to do something to stop the woman from undermining my Holiday Party plan.
Class Mommy stopped by my classroom after school to pick up Francesca. The lady was in full throttle pushy mode, and aggressively bullied me to allow her to plan the class party. I was at a loss of words and feeling frustrated, when my own angel walked through the door.
Wobbling on a pair of yellow heels that laced up her leg to the knee, Mrs. Goats entered my classroom. She was wearing the tightest leather miniskirt I have ever seen on a fat woman.
How does she fit into these outfits?
“Jamieeeeee!” Mrs. Goat’s shrill country voice made Class Mommy cringe.
With her jaw dropped, Class Mommy stared disapprovingly at Mrs. Goats, “Who is that—?”
Before Class Mommy could finish her question, I seized my opportunity to introduce the two women. “Mrs. Goats!” I smiled and waved the woman over.
Cheerfully, Mrs. Goats introduced herself to Class Mommy. “I just want to thank you so much; your girl and the other kids have been so nice to my boy, Jamie.”
Class Mommy gritted her teeth and forced a smile.
A little light bulb went off in my head, and I quickly asked, “So, Mrs. Goats, does your offer still stand to help with class parties?”
Class Mommy gasped.
“Well, heck yes! I’d love to help.” Mrs. Goats beamed.
Ah, ha! Take that, Class Mommy!
“Class Mommy was just volunteering to help organize this year’s Holiday Party and it would be great if you could help her out. The two of you could work together.”
“Two heads are better than one!” Mrs. Goats agreed. She laughed and gave Class Mommy a friendly pat on the back. “Sounds like we’re going to be buddies!”
Class Mommy looked stunned. Her skin had paled and she started to stammer, “Uhhh. Ummm.. Eh… Oh, yes!” Trying desperately to regain her classy composure, she flashed a brilliant row of white teeth and agreed, “This will be wonderful!”
I explained my idea for a multicultural Holiday celebration to Mrs. Goats and Class Mommy. They both acted liked they loved the idea, so I left them alone to discuss a few details.
It was great to watch them exchange numbers, and I heard Mrs. Goats say, “You can call me Cheryl. Or Destiny. That’s my stage name…”
Ah, sweet revenge.
At least I could trust Mrs. Goats to keep Class Mommy in line.
87- "Ralph"
I stopped by Coach’s office after school today. I wanted to thank him for watching my class last Friday afternoon. The humiliation of puking in front of Principal had worn off a little, but as soon as Coach saw me, he started to laugh.
“Hey, it’s Ralph!” He teased.
News spreads like wildfire in a school. I’m sure the entire faculty knew about my “situation” within an hour after it had happened. Several of them now refer to me as Ralph.
“Thanks for watching my class on Friday. I really appreciate it.”
“Aww, Ralph! No problem.” Coach pretended to punch the air around him. He winked, “Anytime, little lady.”
I like Coach. Despite his obvious fondness for marijuana and his tendency to make sexist remarks, the man is friendly and means well. Luckily, I do not run into him very often. The gym and his office are located on the opposite side of the building from my classroom. When I drop my students off for PE, Coach is usually busy, so the only time we really talk is at Faculty Meetings.
“So, Ralphie, you got a little bun in the oven? Eh?” Coach pointed at my stomach. “You preggers? Yeah?”
Is he serious?
“No, I just had a stomach virus.”
Coach winked again. “You can tell me,” he said this like we were old pals sharing a secret. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He was getting on my nerves. “Women can throw up for reasons other than being pregnant. I had a stomach virus.”
Coach loved to tease, and he knew he had struck a nerve. Grinning from ear to ear, he put his finger to his lips and started giggling. “Your secret is safe with me!”
I wasn’t in the mood to joke. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Are you stoned right now?”
Oh damn, why did I ask that?
Coach’s smile faded from his face. He giggled once more, but this time he seemed nervous, “What’s that?” he asked.
“Stoned. Are you stoned right now?” I repeated my question. I felt like a bitch, but the guy had made me angry.
Coach’s eyes darted around; checking to make sure no one was around to hear. “Shhhh!” he said. “No! No!” He looked around his office, like it might be bugged, “Don’t ask me questions like that! Not here.”
“Fine.” I said, “You’re not stoned and I’m not pregnant. Let’s just leave it at that.” I winked at Coach, and then turned around and left his office.
I felt like a jerk, but I wanted to put an end to any future speculation and gossip before it even began. Hopefully I freaked Coach out enough to stop him from spreading uncomfortable rumors.
“Hey, it’s Ralph!” He teased.
News spreads like wildfire in a school. I’m sure the entire faculty knew about my “situation” within an hour after it had happened. Several of them now refer to me as Ralph.
“Thanks for watching my class on Friday. I really appreciate it.”
“Aww, Ralph! No problem.” Coach pretended to punch the air around him. He winked, “Anytime, little lady.”
I like Coach. Despite his obvious fondness for marijuana and his tendency to make sexist remarks, the man is friendly and means well. Luckily, I do not run into him very often. The gym and his office are located on the opposite side of the building from my classroom. When I drop my students off for PE, Coach is usually busy, so the only time we really talk is at Faculty Meetings.
“So, Ralphie, you got a little bun in the oven? Eh?” Coach pointed at my stomach. “You preggers? Yeah?”
Is he serious?
“No, I just had a stomach virus.”
Coach winked again. “You can tell me,” he said this like we were old pals sharing a secret. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He was getting on my nerves. “Women can throw up for reasons other than being pregnant. I had a stomach virus.”
Coach loved to tease, and he knew he had struck a nerve. Grinning from ear to ear, he put his finger to his lips and started giggling. “Your secret is safe with me!”
I wasn’t in the mood to joke. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Are you stoned right now?”
Oh damn, why did I ask that?
Coach’s smile faded from his face. He giggled once more, but this time he seemed nervous, “What’s that?” he asked.
“Stoned. Are you stoned right now?” I repeated my question. I felt like a bitch, but the guy had made me angry.
Coach’s eyes darted around; checking to make sure no one was around to hear. “Shhhh!” he said. “No! No!” He looked around his office, like it might be bugged, “Don’t ask me questions like that! Not here.”
“Fine.” I said, “You’re not stoned and I’m not pregnant. Let’s just leave it at that.” I winked at Coach, and then turned around and left his office.
I felt like a jerk, but I wanted to put an end to any future speculation and gossip before it even began. Hopefully I freaked Coach out enough to stop him from spreading uncomfortable rumors.
86- National Board Certification
After three years of service, teachers are eligible to apply for National Board Certification. Certification is granted to those teachers who can prove that they are highly competent in several areas of teaching. The application process is grueling; it requires lots of paperwork, videos of self- teaching, self-reflection and analysis, several tests, and many other time consuming tasks. The process takes a full year and then your application is presented to a group of judges who will decide if the teacher is qualified enough to be Nationally Board Certified. The goal is to award those excellent teachers who go above and beyond their standard call of duty in the education world.
The rewards for becoming certified are significant. In addition to a $3000.00 per year bonus from The District, the government annually awards National Board Certified teachers another $7000.00. Certified teachers can also teach in any other state within the United States, without being required to become recertified in that state- hence National Certification. (Usually, teacher certification is specific from state to state and you must take new certification tests if you move.) National Board Certification expires after ten years.
Several teachers from our school have pending applications to become National Board certified. Today is the day that their results came out. Today is the day that I learned that National Board Certification is a big fat joke on the American Public School System. Despite the program’s ambitious aim to reward stellar teachers, I realized today that lousy teachers can easily become certified, while great teachers can be rejected and ignored.
You don’t have to be an excellent teacher to become National Board Certified; you just have to create an excellent application portfolio. You can be a loser teacher and become certified! All you need is one good buddy who passed in a previous year to hand over their old portfolio, and then- voila! Throw in a few good videos of yourself teaching a lesson, rewrite your old buddy’s information to match your own, and there you have it- the prestige of being a National Board Certified teacher. What bullshit!
Mrs. Frankenstein, who thinks that Alaska is a part of Canada, passed the National Boards today. Esther, who confuses her students with stories of Harriet Tubman building a railroad and thinks that the word legal is a noun, has been a National Board Certified teacher for years. What a joke! On the other hand, wonderful teachers like Caroline, who engage their students on a regular basis and teach phenomenal lessons, are rejected for certification. How ridiculous! I can’t believe that the National Board Certification committee doesn’t realize the holes in their program.
I have lost all respect for those who brag about being certified. Losers can get certified and master teachers can be rejected. The title holds no true standard of excellence.
Of course, now that I have figured out the system, I will definitely apply for National Board Certification. (If I am still a teacher in three years!) Not for the prestige of the award, but because I want the money.
The rewards for becoming certified are significant. In addition to a $3000.00 per year bonus from The District, the government annually awards National Board Certified teachers another $7000.00. Certified teachers can also teach in any other state within the United States, without being required to become recertified in that state- hence National Certification. (Usually, teacher certification is specific from state to state and you must take new certification tests if you move.) National Board Certification expires after ten years.
Several teachers from our school have pending applications to become National Board certified. Today is the day that their results came out. Today is the day that I learned that National Board Certification is a big fat joke on the American Public School System. Despite the program’s ambitious aim to reward stellar teachers, I realized today that lousy teachers can easily become certified, while great teachers can be rejected and ignored.
You don’t have to be an excellent teacher to become National Board Certified; you just have to create an excellent application portfolio. You can be a loser teacher and become certified! All you need is one good buddy who passed in a previous year to hand over their old portfolio, and then- voila! Throw in a few good videos of yourself teaching a lesson, rewrite your old buddy’s information to match your own, and there you have it- the prestige of being a National Board Certified teacher. What bullshit!
Mrs. Frankenstein, who thinks that Alaska is a part of Canada, passed the National Boards today. Esther, who confuses her students with stories of Harriet Tubman building a railroad and thinks that the word legal is a noun, has been a National Board Certified teacher for years. What a joke! On the other hand, wonderful teachers like Caroline, who engage their students on a regular basis and teach phenomenal lessons, are rejected for certification. How ridiculous! I can’t believe that the National Board Certification committee doesn’t realize the holes in their program.
I have lost all respect for those who brag about being certified. Losers can get certified and master teachers can be rejected. The title holds no true standard of excellence.
Of course, now that I have figured out the system, I will definitely apply for National Board Certification. (If I am still a teacher in three years!) Not for the prestige of the award, but because I want the money.
85- Vomit
When my alarm clock went off this morning at 6am, I awoke feeling as sick as a dog. I felt feverish and nauseated. I forced myself to get out of bed, and briefly considered calling in sick. After several minutes of deliberation, I decided that I would be damned if I were going to waste one of my sick days on being sick. It was a Friday, so I convinced myself that if I could make it though to the end of the day, my vacation time would be safe..
To prepare, I took three Ibuprofen tablets and ate a banana. On my way to work, I cursed myself for being so foolish. Yet, stubbornly, I still found myself in my classroom, greeting students and teaching lessons. I never started to feel better. In fact, I started to feel worse. My head was swimming with fever and my stomach was in knots.
In the middle of giving my students a Vocabulary Test, I felt a sudden urge to vomit. Without any explanation to the kids, I dropped the tests and ran from the classroom. I didn’t make it to the bathroom. I did get all the way to the Teacher’s Lounge before I puked. I burst into the lounge and stuck my head into the nearest trash can. Clinging to the bin, I must have vomited for a full three minutes before I could surface.
Lifting my head from the garbage, I saw Principal standing nearby.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“No,” I moaned, “I’m sick.”
“Well, I can see that. You need to go home.”
Principal arranged for Coach to watch my class until they could find a substitute. She told me never to come to work that sick again and scolded me for putting the students and teachers at risk for illness.
I must have muttered something about not wanting to use up sick days, because I can remember Principal’s southern voice say, “If you go home now, it’ll only be counted as a half-day.”
How embarrassing.
And I never got the chance to give The Intimidator her first Secret Santa gift.
To prepare, I took three Ibuprofen tablets and ate a banana. On my way to work, I cursed myself for being so foolish. Yet, stubbornly, I still found myself in my classroom, greeting students and teaching lessons. I never started to feel better. In fact, I started to feel worse. My head was swimming with fever and my stomach was in knots.
In the middle of giving my students a Vocabulary Test, I felt a sudden urge to vomit. Without any explanation to the kids, I dropped the tests and ran from the classroom. I didn’t make it to the bathroom. I did get all the way to the Teacher’s Lounge before I puked. I burst into the lounge and stuck my head into the nearest trash can. Clinging to the bin, I must have vomited for a full three minutes before I could surface.
Lifting my head from the garbage, I saw Principal standing nearby.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“No,” I moaned, “I’m sick.”
“Well, I can see that. You need to go home.”
Principal arranged for Coach to watch my class until they could find a substitute. She told me never to come to work that sick again and scolded me for putting the students and teachers at risk for illness.
I must have muttered something about not wanting to use up sick days, because I can remember Principal’s southern voice say, “If you go home now, it’ll only be counted as a half-day.”
How embarrassing.
And I never got the chance to give The Intimidator her first Secret Santa gift.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
