My students and I froze all the way up until lunch time today, where, after another heated discussion with my colleagues about The District and their electricity bill, I learned a little teacher trick-of-the-trade. Apparently, the other teachers cheat the system by placing ice cubes or freezer packs on their classroom thermostats. This fools the thermostat into heating the classrooms to a reasonable temperature. “Just don’t get caught,” they warned ominously.
When we finished marveling at the cheapness of The District, our conversation steered towards Ms. Viamonte and Caroline. Rumor has it that Ms. Viamonte goes to Mr. Thorpe’s office and cries everyday. The other teachers have completely shunned the girl; they never speak to her, they don’t include her during lunch, and they refuse to plan lessons with her. Ms. Viamonte is an outcast whose only friends are her students. Despite the silent treatment, Ms. Viamonte is showing no signs of quitting her job.
No one has heard from Caroline. It’s silly, but I keep wondering if we should send her flowers or a cake, or something to let her know that we care. There are stories that she has checked herself into a mental institution. I have also heard that she’s been treating herself to a long vacation at a far away spa. I can only hope the latter is true. No matter what she’s up to, the unfortunate truth is that Caroline has now missed almost five full weeks of work. Unless she has a lot of vacation time saved up, or has found another job, she’ll have to come back soon.
In the midst of our pondering about the fate of Caroline and Ms. Viamonte, Gaby approached the Teacher’s Table. “Teacher! Teacher!” She tugged on the sleeve of my coat.
“This better be important!” Esther barked at Gaby.
I cringed. I hate it when other teachers reprimand my students, especially in front of me. Students are not supposed to disturb the teachers during lunch, unless it is an emergency. Many teachers are adamant about this rule, but I don’t mind and therefore I don’t enforce it as often as other teachers would like.
“Oh, yes!” Gaby nodded. “Very important.”
“Okay, how can I help you?” I gave the girl my full attention, ignoring the glares from Esther and the other teachers.
Gaby help up a granola bar for me to see and pointed at the wrapper, “This says Sugar Free.”
I read the wrapper. “Yes… it does.” I agreed with Gaby. “So?”
“So,” the child’s eyes grew wide, “Once, my mom gave me a piece of sugarless gum and I almost puked.”
Almost puked? Gaby stared and me and waited for a response. What did she expect me to say?
“Are you telling me that you are allergic to sugarless products?” I was confused.
“No!” Gaby laughed. “I just think they’re gross. I mean, after I chewed that sugarless gum, it tasted so gross I threw it outside and my dog wouldn’t even eat it. Now that’s a shame!”
Her dog wouldn’t even eat it?
Baffled, I asked, “Is this seriously what you came over here to tell me?”
Gaby nodded.
I could feel Esther’s frown boring into the back of my head. I tried to remain composed, but couldn’t hold back my own laughter. Kids are so silly!
I gave in to the game, “Okay, so you hate sugarless gum and so does your dog. What does that have to do with your granola bar?”
A priceless grin spread across Gaby’s face, “Do you think it will taste gross, too?”
I shook my head and pointed towards the Kid’s Table, “I don’t know! You’ll just have to try it and find out. Go!”
Gaby went back to her seat and I resumed eating my lunch, still chuckling from our absurd conversation. In mid-chew I realized that all the teachers were glaring in my direction.
“You shouldn’t teach them that it’s okay to come over here and disturb us.” Esther frowned.
I ignored Esther and kept on smiling. Why fight a battle I’d never win?
116- Cold Classroom
My classroom was bitterly cold when I arrived to work this morning. So cold, in fact, that I did not want to remove my down coat. Many of my students also opted to keep their jackets on. I adjusted the thermostat several times and it always read 72 degrees, yet the kids continued to shiver. I knew their must be an error.
At lunch time, Principal announced that it was too cold outside for recess. My students moaned and groaned at the idea of indoor recess; they would be forced to resort to board games and Uno! Cards. District policy states that kids are not allowed outside to play if the temperature is below 40 degrees. South Carolina children are not accustomed to chilly weather. It was in the high 30s when we sat down to lunch.
I made a comment at the Teacher’s Table about my broken thermostat.
The teachers responded with indignant snorts and bitter laughter. “Your thermostat ain’t broken, honey. They’re all like that. None of ‘em work. The District controls the temperature from their maintenance office.”
“What temperature do they keep it on?”
Esther rolled her eyes and patted me on the shoulder, “You better just bundle up,” she advised. “Wear lots of layers.”
It was then that I noticed that Esther was wearing several layers of clothing. She wore a turtle neck, a sweater, and a wool cardigan. Looking around the table, I discovered that all of my colleagues were wearing an uncomfortably copious amount of clothing.
“Well, what temperature do they keep it at?” I asked again.
My question evoked more displeased grunts and snorts. “The District claims that they keep it on 70, but we all know that’s BS. We freeze every year around this time.”
“That’s crazy. Don’t they know how cold this school is?”
“Oh, they know all right, but they don’t care. They’re cheap. Remember, honey, you’re teaching at a poor school in a poor district. If The District let us control our own heat, they’d go broke. They gotta keep tight tabs on their electricity bill. That’s what it all comes down to: money and the budget.”
A poor school, in a poor district. The words rang in my ears.
“The kids, they’re so cold!” I protested, “How could The District get away with this?”
Again my colleagues laughed. “At a school like this, there’s no one to complain. Most parents don’t care, and the ones who do are too intimidated by school administrators to say anything. The District banks on slack parental involvement, they can get away with murder in a school like this…”
The teachers went on and on about how The District takes advantage of them and the kids and the parents in our community. I didn’t know what to take seriously, many teachers are into “conspiracy theories” that the system is out to get them. But, as they spoke, I thought to myself, I know a few parents who would care. Maybe I could sway a mom or two to complain about the temperature.
At lunch time, Principal announced that it was too cold outside for recess. My students moaned and groaned at the idea of indoor recess; they would be forced to resort to board games and Uno! Cards. District policy states that kids are not allowed outside to play if the temperature is below 40 degrees. South Carolina children are not accustomed to chilly weather. It was in the high 30s when we sat down to lunch.
I made a comment at the Teacher’s Table about my broken thermostat.
The teachers responded with indignant snorts and bitter laughter. “Your thermostat ain’t broken, honey. They’re all like that. None of ‘em work. The District controls the temperature from their maintenance office.”
“What temperature do they keep it on?”
Esther rolled her eyes and patted me on the shoulder, “You better just bundle up,” she advised. “Wear lots of layers.”
It was then that I noticed that Esther was wearing several layers of clothing. She wore a turtle neck, a sweater, and a wool cardigan. Looking around the table, I discovered that all of my colleagues were wearing an uncomfortably copious amount of clothing.
“Well, what temperature do they keep it at?” I asked again.
My question evoked more displeased grunts and snorts. “The District claims that they keep it on 70, but we all know that’s BS. We freeze every year around this time.”
“That’s crazy. Don’t they know how cold this school is?”
“Oh, they know all right, but they don’t care. They’re cheap. Remember, honey, you’re teaching at a poor school in a poor district. If The District let us control our own heat, they’d go broke. They gotta keep tight tabs on their electricity bill. That’s what it all comes down to: money and the budget.”
A poor school, in a poor district. The words rang in my ears.
“The kids, they’re so cold!” I protested, “How could The District get away with this?”
Again my colleagues laughed. “At a school like this, there’s no one to complain. Most parents don’t care, and the ones who do are too intimidated by school administrators to say anything. The District banks on slack parental involvement, they can get away with murder in a school like this…”
The teachers went on and on about how The District takes advantage of them and the kids and the parents in our community. I didn’t know what to take seriously, many teachers are into “conspiracy theories” that the system is out to get them. But, as they spoke, I thought to myself, I know a few parents who would care. Maybe I could sway a mom or two to complain about the temperature.
115- Late Start, Ice
School began on a two hour delay today. Last night, it sleeted for a while and the temperatures remained cold enough to leave a little bit of morning ice on the roads. For safety reasons, the District decided to put the schools on a two hour delay. The rule is, if the kids get a two-hour late start, the teachers get a one-hour late start. If the kids only get a one-hour late start, teachers have to come to work at their regular time. I love two hour delays because I get a whole extra hour of sleep.
I slept late this morning and then arrived at work to enjoy the luxury of a full hour free of children to prepare for the day. At 9:30 the school bell rang and kids began to file, one by one, into my classroom.
All were in high spirits, except for Turd Boy. He entered my classroom as a dripping wet block of ice. His teeth were chattering and his dark complexion had paled.
“What happened to you?” I asked, rushing to greet the child. “Why are you all wet? And why are you wearing shorts?” I looked down to see that Turd Boy had come to school in a pair of cut-off jean shorts that barely reached his knees.
“I ain’t got no TV at my house. I didn’t know about no delay. I waited and waited and waited for that dang bus the whole time.” Turd Boy started to cry and wrapped his arms around my waist.
I cringed. In addition to his everyday filth, Turd Boy was soaked with water. Obviously his bus stop does not provide shelter from the rain.
Relenting, I hugged him back and felt my own clothes become saturated with frosty wetness. After allowing the boy time to shed his tears, I wrapped him up in a blanket that I kept by the Reading Rug chair.
Due to the boy’s infamy for soiled garments, I knew that Nurse would be able to help. I sent Turd Boy to her office to request a change of clothes.
My outfit, from where he had hugged me, was soaked. I too, was chilled to the bone. I knew I would have no choice, but to hope that my clothes would air dry as quickly as possible. When I left school this afternoon, at 4:30, my clothes were still damp and I was still freezing.
I slept late this morning and then arrived at work to enjoy the luxury of a full hour free of children to prepare for the day. At 9:30 the school bell rang and kids began to file, one by one, into my classroom.
All were in high spirits, except for Turd Boy. He entered my classroom as a dripping wet block of ice. His teeth were chattering and his dark complexion had paled.
“What happened to you?” I asked, rushing to greet the child. “Why are you all wet? And why are you wearing shorts?” I looked down to see that Turd Boy had come to school in a pair of cut-off jean shorts that barely reached his knees.
“I ain’t got no TV at my house. I didn’t know about no delay. I waited and waited and waited for that dang bus the whole time.” Turd Boy started to cry and wrapped his arms around my waist.
I cringed. In addition to his everyday filth, Turd Boy was soaked with water. Obviously his bus stop does not provide shelter from the rain.
Relenting, I hugged him back and felt my own clothes become saturated with frosty wetness. After allowing the boy time to shed his tears, I wrapped him up in a blanket that I kept by the Reading Rug chair.
Due to the boy’s infamy for soiled garments, I knew that Nurse would be able to help. I sent Turd Boy to her office to request a change of clothes.
My outfit, from where he had hugged me, was soaked. I too, was chilled to the bone. I knew I would have no choice, but to hope that my clothes would air dry as quickly as possible. When I left school this afternoon, at 4:30, my clothes were still damp and I was still freezing.
114- Folk Nation
Kramer came in to school today acting like a Holy Terror. His bad attitude started at the door, where I greeted him, “Good morning, Kramer! How are you today?”
“Shut up!” The chubby boy shouted at me.
Shut up?
Other than Josh, no student has ever told me to shut up and frankly, I had no idea what to do about it. I’m not very good at being scary or yelling, or even threatening the kids. I keep telling myself that next year (if I come back next year) I will have a solid classroom management plan.
“Excuse me?” I stopped Kramer, “What did you just say?” I wanted to give the kid a chance to apologize, or tell me I had heard him incorrectly. Kramer had never acted disrespectful in my classroom.
“I said, SHUT UP!” The boy repeated.
Well, there was no mistake, and now I had to reprimand the boy. I bent down to be at eye level and looked sternly at Kramer. “That is not how you speak to your teacher. Do you understand?”
Kramer shrugged his shoulders. “So.”
“So?” I was flabbergasted. “No, sir! You wouldn’t speak to your mother like that and you’re not going to speak to me that way, either! You owe me an apology.” I looked him in his good eye. “Right now.”
“Man, whatever.” Kramer shoved me out of the way and went into the classroom.
What is wrong with this kid?
I followed the boy into the classroom and watched as he slammed his backpack onto the floor and then plopped himself into his seat. Immediately, Kramer withdrew a permanent marker from his pocket and began to draw on his desk.
Has this boy lost his mind?
I rushed over and pulled the marker from his hand. “What has gotten into you?” Looking down, I realized that there were already dozens of doodles all over Kramer’s desk: six-pointed stars, stick figures of people holding guns, strange looking pitchforks, and little faces with tear drops on their cheeks. The drawings were scary.
“What is all of this?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. Other students began to crowd around Kramer’s desk, peering curiously at his drawings.
“Kramer, what is all of this?”
The boy looked proud, and in a tough guy voice he responded, “They’re signs of the Folk.”
“What?” I was now utterly puzzled.
“They’re gang signs, Teacher.” Gaby piped in, “Kramer has been drawing gang signs all over his desk!”
“Ooohhh! He’s in trouble!” The kids starting snickering and several of them looked downright frightened.
Gang signs?
I grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him into the hallway. “What is all of this about?” I demanded. “What are those drawings on your desk?”
“I told you, they’re signs of the Folk.” Kramer did his best to keep up the tough guy charade.
“What is the Folk? Is that why you’re acting so badly today?” I usually avoid telling the kids that they’re bad, but this wasn’t a time for choice words.
Kramer nodded. “My brother, he told me that if I wanted to be a Folk, this is how I have to act at school.” The boy crumbled and his eyes began to water. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“What is the Folk?” I asked again.
“Folk Nation.” The boy answered, “My brother said I can’t tell you ‘nothin about it.”
“Kramer, this is serious. I’m going to have to report this to Principal. And I will call your mother.”
“No! Please,” Kramer begged. “Not my mamma!”
Of course, I did call his mother and told her everything that had happened. Five minutes after our telephone conversation, she was at the school and had Kramer by the ear. The boy was in serious trouble.
Principal led Kramer’s mother into my classroom, where they both studied the drawings on his desk.
In front of me, Principal, and all of my students, Kramer’s mother smacked her son on the back of his head. She gripped him by his shoulder and walked him out of my classroom. As they went, I could hear her say, “You are in so much trouble, you may never again see the light of day…” There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.
That afternoon, after all of my students had left for the day, I stayed late to do some research about Folk Nation. I learned that Folk Nation is a violent group based out of Chicago that has spread to the South East. Although Folk Nation is not a gang itself, it is a nation of people under which many individual gangs develop. The symbols that Kramer had drawn on this desk represented many dark gang related issues: the six-pointed star represents the honored death of a famous gang member killed by gunshots, each tear on the face’s cheek stands for a person murdered by that particular individual, the pitch fork represents the pride of Folk Nation, and the list goes on and on.
It makes me wonder… I remember several months ago, Kramer’s brother came to the school to walk Kramer home. I always though the brother just had eccentric taste in tattoos, but now I realize that the two ink stained teardrops on the guy’s cheek indicated that he had already murdered two people.
“Shut up!” The chubby boy shouted at me.
Shut up?
Other than Josh, no student has ever told me to shut up and frankly, I had no idea what to do about it. I’m not very good at being scary or yelling, or even threatening the kids. I keep telling myself that next year (if I come back next year) I will have a solid classroom management plan.
“Excuse me?” I stopped Kramer, “What did you just say?” I wanted to give the kid a chance to apologize, or tell me I had heard him incorrectly. Kramer had never acted disrespectful in my classroom.
“I said, SHUT UP!” The boy repeated.
Well, there was no mistake, and now I had to reprimand the boy. I bent down to be at eye level and looked sternly at Kramer. “That is not how you speak to your teacher. Do you understand?”
Kramer shrugged his shoulders. “So.”
“So?” I was flabbergasted. “No, sir! You wouldn’t speak to your mother like that and you’re not going to speak to me that way, either! You owe me an apology.” I looked him in his good eye. “Right now.”
“Man, whatever.” Kramer shoved me out of the way and went into the classroom.
What is wrong with this kid?
I followed the boy into the classroom and watched as he slammed his backpack onto the floor and then plopped himself into his seat. Immediately, Kramer withdrew a permanent marker from his pocket and began to draw on his desk.
Has this boy lost his mind?
I rushed over and pulled the marker from his hand. “What has gotten into you?” Looking down, I realized that there were already dozens of doodles all over Kramer’s desk: six-pointed stars, stick figures of people holding guns, strange looking pitchforks, and little faces with tear drops on their cheeks. The drawings were scary.
“What is all of this?” I couldn’t hide my astonishment. Other students began to crowd around Kramer’s desk, peering curiously at his drawings.
“Kramer, what is all of this?”
The boy looked proud, and in a tough guy voice he responded, “They’re signs of the Folk.”
“What?” I was now utterly puzzled.
“They’re gang signs, Teacher.” Gaby piped in, “Kramer has been drawing gang signs all over his desk!”
“Ooohhh! He’s in trouble!” The kids starting snickering and several of them looked downright frightened.
Gang signs?
I grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him into the hallway. “What is all of this about?” I demanded. “What are those drawings on your desk?”
“I told you, they’re signs of the Folk.” Kramer did his best to keep up the tough guy charade.
“What is the Folk? Is that why you’re acting so badly today?” I usually avoid telling the kids that they’re bad, but this wasn’t a time for choice words.
Kramer nodded. “My brother, he told me that if I wanted to be a Folk, this is how I have to act at school.” The boy crumbled and his eyes began to water. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“What is the Folk?” I asked again.
“Folk Nation.” The boy answered, “My brother said I can’t tell you ‘nothin about it.”
“Kramer, this is serious. I’m going to have to report this to Principal. And I will call your mother.”
“No! Please,” Kramer begged. “Not my mamma!”
Of course, I did call his mother and told her everything that had happened. Five minutes after our telephone conversation, she was at the school and had Kramer by the ear. The boy was in serious trouble.
Principal led Kramer’s mother into my classroom, where they both studied the drawings on his desk.
In front of me, Principal, and all of my students, Kramer’s mother smacked her son on the back of his head. She gripped him by his shoulder and walked him out of my classroom. As they went, I could hear her say, “You are in so much trouble, you may never again see the light of day…” There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.
That afternoon, after all of my students had left for the day, I stayed late to do some research about Folk Nation. I learned that Folk Nation is a violent group based out of Chicago that has spread to the South East. Although Folk Nation is not a gang itself, it is a nation of people under which many individual gangs develop. The symbols that Kramer had drawn on this desk represented many dark gang related issues: the six-pointed star represents the honored death of a famous gang member killed by gunshots, each tear on the face’s cheek stands for a person murdered by that particular individual, the pitch fork represents the pride of Folk Nation, and the list goes on and on.
It makes me wonder… I remember several months ago, Kramer’s brother came to the school to walk Kramer home. I always though the brother just had eccentric taste in tattoos, but now I realize that the two ink stained teardrops on the guy’s cheek indicated that he had already murdered two people.
113- More Donations
The donation box has been filling up quickly. In addition to Robbie’s Nintendo, students and their parents have brought in numerous items: a microwave, dishes, socks and underwear, shoes, canned foods, blankets, and all sorts of other eclectic objects.
I am grateful for the generosity that Demarcus’ classmates have shown, but now I am beginning to worry about the logistics. How will I give these things to Demarcus’ mother? Will she be offended by the charity? Does she even have a place to store all of these objects? What good is a boxful of supplies, if you have no home in which to keep them? I figure I’ll go to Demarcus’ church and ask them what to do with all of the stuff we’ve collected.
As if she had read my mind, Class Mommy bounded into my classroom this afternoon and bombarded me with similar questions. “Has the family found a place to live?” She demanded to know.
“I’m not sure.” I answered honestly.
“Not sure!” Class Mommy dropped her leather Prada bag on my desk and started to drum her shiny red fingernails on the wood. She glared at me.
I glared back at her.
“What are they supposed to do with all of this stuff, if they don’t even have a home?” She stopped drumming and crossed her arms over her chest. I had displeased the woman again. “Sounds like a pretty poor plan to me.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, I started to stammer, “Yes, but, I just want to help… I didn’t think…”
“You didn’t think!” Class Mommy snorted and jabbed her nose into the air. “Obviously, you didn’t think.”
My jaw dropped. Once again I was at a loss for words. Class Mommy’s audacity never ceased to stun me. I did manage to throw her one good Eat-Shit-Look before she started talking again.
“My husband and I, we own an apartment complex around the corner from here.” Class Mommy glanced at her watch, “I’m going to be late for my tennis match. I’ll talk to my husband and see if there’s anything we can do.”
They own an apartment complex?
“Oh, great! Anything would be wonderful… thank you!” I gushed at the potential for a generous offer.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Class Mommy grabbed her Prada bag and waved me off. “Francesca, darling! Come with Mommy, sweetie, I’m late for tennis!” She ushered her daughter briskly out of the room and left me to wonder…
Where did I expect Demarcus and his mom to store all of their new stuff? Had they found a home?
I am grateful for the generosity that Demarcus’ classmates have shown, but now I am beginning to worry about the logistics. How will I give these things to Demarcus’ mother? Will she be offended by the charity? Does she even have a place to store all of these objects? What good is a boxful of supplies, if you have no home in which to keep them? I figure I’ll go to Demarcus’ church and ask them what to do with all of the stuff we’ve collected.
As if she had read my mind, Class Mommy bounded into my classroom this afternoon and bombarded me with similar questions. “Has the family found a place to live?” She demanded to know.
“I’m not sure.” I answered honestly.
“Not sure!” Class Mommy dropped her leather Prada bag on my desk and started to drum her shiny red fingernails on the wood. She glared at me.
I glared back at her.
“What are they supposed to do with all of this stuff, if they don’t even have a home?” She stopped drumming and crossed her arms over her chest. I had displeased the woman again. “Sounds like a pretty poor plan to me.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, I started to stammer, “Yes, but, I just want to help… I didn’t think…”
“You didn’t think!” Class Mommy snorted and jabbed her nose into the air. “Obviously, you didn’t think.”
My jaw dropped. Once again I was at a loss for words. Class Mommy’s audacity never ceased to stun me. I did manage to throw her one good Eat-Shit-Look before she started talking again.
“My husband and I, we own an apartment complex around the corner from here.” Class Mommy glanced at her watch, “I’m going to be late for my tennis match. I’ll talk to my husband and see if there’s anything we can do.”
They own an apartment complex?
“Oh, great! Anything would be wonderful… thank you!” I gushed at the potential for a generous offer.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Class Mommy grabbed her Prada bag and waved me off. “Francesca, darling! Come with Mommy, sweetie, I’m late for tennis!” She ushered her daughter briskly out of the room and left me to wonder…
Where did I expect Demarcus and his mom to store all of their new stuff? Had they found a home?
112- Social Security Number
I have been trying to teach my students about multiple meaning words, a concept that has been difficult for a few to wrap their little brains around. Take, for example, the word bat- one could use a bat to hit a baseball, one could bat an eyelash or bat a fly out of their face, or a black bat could fly overhead at night. Most of my students have easily grasped this idea, but a few are baffled that words can be spelled the same, yet have different meanings.
Today, during a read aloud, our story contained the following sentence:
The rays of the alien sun warmed the planet’s surface.
The story was about a couple of kids who steal a spaceship and end up on a planet in another solar system. When I read this particular sentence, a few of the kids started giggling.
“An alien sun? Did it try to eat people?” Ajith asked.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Kathleen got excited. “The sun is really a monster from outer space!”
Gaby rolled her eyes, “It’s not that kind of alien, gawd!”
“Thank you, Gaby.” I took the opportunity to explain to the kids that alien was another multiple meaning word; sometimes it meant a creature from outer space, but it could also mean strange, unfamiliar, foreign, or outsider.
“You mean, like, an illegal alien?” Taylor chimed in.
“Exactly.” I told Taylor, “An illegal alien is a person from one country who tries to live in another country without permission. In that case, the word alien is used to mean foreigner.”
“Oh…” The class sat hushed for a moment, rolling this new information around in their heads.
“You mean like Yocelin?” Josh asked.
“What?” That kid is always catching me off guard.
“Yocelin. And Linda.” Josh persisted, “Aren’t they both illegal aliens? Yocelin can’t even speak English!”
What a little bastard!
“No. Not like Yocelin and Linda. They are allowed to live in this country.” I smiled reassuringly at the little girls, who were seated next to one another on the Reading Rug. Yocelin looked confused and Linda appeared to be a bit embarrassed.
“But how do you know they’re not illegal?” Josh continued.
I had to give him credit, I didn’t know for sure.
“Yeah!” Robbie joined the debate. “I was watching this show on the Discovery Channel the other day and it said…” The boy stopped himself in mid sentence and turned towards Linda, “Hey, hey, Linda! Linda.” Robbie poked the girl repeatedly in her shoulder, “Do you even have a Social Security Number? Do you? Because—“
I cut Robbie off right there. “Linda, you do not have to answer that question.” I felt like the girl’s lawyer. “That is none of Robbie’s business. Or anyone else’s.”
Linda looked as confused as Yocelin. I doubt that she, or many of the other students, even knew what a Social Security Number was.
“Quit poking me in my shoulder. It kinda hurts.” Linda swatted Robbie’s finger away.
“Your illegal alien shoulder!” Josh hollered at Linda.
It was my turn to roll my eyes; I was beginning regret teaching them about the word alien.
“The show said that many people from Mexico that come to live in the United States do not have a Social Security Number.” Robbie continued his inquiry, “So, I am just wondering, does Linda actually have—“
“Enough!” I put an end to the conversation. I could tell that Robbie meant no harm and was genuinely curious, but Josh’s eyes were gleaming with malice. Both of the boys had made Linda feel uncomfortable. “Enough, guys.” I went back to reading the story, hoping that this would be enough to distract the boys from further interrogation. Luckily, my plan worked and within a couple of minutes all my students were mesmerized once again by the plot of the science fiction fantasy.
Today, during a read aloud, our story contained the following sentence:
The rays of the alien sun warmed the planet’s surface.
The story was about a couple of kids who steal a spaceship and end up on a planet in another solar system. When I read this particular sentence, a few of the kids started giggling.
“An alien sun? Did it try to eat people?” Ajith asked.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Kathleen got excited. “The sun is really a monster from outer space!”
Gaby rolled her eyes, “It’s not that kind of alien, gawd!”
“Thank you, Gaby.” I took the opportunity to explain to the kids that alien was another multiple meaning word; sometimes it meant a creature from outer space, but it could also mean strange, unfamiliar, foreign, or outsider.
“You mean, like, an illegal alien?” Taylor chimed in.
“Exactly.” I told Taylor, “An illegal alien is a person from one country who tries to live in another country without permission. In that case, the word alien is used to mean foreigner.”
“Oh…” The class sat hushed for a moment, rolling this new information around in their heads.
“You mean like Yocelin?” Josh asked.
“What?” That kid is always catching me off guard.
“Yocelin. And Linda.” Josh persisted, “Aren’t they both illegal aliens? Yocelin can’t even speak English!”
What a little bastard!
“No. Not like Yocelin and Linda. They are allowed to live in this country.” I smiled reassuringly at the little girls, who were seated next to one another on the Reading Rug. Yocelin looked confused and Linda appeared to be a bit embarrassed.
“But how do you know they’re not illegal?” Josh continued.
I had to give him credit, I didn’t know for sure.
“Yeah!” Robbie joined the debate. “I was watching this show on the Discovery Channel the other day and it said…” The boy stopped himself in mid sentence and turned towards Linda, “Hey, hey, Linda! Linda.” Robbie poked the girl repeatedly in her shoulder, “Do you even have a Social Security Number? Do you? Because—“
I cut Robbie off right there. “Linda, you do not have to answer that question.” I felt like the girl’s lawyer. “That is none of Robbie’s business. Or anyone else’s.”
Linda looked as confused as Yocelin. I doubt that she, or many of the other students, even knew what a Social Security Number was.
“Quit poking me in my shoulder. It kinda hurts.” Linda swatted Robbie’s finger away.
“Your illegal alien shoulder!” Josh hollered at Linda.
It was my turn to roll my eyes; I was beginning regret teaching them about the word alien.
“The show said that many people from Mexico that come to live in the United States do not have a Social Security Number.” Robbie continued his inquiry, “So, I am just wondering, does Linda actually have—“
“Enough!” I put an end to the conversation. I could tell that Robbie meant no harm and was genuinely curious, but Josh’s eyes were gleaming with malice. Both of the boys had made Linda feel uncomfortable. “Enough, guys.” I went back to reading the story, hoping that this would be enough to distract the boys from further interrogation. Luckily, my plan worked and within a couple of minutes all my students were mesmerized once again by the plot of the science fiction fantasy.
111- Nintendo
Robbie showed up to school today sheepishly carrying a plastic bag. “My mom told me to give this to you.” He reluctantly handed me the bag.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“My Nintendo.” He scowled and looked at the bag. “And all of my games.”
His Nintendo?
I peered into the bag to confirm that the boy’s claim was true. Inside were a Nintendo and over two dozen Nintendo games. “Why did you bring these to school?”
“I brought them to give to Demarcus. I know that that box isn’t really for millions of G.I. Joes,” Robbie gestured towards the Donations Box, “It’s for donations. And I am donating my Nintendo and all of my games.”
I was dumfounded. “Robbie, this is awfully generous of you.”
“Well,” Robbie drew in a long breath and then whispered, “My mom told me I had to donate something. She said it had to be something that would make Demarcus feel happy again. So, I thought about it all weekend and finally realized that my Nintendo made me happy all the time.” The boy paused and looked longingly at the plastic bag. “If playing these games can make me happy, I’m sure they’ll make Demarcus happy, too.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “You mean it was your idea to give Demarcus your Nintendo?”
“Yes.” Robbie shrugged, “I’ll miss playing with it, but I have lots of other toys.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, “That’s so sweet!”
“Oh, gosh!” Robbie slapped himself in the forehead. “My mom cried, too!” The little boy shook his head like I was crazy and then walked over to place his Nintendo in the Donations Box. He returned to me with a handful of tissues, “It’s okay, Teacher.” Robbie patted me on the back as I accepted the tissues. He shook his head one more time and then went to his desk to begin his morning work.
Kids can be utterly amazing.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“My Nintendo.” He scowled and looked at the bag. “And all of my games.”
His Nintendo?
I peered into the bag to confirm that the boy’s claim was true. Inside were a Nintendo and over two dozen Nintendo games. “Why did you bring these to school?”
“I brought them to give to Demarcus. I know that that box isn’t really for millions of G.I. Joes,” Robbie gestured towards the Donations Box, “It’s for donations. And I am donating my Nintendo and all of my games.”
I was dumfounded. “Robbie, this is awfully generous of you.”
“Well,” Robbie drew in a long breath and then whispered, “My mom told me I had to donate something. She said it had to be something that would make Demarcus feel happy again. So, I thought about it all weekend and finally realized that my Nintendo made me happy all the time.” The boy paused and looked longingly at the plastic bag. “If playing these games can make me happy, I’m sure they’ll make Demarcus happy, too.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “You mean it was your idea to give Demarcus your Nintendo?”
“Yes.” Robbie shrugged, “I’ll miss playing with it, but I have lots of other toys.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, “That’s so sweet!”
“Oh, gosh!” Robbie slapped himself in the forehead. “My mom cried, too!” The little boy shook his head like I was crazy and then walked over to place his Nintendo in the Donations Box. He returned to me with a handful of tissues, “It’s okay, Teacher.” Robbie patted me on the back as I accepted the tissues. He shook his head one more time and then went to his desk to begin his morning work.
Kids can be utterly amazing.
110- The Box
Last night I stopped by the dumpster outside of Wal-Mart. There I found a large cardboard box that used to be home to a Kenmore dishwasher. I dragged this box to school with me today and placed it as discreetly as I could behind my desk. Of course, my students were elated at the sight at the giant box and asked over 1,000 questions about its purpose.
Hannah: Are we going to make robots?
Jamie: Is somebody moving? Every time I see a box like that, we move to a new house.
Kramer: Box! Box! Box!
Robbie: I bet I could fit over a million GI Joes in that thing!
Josh: I bet I could fit all the girls in our classroom in that thing!
I delicately let the kids know that the box did have a very special purpose, but that purpose would not be disclosed until the following week.
During my planning period, I composed the following letter to be sent home with all of my students…
Dear Friends,
Over the Winter Holidays, one of my students lost his home in a house fire. All of the family’s belongings were destroyed in the fire. I have placed a box labeled “Donations” in my classroom. If any you have items you would like to give, please stop by at anytime. Any contributions would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you,
Teacher
I convinced Caroline’s substitute to send a copy home with her students, but Esther refused because my newsletter had not been approved by Principal. As far as I’m concerned, Principal may have said the school couldn’t do anything for Demarcus, but she never said that his classmates couldn’t do anything for the boy. Before I left for the day, I taped a huge sign labeled DONATIONS to the front of the Kenmore box.
Hannah: Are we going to make robots?
Jamie: Is somebody moving? Every time I see a box like that, we move to a new house.
Kramer: Box! Box! Box!
Robbie: I bet I could fit over a million GI Joes in that thing!
Josh: I bet I could fit all the girls in our classroom in that thing!
I delicately let the kids know that the box did have a very special purpose, but that purpose would not be disclosed until the following week.
During my planning period, I composed the following letter to be sent home with all of my students…
Dear Friends,
Over the Winter Holidays, one of my students lost his home in a house fire. All of the family’s belongings were destroyed in the fire. I have placed a box labeled “Donations” in my classroom. If any you have items you would like to give, please stop by at anytime. Any contributions would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you,
Teacher
I convinced Caroline’s substitute to send a copy home with her students, but Esther refused because my newsletter had not been approved by Principal. As far as I’m concerned, Principal may have said the school couldn’t do anything for Demarcus, but she never said that his classmates couldn’t do anything for the boy. Before I left for the day, I taped a huge sign labeled DONATIONS to the front of the Kenmore box.
109- Planning Lessons
For the past three weeks now, I have had to plan lessons with Esther. I didn’t realize, until Caroline stopped coming to work, how useless Esther truly is. The woman does not plan. She pulls out worksheets from 1984 and suggests we give those to the children. Esther was definitely hired during that time period when you didn’t need a college degree to be a teacher; the only prerequisite was that you were a sweet woman.
I have basically come to the terms with the fact that I am solely responsible for planning all of the lessons for our entire grade. This will continue until Caroline either comes back or is replaced by a competent teacher. Esther is the gopher who makes copies and laminates cute charts. Caroline’s substitute is a part-time grad student with no experience with lesson planning. This leaves me to do all of the dirty work. I have been working overtime to complete the tasks that were previously split between Caroline and me.
At this point, I can only pray that Caroline will resolve all emotional problems and return to school. My workload makes me feel like I’m drowning.
I have basically come to the terms with the fact that I am solely responsible for planning all of the lessons for our entire grade. This will continue until Caroline either comes back or is replaced by a competent teacher. Esther is the gopher who makes copies and laminates cute charts. Caroline’s substitute is a part-time grad student with no experience with lesson planning. This leaves me to do all of the dirty work. I have been working overtime to complete the tasks that were previously split between Caroline and me.
At this point, I can only pray that Caroline will resolve all emotional problems and return to school. My workload makes me feel like I’m drowning.
108- Shunned Again
If it weren’t for Caroline’s conspicuous absences, day after day, I may have been able to forget that Ms. Viamonte exists. The embarrassing episode of shunning from last Monday’s Faculty Meeting had almost vanished from my mind. Like an unwanted blemish on my memory, my brain has been willing to put that scandalous First Grade Teacher on the back burner. I did feel a quick twinge of sympathy when I saw the girl crying in Mr. Thorpe’s office, but those feelings passed as I thought of the old saying: You made your bed, now lie in it. Viamonte had brought all of these problems upon herself and it was now up to her to face the consequences.
During my short break today, I went to the cafeteria for a cup of hot tea. There I noticed that Ms. Viamonte was seated at a lunch table with all of her students. This is unusual, because teachers at our school never eat with their kids; they view lunch as an opportunity to enjoy a few kid-free minutes. There is a special table reserved for teachers. I glanced over to the teacher’s table and saw that all of Ms. Viamonte’s colleague’s were seated there happily; they ate and laughed and utterly ignored Ms. Viamonte.
Out of respect for Caroline, I have avoided the Teacher’s Lounge and all of its loitering gossip mongrels. I do not want to become involved in what has been coined the OVP, short for the Outing Viamonte Plan. The OVP has been organized by a group of teachers who feel loyalty towards Caroline; their goal is to make Ms. Viamonte so miserable, she will decide to quit and then Caroline will be free to return to her job. I admire the sentiment, but prefer to keep my work life void of drama.
Today, glancing from Ms. Viamonte to the teacher’s table, I couldn’t help myself. I casually strolled over the table of teachers.
“Hey y’all,” I smiled and tried to speak their language. “Has anybody heard from Caroline?”
The teachers stopped their chit chat and focused on my question, they were delighted by the opportunity to indulge in this particularly taboo topic of conversation.
Mrs. Reeve flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of her winter themed sweater, “Well, we don’t want to disturb poor Caroline. She must need her space—“
“—But if you happen to hear from her,” Mrs. Frankenstein pounded her large fists on the table, “Tell Caroline that we’re looking out for her!” The large woman gestured towards Ms. Viamonte, “We’re takin’ care of business, if you know what I mean.”
The entire table erupted into diabolical laughter.
“What has been going on with…?” I averted my eyes towards Ms. Viamonte’s table. “How is everything going with that?” I felt a twinge of shame for instigating the gossip, but I was curious!
“We’re makin’ sure that that tramp quits her job,” Mrs. Frankenstein grumbled. “We’re a family here at Everyday Elementary, and people like Viamonte don’t belong. We just want to make sure that that girl feels very…”
“…Unwelcome,” Mrs. Reeve finished the woman’s sentence as she daintily dabbed crumbs from the corners of her mouth.
“Exactly.” Mrs. Frankenstein nodded in agreement.
“We won’t let Viamonte eat lunch with us anymore.” A third teacher chimed in.
“I can see that.” I nodded and looked over my shoulder at the shunned girl. She had smartly seated herself so that her back was towards the teacher’s table.
Mrs. Frankenstein gladly filled me in on how they managed to force Ms. Viamonte away from the teacher’s table. “When we first heard the awful news, Viamonte still tried to sit with us. We would all sit down to lunch and when Viamonte came to sit with us, we would all move away. For the first few days, all of us, “Mrs. Frankenstein gestured around the table, “We all had to go and sit with our kids. That wasn’t any fun.”
“No fun.” The other teachers agreed.
“But that Viamonte isn’t too dumb, she figured out what we were up to real quick. One day, she just came into the cafeteria and sat straight down with her students. It was as easy as training a dog!” Mrs. Frankenstein exclaimed proudly.
Mrs. Reeve pointed her nose towards the ceiling, “I just don’t want to be associated with people like her.”
Training a dog? People like her?
“Well,” I admitted, “You guys are doing a great job at making her feel uncomfortable.”
“Thanks!” Each teacher smiled with their own smug satisfaction.
During my short break today, I went to the cafeteria for a cup of hot tea. There I noticed that Ms. Viamonte was seated at a lunch table with all of her students. This is unusual, because teachers at our school never eat with their kids; they view lunch as an opportunity to enjoy a few kid-free minutes. There is a special table reserved for teachers. I glanced over to the teacher’s table and saw that all of Ms. Viamonte’s colleague’s were seated there happily; they ate and laughed and utterly ignored Ms. Viamonte.
Out of respect for Caroline, I have avoided the Teacher’s Lounge and all of its loitering gossip mongrels. I do not want to become involved in what has been coined the OVP, short for the Outing Viamonte Plan. The OVP has been organized by a group of teachers who feel loyalty towards Caroline; their goal is to make Ms. Viamonte so miserable, she will decide to quit and then Caroline will be free to return to her job. I admire the sentiment, but prefer to keep my work life void of drama.
Today, glancing from Ms. Viamonte to the teacher’s table, I couldn’t help myself. I casually strolled over the table of teachers.
“Hey y’all,” I smiled and tried to speak their language. “Has anybody heard from Caroline?”
The teachers stopped their chit chat and focused on my question, they were delighted by the opportunity to indulge in this particularly taboo topic of conversation.
Mrs. Reeve flicked a piece of lint off the shoulder of her winter themed sweater, “Well, we don’t want to disturb poor Caroline. She must need her space—“
“—But if you happen to hear from her,” Mrs. Frankenstein pounded her large fists on the table, “Tell Caroline that we’re looking out for her!” The large woman gestured towards Ms. Viamonte, “We’re takin’ care of business, if you know what I mean.”
The entire table erupted into diabolical laughter.
“What has been going on with…?” I averted my eyes towards Ms. Viamonte’s table. “How is everything going with that?” I felt a twinge of shame for instigating the gossip, but I was curious!
“We’re makin’ sure that that tramp quits her job,” Mrs. Frankenstein grumbled. “We’re a family here at Everyday Elementary, and people like Viamonte don’t belong. We just want to make sure that that girl feels very…”
“…Unwelcome,” Mrs. Reeve finished the woman’s sentence as she daintily dabbed crumbs from the corners of her mouth.
“Exactly.” Mrs. Frankenstein nodded in agreement.
“We won’t let Viamonte eat lunch with us anymore.” A third teacher chimed in.
“I can see that.” I nodded and looked over my shoulder at the shunned girl. She had smartly seated herself so that her back was towards the teacher’s table.
Mrs. Frankenstein gladly filled me in on how they managed to force Ms. Viamonte away from the teacher’s table. “When we first heard the awful news, Viamonte still tried to sit with us. We would all sit down to lunch and when Viamonte came to sit with us, we would all move away. For the first few days, all of us, “Mrs. Frankenstein gestured around the table, “We all had to go and sit with our kids. That wasn’t any fun.”
“No fun.” The other teachers agreed.
“But that Viamonte isn’t too dumb, she figured out what we were up to real quick. One day, she just came into the cafeteria and sat straight down with her students. It was as easy as training a dog!” Mrs. Frankenstein exclaimed proudly.
Mrs. Reeve pointed her nose towards the ceiling, “I just don’t want to be associated with people like her.”
Training a dog? People like her?
“Well,” I admitted, “You guys are doing a great job at making her feel uncomfortable.”
“Thanks!” Each teacher smiled with their own smug satisfaction.
107- Rejected Donations
I arrived to school this morning to discover the following email at the top of my inbox…
Teacher, I got your email last Friday about collecting donations for Demarcus and his family. What a tragedy. I spoke with Principal and unfortunately, she believes that there is nothing the school can do for the boy. Wish I could have delivered better news.
-Mr. Thorpe
I reread this message several times. I felt stunned. What was the big deal? How hard could it be to put out a box and ask people to bring in donations? I’m sure plenty of families would want to help. I didn’t see any sense in not trying at all.
This incident makes me question Principal’s integrity. She strolls around the school, preaching kindness like she’s holier than Mother Teresa, but when it comes time to deal with a real student tragedy- Principal tucks her tail between her legs and hides. She ought to be ashamed of herself.
Later that morning, when I saw the vacant look of an exhausted and frozen Demarcus enter my classroom, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist helping the child. One way or another, I am going to do something the help that kid.
Teacher, I got your email last Friday about collecting donations for Demarcus and his family. What a tragedy. I spoke with Principal and unfortunately, she believes that there is nothing the school can do for the boy. Wish I could have delivered better news.
-Mr. Thorpe
I reread this message several times. I felt stunned. What was the big deal? How hard could it be to put out a box and ask people to bring in donations? I’m sure plenty of families would want to help. I didn’t see any sense in not trying at all.
This incident makes me question Principal’s integrity. She strolls around the school, preaching kindness like she’s holier than Mother Teresa, but when it comes time to deal with a real student tragedy- Principal tucks her tail between her legs and hides. She ought to be ashamed of herself.
Later that morning, when I saw the vacant look of an exhausted and frozen Demarcus enter my classroom, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist helping the child. One way or another, I am going to do something the help that kid.
106- Martin Luther King Day
Thank god for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Without him I would not have been able to sleep in this morning, nor spend the entire day lounging around my apartment in my pajamas. Teachers may have a lot of everyday tasks to keep up with, but nothing compares to their generous holiday schedule. I did have to grade dozens of papers today, but was able to do so from the comfort of my living room couch.
105- Gaby's Daddy
Gaby was escorted to school today by both her mother and Mr. Love. Ms. Jackson, who has olive skin and green eyes just like Gaby, had an arm slung around Mr. Love’s waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning, Teacher!” Mr. Love casually tilted his chin in my direction.
“Good morning, Sir!” I mimicked the custodian’s nonchalant gesture.
Gaby ran up to me excitedly. “Guess what! Guess what!” She tugged on my arm.
“What?” I asked.
“My Momma got me a new daddy and guess who my new daddy is!”
Oh, brother.
“Mr. Love?” I guessed.
“Yes! Mr. Love is my new daddy!” Gaby jumped and clapped her hands. “How did you know?”
Because he gropes your mother every morning when she drops you off at school.
“Just a lucky guess!” I smiled at the little girl and then shot a questioning look in Mr. Love’s direction.
“It’s true!” Mr. Love proudly held the woman’s hand in the air, showing off the small chip of a diamond attached to a gold ring.
“We are engaged. We’re getting married! Mr. Love here will be Gaby’s step-daddy pretty soon now.” Ms. Jackson reiterated.
“Congratulations!” If Gaby was happy, I was happy.
After the couple left the classroom, Gaby went around and told anyone who would listen that Mr. Love would soon be her daddy.
While Gaby distracted her classmates, I took the time to write a quick email to Mr. Thorpe. I apologized for walking in on his meeting with Ms. Viamonte, and then I explained my desire to collect donations for Demarcus’ family. I feel confidant that, with the support of the guidance counselor, I will be able to do something to help Demarcus.
“Morning, Teacher!” Mr. Love casually tilted his chin in my direction.
“Good morning, Sir!” I mimicked the custodian’s nonchalant gesture.
Gaby ran up to me excitedly. “Guess what! Guess what!” She tugged on my arm.
“What?” I asked.
“My Momma got me a new daddy and guess who my new daddy is!”
Oh, brother.
“Mr. Love?” I guessed.
“Yes! Mr. Love is my new daddy!” Gaby jumped and clapped her hands. “How did you know?”
Because he gropes your mother every morning when she drops you off at school.
“Just a lucky guess!” I smiled at the little girl and then shot a questioning look in Mr. Love’s direction.
“It’s true!” Mr. Love proudly held the woman’s hand in the air, showing off the small chip of a diamond attached to a gold ring.
“We are engaged. We’re getting married! Mr. Love here will be Gaby’s step-daddy pretty soon now.” Ms. Jackson reiterated.
“Congratulations!” If Gaby was happy, I was happy.
After the couple left the classroom, Gaby went around and told anyone who would listen that Mr. Love would soon be her daddy.
While Gaby distracted her classmates, I took the time to write a quick email to Mr. Thorpe. I apologized for walking in on his meeting with Ms. Viamonte, and then I explained my desire to collect donations for Demarcus’ family. I feel confidant that, with the support of the guidance counselor, I will be able to do something to help Demarcus.
104- Tight Pants
Linda came up to me during a math test today on told me that her stomach hurt. I am used to kids pretending to be sick in hopes that they can get out of taking a test. Linda is a decent math student and rarely complains, so I believed her when she said she didn’t feel well.
“Did your tummy just start to hurt?” I asked.
“No,” The girl shook her head, “It has been hurting all day and now it still hurts and I can’t concentrate on my test.”
I was impressed that the Mexico native, for whom English is a second language, knew the word concentrate. Looking her up and down, I noticed something strange about her pants; they were extremely tight. The button that held her pants closed was threatening to pop off, and the zipper was only half way zipped. Linda is a thin girl, but a fold of flesh still protruded from the top of her pants. She appeared to be extremely uncomfortable and her pants were obviously several sizes too small.
“Linda? Are those your pants?” I was bewildered.
“Oh, yeah.” Linda shrugged. “I’ve had these a long time.”
Like three or four years? Doesn’t her father know that kids grow?
“Well, they look a little tight. Why don’t you go to the nurse and see if there is anything she can do for you.”
Linda turned and left the classroom and I could tell by the awkward stance of her steps that every move she made was painful.
Less than ten minutes later, the girl was back in my classroom. She was wearing a stretchy pair of sweat pants and a smile that plastered from ear to ear.
“Thank you, Teacher!” Linda said to me before she settled back into her desk to complete her math test. “Now I will be able to concentrate.”
“Did your tummy just start to hurt?” I asked.
“No,” The girl shook her head, “It has been hurting all day and now it still hurts and I can’t concentrate on my test.”
I was impressed that the Mexico native, for whom English is a second language, knew the word concentrate. Looking her up and down, I noticed something strange about her pants; they were extremely tight. The button that held her pants closed was threatening to pop off, and the zipper was only half way zipped. Linda is a thin girl, but a fold of flesh still protruded from the top of her pants. She appeared to be extremely uncomfortable and her pants were obviously several sizes too small.
“Linda? Are those your pants?” I was bewildered.
“Oh, yeah.” Linda shrugged. “I’ve had these a long time.”
Like three or four years? Doesn’t her father know that kids grow?
“Well, they look a little tight. Why don’t you go to the nurse and see if there is anything she can do for you.”
Linda turned and left the classroom and I could tell by the awkward stance of her steps that every move she made was painful.
Less than ten minutes later, the girl was back in my classroom. She was wearing a stretchy pair of sweat pants and a smile that plastered from ear to ear.
“Thank you, Teacher!” Linda said to me before she settled back into her desk to complete her math test. “Now I will be able to concentrate.”
103- Glasses
Ashleigh has been driving me crazy all week. Apparently, her older brother was prescribed reading glasses and now Ashleigh insists that she needs glasses, too. The girl is one of the best readers in our class, but lately she has been feigning blindness.
Every day, during Language Arts, my class spends about fifteen minutes reading aloud from a story. One student will read for a couple of paragraphs and then call on a classmate to pick up where they’ve left off. This is normally Ashleigh’s chance to shine; she likes to show off her fluency skills. Ever since we have gotten back from Christmas break, Ashleigh has used our read aloud as an opportunity to pretend she is going blind. When her turn arises, the girl will pretend to struggle over simple words and insist that she can’t see the text.
This charade has been driving me crazy, so yesterday I called Ashleigh’s mother and informed her of the situation. Ashleigh’s mom is a reasonable lady who is not about to put up with any nonsense from her children. The woman promised that she would deal with Ashleigh and that the kid would return to school today with a whole new attitude.
Well, Ashleigh did return to school with a new attitude- and a new pair of glasses. Her mother’s way of “dealing with” the girl was to buy Ashleigh a fake pair of reading glasses; a pair of frames with nonprescription lenses. Ashleigh proudly entered my classroom sporting her new frames and proceeded to read me everything. The kid took any opportunity possible to read text aloud.
I was amused by Ashleigh’s newfound enthusiasm for reading and was not about to stop her. I figured as long as she was reading, she was learning, and that is the point of school.
Unfortunately, by the time we had started our read aloud, the genius of the new glasses plan had backfired. Ashleigh had become obsessed with her new frames and had been taking them on and off and touching them all day with her grubby fingers. By read aloud time, her lenses were so caked with grime and smudges, it was impossible for the girl to see through them.
“Ashleigh! It’s your turn to read.” Robbie said for the second time.
“I know, I know!” Ashleigh rebuffed. “I just have to clean off my glasses.”
I watched as the girl pulled the frames from her face and started to rub the lenses with her bare fingers. The smudges swirled around and around on the glass, making new patterns in the grim with each motion of Ashleigh’s finger tips.
She has got to be kidding me.
I glanced at the clock. We only had five minutes left to finish the chapter and I was feeling impatient. “Ashleigh,” I snapped, “You can read without them! Just read.”
Ashleigh’s face crumpled and I immediately felt bad. “No! No. I can’t read.” The girl whined. “I need to use my reading glasses.”
I felt irritated and insisted she begin reading, “You can read just fine without them. Start reading.”
“No! I can’t! I can’t!” Ashleigh’s eyes filled up with tears.
I didn’t feel sorry for her, I just felt exasperated. I expelled a defeated breath of air. “Fine. Gaby, you start reading. Ashleigh, give me your glasses.”
Teachers have to pick their battles, and I knew that finishing the story was more important that arguing with Ashleigh. I took Ashleigh’s glasses over to the classroom sink and washed them with soap and water. After towel-drying the small lenses, I returned the frames to the girl. I leaned in close, so that only she could hear and said, “Take care of your glasses, and if they disrupt my class again, I will take them away for the rest of the year.”
Ashleigh gasped and then muttered a small “Yes, ma’am.” When another student called on her to read two minutes later, Ashleigh read every word clearly and without hesitation.
Every day, during Language Arts, my class spends about fifteen minutes reading aloud from a story. One student will read for a couple of paragraphs and then call on a classmate to pick up where they’ve left off. This is normally Ashleigh’s chance to shine; she likes to show off her fluency skills. Ever since we have gotten back from Christmas break, Ashleigh has used our read aloud as an opportunity to pretend she is going blind. When her turn arises, the girl will pretend to struggle over simple words and insist that she can’t see the text.
This charade has been driving me crazy, so yesterday I called Ashleigh’s mother and informed her of the situation. Ashleigh’s mom is a reasonable lady who is not about to put up with any nonsense from her children. The woman promised that she would deal with Ashleigh and that the kid would return to school today with a whole new attitude.
Well, Ashleigh did return to school with a new attitude- and a new pair of glasses. Her mother’s way of “dealing with” the girl was to buy Ashleigh a fake pair of reading glasses; a pair of frames with nonprescription lenses. Ashleigh proudly entered my classroom sporting her new frames and proceeded to read me everything. The kid took any opportunity possible to read text aloud.
I was amused by Ashleigh’s newfound enthusiasm for reading and was not about to stop her. I figured as long as she was reading, she was learning, and that is the point of school.
Unfortunately, by the time we had started our read aloud, the genius of the new glasses plan had backfired. Ashleigh had become obsessed with her new frames and had been taking them on and off and touching them all day with her grubby fingers. By read aloud time, her lenses were so caked with grime and smudges, it was impossible for the girl to see through them.
“Ashleigh! It’s your turn to read.” Robbie said for the second time.
“I know, I know!” Ashleigh rebuffed. “I just have to clean off my glasses.”
I watched as the girl pulled the frames from her face and started to rub the lenses with her bare fingers. The smudges swirled around and around on the glass, making new patterns in the grim with each motion of Ashleigh’s finger tips.
She has got to be kidding me.
I glanced at the clock. We only had five minutes left to finish the chapter and I was feeling impatient. “Ashleigh,” I snapped, “You can read without them! Just read.”
Ashleigh’s face crumpled and I immediately felt bad. “No! No. I can’t read.” The girl whined. “I need to use my reading glasses.”
I felt irritated and insisted she begin reading, “You can read just fine without them. Start reading.”
“No! I can’t! I can’t!” Ashleigh’s eyes filled up with tears.
I didn’t feel sorry for her, I just felt exasperated. I expelled a defeated breath of air. “Fine. Gaby, you start reading. Ashleigh, give me your glasses.”
Teachers have to pick their battles, and I knew that finishing the story was more important that arguing with Ashleigh. I took Ashleigh’s glasses over to the classroom sink and washed them with soap and water. After towel-drying the small lenses, I returned the frames to the girl. I leaned in close, so that only she could hear and said, “Take care of your glasses, and if they disrupt my class again, I will take them away for the rest of the year.”
Ashleigh gasped and then muttered a small “Yes, ma’am.” When another student called on her to read two minutes later, Ashleigh read every word clearly and without hesitation.
102- Donations
I want to set up a donations collection for Demarcus and his mother. I went to Principal and found myself, for the second time in a week, seated nervously in a pink armchair in her office. Her slight annoyance at my occupation of her time was apparent.
“How can I help you today, Sweet Pea?” She asked me this slowly and placed emphasis on the word today, as if I frequently burdened her for assistance. Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes away from her computer screen.
“Well,” I stammered, “I would like to arrange a donations collection for Demarcus’ family.”
Principal looked at me blankly.
Does she even know about the fire?
“Demarcus, my student who lost his home and his grandmother in a fire.”
“Oh, yes. That student.” Principal gasped as if she had just remembered the boy’s tragedy. “What a shame.” Indifferently, she turned away and refocused her attention on the computer screen. She began to scrolling through the inbox of her email.
I waited quietly, hoping that she was trying to retrieve an email that may have important information about Demarcus’ family situation and how the school could help. After several long and embarrassing seconds, Principal addressed me again. She did not look in my direction, but simply asked, “Sweet Pea, what do you want me to do?” Her voice carried an air of apathy. She shrugged her shoulders as if she were helpless.
“I would like to collect donations for Demarcus and his mother. The boy has no clothes; he wears the same shirt and pants to school everyday. He doesn’t even have a jacket. I brought him some new socks and a T-Shirt, but—“
Principal cut me off. “You can’t buy that boy new clothes, that is not your place. Teachers can’t just be giving out things at this school.” She shook her head. I had become a true nuisance. “Just go and talk to Mr. Thorpe, he’ll tell you what you can and can’t do.”
What was she saying? That I couldn’t help Demarcus and his family?
“So does this mean that I can’t—“
Principal interrupted me again. “Just go and talk to Mr. Thorpe!” She repeated impatiently.
I felt like a scolded child as I exited Principal’s office.
What is wrong with Principal? I didn’t expect that type of response.
Just as I was instructed, I went straight to Mr. Thorpe’s office. The cute little sign on his door had an arrow pointing to Come On In!, so I pushed open the door and burst into his office.
“Mr. Thorpe! Hi! I need to talk to you for just a second. It’s about Demarcus.”
Mr. Thorpe was seated at his desk. He looked surprised at my presence.
“Do you have a second?” I prodded. “I’ll only take up a minute…”
“Actually,” Mr. Thorpe cleared his throat and darted his eyes towards something over my shoulder. “I’m a little busy right now.”
I heard sniffling sounds come from the behind me. I turned to see Ms. Viamonte seated on the therapy couch. Red faced and puffy eyed, the girl clutched a box of tissues. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she refused to look me in the eye.
Oh, god. Bad timing.
“Excuse me… I’m sorry. I’ll go!” As quickly as I had arrived, I fled from the guidance counselor’s office.
I should have knocked on the door.
I wonder what Ms. Viamonte was crying about.
Was the teacher militia’s plan working?
Do school guidance counselors counsel teachers, too?
Why wasn’t Principal more helpful about donations for Demarcus?
Today didn’t work out so well, but I will try again tomorrow.
“How can I help you today, Sweet Pea?” She asked me this slowly and placed emphasis on the word today, as if I frequently burdened her for assistance. Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes away from her computer screen.
“Well,” I stammered, “I would like to arrange a donations collection for Demarcus’ family.”
Principal looked at me blankly.
Does she even know about the fire?
“Demarcus, my student who lost his home and his grandmother in a fire.”
“Oh, yes. That student.” Principal gasped as if she had just remembered the boy’s tragedy. “What a shame.” Indifferently, she turned away and refocused her attention on the computer screen. She began to scrolling through the inbox of her email.
I waited quietly, hoping that she was trying to retrieve an email that may have important information about Demarcus’ family situation and how the school could help. After several long and embarrassing seconds, Principal addressed me again. She did not look in my direction, but simply asked, “Sweet Pea, what do you want me to do?” Her voice carried an air of apathy. She shrugged her shoulders as if she were helpless.
“I would like to collect donations for Demarcus and his mother. The boy has no clothes; he wears the same shirt and pants to school everyday. He doesn’t even have a jacket. I brought him some new socks and a T-Shirt, but—“
Principal cut me off. “You can’t buy that boy new clothes, that is not your place. Teachers can’t just be giving out things at this school.” She shook her head. I had become a true nuisance. “Just go and talk to Mr. Thorpe, he’ll tell you what you can and can’t do.”
What was she saying? That I couldn’t help Demarcus and his family?
“So does this mean that I can’t—“
Principal interrupted me again. “Just go and talk to Mr. Thorpe!” She repeated impatiently.
I felt like a scolded child as I exited Principal’s office.
What is wrong with Principal? I didn’t expect that type of response.
Just as I was instructed, I went straight to Mr. Thorpe’s office. The cute little sign on his door had an arrow pointing to Come On In!, so I pushed open the door and burst into his office.
“Mr. Thorpe! Hi! I need to talk to you for just a second. It’s about Demarcus.”
Mr. Thorpe was seated at his desk. He looked surprised at my presence.
“Do you have a second?” I prodded. “I’ll only take up a minute…”
“Actually,” Mr. Thorpe cleared his throat and darted his eyes towards something over my shoulder. “I’m a little busy right now.”
I heard sniffling sounds come from the behind me. I turned to see Ms. Viamonte seated on the therapy couch. Red faced and puffy eyed, the girl clutched a box of tissues. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she refused to look me in the eye.
Oh, god. Bad timing.
“Excuse me… I’m sorry. I’ll go!” As quickly as I had arrived, I fled from the guidance counselor’s office.
I should have knocked on the door.
I wonder what Ms. Viamonte was crying about.
Was the teacher militia’s plan working?
Do school guidance counselors counsel teachers, too?
Why wasn’t Principal more helpful about donations for Demarcus?
Today didn’t work out so well, but I will try again tomorrow.
101- Outing Viamonte
I spent the weekend trying to convince myself that Caroline’s miserable predicament is not my fault. One could argue that I should have warned my coworker about her husband’s wandering ways, but I certainly did not instigate his extramarital affair. My guilt has subsided slightly; now that Caroline knows the truth, I no longer feel responsible for holding back that ugly secret.
Sadly, Caroline did not show up for work again. Her students have been asking about her, and Esther and I don’t know what to tell them. We have no idea if she will be returning and we have no idea if she’s okay. Despite our few nighttime outings and heartfelt chats during the school day, Caroline and I are mere acquaintances. I don’t know her well enough to call her house and ask her how she’s holding up.
The faculty is buzzing with speculation about “The Caroline-Viamonte” situation. The general consensus is that Caroline will not return to work as long as Ms. Viamonte is there. And who can blame her? Facing your husband’s mistress, day after day, would be awful. Luckily for Caroline, our southern faculty, with their Good Old Boy mentality, has vowed to force Viamonte from the workplace. The more redneck part of the staff has already devised some sort of plan.
During this afternoon’s faculty meeting, I had the opportunity to witness Phase 1 of the Outing Viamonte Plan. Faculty meetings are held in the Media Center, where teachers are seated at large tables in groups of seven or eight. Principal and The Intimidator stand at the front of the room to conduct their business. Teachers are cliquey and tend to sit with their buddies, so they can chat and gossip, rather than listen to what the bosses have to say.
Today I arrived a little early, and took a seat at a corner table. I was hoping to position myself in a spot where Principal wouldn’t be able to see that, instead of reading her boring memos, I actually was grading papers. Slowly, teachers trickled into the Media Center. The best seats, the ones slightly out of Principal’s view, were filled up first. The buzz of teacher chit chat gradually built up in the room.
Little Shanda got sick after lunch today; it was a huge mess…
Has anybody seen the 5th grade Science Kits? I’ve been looking everywhere…
I’m going to have to work late tonight, so many papers to grade…
Have ‘y’all heard about this year’s school play? I heard it would be about…
I tried to fade out all of the chatter and focus on my grading. All was going well, until about two minutes before the Faculty Meeting was scheduled to start. I noticed a change in the sound; the chit chat had begun to die down early. This is usually the sign that Principal or The Intimidator has arrived. I looked up to see that Ms. Viamonte had entered the room.
One by one, the teachers stopped talking and turned their heads to stare at the girl. Where will she sit? Panicked, teachers began shifting their belongings to make it look like empty seats were actually taken.
Wearing a tight magenta cardigan and a matching skirt, Ms. Viamonte held her chin high and pretended not to notice all of the unwanted attention. Her curly brown ponytail bounced with every step that she took- straight over the table of First and Second Grade teachers. Smiling, she sat down among women who used to be her comrades and confidants.
The teachers at Ms. Viamonte’s table exchanged uncomfortable glances. The Media Center had grown completely silent. Looking disdainfully from Ms. Viamonte to her colleagues, I saw Mrs. Reeve, the winner of the Bulletin Board Contest, shake her head in disgust. Mrs. Reeve quietly picked up her pen and her notebook, stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and walked to an empty table at the far end of the library.
One by one, the teachers at Ms. Viamonte’s table began to get up and move. They scattered through out the room, finding new seats at other tables.
Ms. Viamonte sat alone. Deserted. Her face was burning red with embarrassment, but she pretended not to notice and quietly flipped through a student workbook.
Everyone in the Media Center was either glaring menacingly at the girl, or they were staring uncomfortable at their own notebooks. No one said a word, and the silence went left unbroken until Principal burst into the room.
“Okay, everyone, let’s get started!” Principal began, but then she paused and dumbly exclaimed, “Gosh, ‘y’all are a quiet group today!”
I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Ms. Viamonte.
Sadly, Caroline did not show up for work again. Her students have been asking about her, and Esther and I don’t know what to tell them. We have no idea if she will be returning and we have no idea if she’s okay. Despite our few nighttime outings and heartfelt chats during the school day, Caroline and I are mere acquaintances. I don’t know her well enough to call her house and ask her how she’s holding up.
The faculty is buzzing with speculation about “The Caroline-Viamonte” situation. The general consensus is that Caroline will not return to work as long as Ms. Viamonte is there. And who can blame her? Facing your husband’s mistress, day after day, would be awful. Luckily for Caroline, our southern faculty, with their Good Old Boy mentality, has vowed to force Viamonte from the workplace. The more redneck part of the staff has already devised some sort of plan.
During this afternoon’s faculty meeting, I had the opportunity to witness Phase 1 of the Outing Viamonte Plan. Faculty meetings are held in the Media Center, where teachers are seated at large tables in groups of seven or eight. Principal and The Intimidator stand at the front of the room to conduct their business. Teachers are cliquey and tend to sit with their buddies, so they can chat and gossip, rather than listen to what the bosses have to say.
Today I arrived a little early, and took a seat at a corner table. I was hoping to position myself in a spot where Principal wouldn’t be able to see that, instead of reading her boring memos, I actually was grading papers. Slowly, teachers trickled into the Media Center. The best seats, the ones slightly out of Principal’s view, were filled up first. The buzz of teacher chit chat gradually built up in the room.
Little Shanda got sick after lunch today; it was a huge mess…
Has anybody seen the 5th grade Science Kits? I’ve been looking everywhere…
I’m going to have to work late tonight, so many papers to grade…
Have ‘y’all heard about this year’s school play? I heard it would be about…
I tried to fade out all of the chatter and focus on my grading. All was going well, until about two minutes before the Faculty Meeting was scheduled to start. I noticed a change in the sound; the chit chat had begun to die down early. This is usually the sign that Principal or The Intimidator has arrived. I looked up to see that Ms. Viamonte had entered the room.
One by one, the teachers stopped talking and turned their heads to stare at the girl. Where will she sit? Panicked, teachers began shifting their belongings to make it look like empty seats were actually taken.
Wearing a tight magenta cardigan and a matching skirt, Ms. Viamonte held her chin high and pretended not to notice all of the unwanted attention. Her curly brown ponytail bounced with every step that she took- straight over the table of First and Second Grade teachers. Smiling, she sat down among women who used to be her comrades and confidants.
The teachers at Ms. Viamonte’s table exchanged uncomfortable glances. The Media Center had grown completely silent. Looking disdainfully from Ms. Viamonte to her colleagues, I saw Mrs. Reeve, the winner of the Bulletin Board Contest, shake her head in disgust. Mrs. Reeve quietly picked up her pen and her notebook, stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and walked to an empty table at the far end of the library.
One by one, the teachers at Ms. Viamonte’s table began to get up and move. They scattered through out the room, finding new seats at other tables.
Ms. Viamonte sat alone. Deserted. Her face was burning red with embarrassment, but she pretended not to notice and quietly flipped through a student workbook.
Everyone in the Media Center was either glaring menacingly at the girl, or they were staring uncomfortable at their own notebooks. No one said a word, and the silence went left unbroken until Principal burst into the room.
“Okay, everyone, let’s get started!” Principal began, but then she paused and dumbly exclaimed, “Gosh, ‘y’all are a quiet group today!”
I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Ms. Viamonte.
100- Caroline's Absense
I stayed awake all last night, wondering about Demarcus and his mother. Were they able to sleep at the church again? How will they get food? Will they ever find a home?
To add to my worry, Caroline has not yet returned to work from the holiday. It is unlike her to be absent so many days in a row, and I began to fear that her family also suffered a tragedy. My concerns sparked me to visit Principal during my Planning Period.
“Hello, Sweet- Pea.” Principal warmly welcomed me into her office.
Her casual attitude made me feel agitated. Doesn’t she realize the sadness all around us? I forced a smile and took a seat in a pink arm chair. “I won’t keep you long,” I bumbled. For some reason, Principal always makes me feel a little nervous, “I just wanted to ask about Caroline. Have you heard from her? She’s been out for so long…”
“Humph.” Principal frowned and looked down at her desk.
This frightened me. Principal never frowns. “Is she okay?” I prodded.
Slowly, Principal answered. “Well, yes. Caroline is fine. She… she just…”
Spit it out, lady!
“…she just decided to take a couple more days off. Caroline will be back soon.”
If everything is okay, why do you look so uncomfortable?
I could tell that Principal was keeping something from me. I know I wasn’t going to get anything more from her, so I quit asking questions and thanked her for her time. As I left the office, I swear I heard Principal release a sigh of relief.
My suspicions were answered when I entered the Teacher’s Lounge. Draped over the copy machine were several gossip vultures. Their voices were hushed and their eyes were shiny.
“Can you believe it? How embarrassing!” One of them said.
“Oh, lord,” Exclaimed another, shaking her head, “They have only been married three years!”
A third gossip addict chimed in, “I always thought that Viamonte was a little trampy. Caroline ought to beat her ass.”
Viamonte. Caroline. Beat her ass?
For the first time all year, I was interested in what the scandalmongers had to say. “What are you all talking about? What happened with Caroline and Ms. Viamonte?”
The group grew silent and stared at me. They seized me up, deciding if I were gossip worthy.
“Come on,” I whispered in a sisterly voice, “I won’t tell, I promise!” To prove my allegiance to the scandalous clique, I smiled brightly and put my finger to my lips.
Just spill the beans!
True to their busybody natures, the teachers were easily won over. “Oh! My! God! You haven’t heard?” Gushing with elation, the group proceeded to inform me that Caroline had caught her husband, Mark, in bed with Ms. Viamonte over the Christmas break.
“Viamonte hired Mark to paint her house, but apparently there was a lot more than painting going on! Eh! Eh!” One of the teachers nudged me. “You know what I mean?”
The group giggled. I nodded.
“They’ve been having an affair?” I asked dumbly.
“Oh, yeah. Apparently, their little rendezvous has been going on for months. Caroline’s furious. She’s filing for divorce and is threatening to quit if Principal doesn’t fire Viamonte…”
“…but,” another teacher chimed in, “Principal can’t just fire Viamonte. She has no reason. So, we,” the teacher gestured to the group, “We are going to force the tramp out!”
Force Viamonte out? Like some kind of teacher militia?
I left the Teacher’s Lounge in a daze.
Poor Caroline! She lost her husband, and may lose her job. Should I have told her? I’ve known for months and didn’t say anything!
I thought teaching Elementary School would be all about roses and sunshine.
To add to my worry, Caroline has not yet returned to work from the holiday. It is unlike her to be absent so many days in a row, and I began to fear that her family also suffered a tragedy. My concerns sparked me to visit Principal during my Planning Period.
“Hello, Sweet- Pea.” Principal warmly welcomed me into her office.
Her casual attitude made me feel agitated. Doesn’t she realize the sadness all around us? I forced a smile and took a seat in a pink arm chair. “I won’t keep you long,” I bumbled. For some reason, Principal always makes me feel a little nervous, “I just wanted to ask about Caroline. Have you heard from her? She’s been out for so long…”
“Humph.” Principal frowned and looked down at her desk.
This frightened me. Principal never frowns. “Is she okay?” I prodded.
Slowly, Principal answered. “Well, yes. Caroline is fine. She… she just…”
Spit it out, lady!
“…she just decided to take a couple more days off. Caroline will be back soon.”
If everything is okay, why do you look so uncomfortable?
I could tell that Principal was keeping something from me. I know I wasn’t going to get anything more from her, so I quit asking questions and thanked her for her time. As I left the office, I swear I heard Principal release a sigh of relief.
My suspicions were answered when I entered the Teacher’s Lounge. Draped over the copy machine were several gossip vultures. Their voices were hushed and their eyes were shiny.
“Can you believe it? How embarrassing!” One of them said.
“Oh, lord,” Exclaimed another, shaking her head, “They have only been married three years!”
A third gossip addict chimed in, “I always thought that Viamonte was a little trampy. Caroline ought to beat her ass.”
Viamonte. Caroline. Beat her ass?
For the first time all year, I was interested in what the scandalmongers had to say. “What are you all talking about? What happened with Caroline and Ms. Viamonte?”
The group grew silent and stared at me. They seized me up, deciding if I were gossip worthy.
“Come on,” I whispered in a sisterly voice, “I won’t tell, I promise!” To prove my allegiance to the scandalous clique, I smiled brightly and put my finger to my lips.
Just spill the beans!
True to their busybody natures, the teachers were easily won over. “Oh! My! God! You haven’t heard?” Gushing with elation, the group proceeded to inform me that Caroline had caught her husband, Mark, in bed with Ms. Viamonte over the Christmas break.
“Viamonte hired Mark to paint her house, but apparently there was a lot more than painting going on! Eh! Eh!” One of the teachers nudged me. “You know what I mean?”
The group giggled. I nodded.
“They’ve been having an affair?” I asked dumbly.
“Oh, yeah. Apparently, their little rendezvous has been going on for months. Caroline’s furious. She’s filing for divorce and is threatening to quit if Principal doesn’t fire Viamonte…”
“…but,” another teacher chimed in, “Principal can’t just fire Viamonte. She has no reason. So, we,” the teacher gestured to the group, “We are going to force the tramp out!”
Force Viamonte out? Like some kind of teacher militia?
I left the Teacher’s Lounge in a daze.
Poor Caroline! She lost her husband, and may lose her job. Should I have told her? I’ve known for months and didn’t say anything!
I thought teaching Elementary School would be all about roses and sunshine.
99- Back to School
The atmosphere of the school is much more positive when the students are in attendance. Kids were excited to show off their new holiday toys. Scattered throughout the sea of brand new coats and holiday sweaters, many of the kids had on pairs of Healie shoes. Healie shoes are the new fad amongst youngsters; they look like normal shoes, but have little wheels in the heel that jut out and allow the children to roll from place to place. Any kid with a pair of wheelies is the envy of others.
I realized how much I had missed my students as they collected in my classroom. Ignoring all fears of ringworm, I warmly returned hug after hug. The children were bursting with Christmas stories.
Kathleen: Santa had to come to my house twice! The first night he forgot to bring my Barbie Ferrari.
Francesca: Well, Santa brought me a pair of diamond earrings and a brand new tennis racket!
Robbie: I have seventeen GI- Joes and over two-hundred comic books!
Hannah: My mom let me eat chicken nuggets at every single meal, even for Christmas dinner.
Josh: I got wheelie shoes! I’m gonna cruise all over this school.
I allowed the children time to share with each other. They laughed and smiled as they joked with one another. I noticed that Demarcus had chosen not to participate in the discussion and was sitting quietly at his desk.
“Demarcus,” I asked him, “Did you have a nice time on your vacation?”
The boy silently shook his head.
“No?” I was afraid to ask, “Why not?”
“My house burned down.”
His house burned down?
“What?” I hoped I had heard incorrectly.
Demarcus went on to tell me that his house had burned down two days after Christmas. The family could not afford heat, so his mother had built a fire in the fireplace to produce some warmth. My ma’amma, she built a nice big fire, and I got to sit by it whenever I wanted. It wasn’t so cold with that fire burnin’. I liked it. My ma’amma, one day she say, Demarcus, we need to go to the store. So, my ma’amma and me, we left to go to the store. We left that fire going ‘cause my Grandma, she stay home and she want to keep warm. We weren’t gone too long, but when we got back, our whole house was burned down. All my Christmas presents got burnt up. But not this! Demarcus pulled a small toy car from his pocket. I had this with me! The boy smiled longingly at his toy.
What do you say to a child who’s home and all of his belongings have been burned in a house fire? I found myself wishing I could give Demarcus a home and new Christmas presents. Just like with Nelson, I wanted to be able to tell my student that everything would be all right, but I couldn’t. Instead I gave Demarcus yet another hug and sent him on his way, with Turd Boy, to the Resource Classroom.
After school, I went to speak with the Resource Teacher about Demarcus. I wanted to find out if she knew of a way to send donations to his family. The Resource Teacher told me that a local church had taken Demarcus and his mother in for the holidays. The boy and his mother were now homeless; his grandma had been killed in the fire.
I realized how much I had missed my students as they collected in my classroom. Ignoring all fears of ringworm, I warmly returned hug after hug. The children were bursting with Christmas stories.
Kathleen: Santa had to come to my house twice! The first night he forgot to bring my Barbie Ferrari.
Francesca: Well, Santa brought me a pair of diamond earrings and a brand new tennis racket!
Robbie: I have seventeen GI- Joes and over two-hundred comic books!
Hannah: My mom let me eat chicken nuggets at every single meal, even for Christmas dinner.
Josh: I got wheelie shoes! I’m gonna cruise all over this school.
I allowed the children time to share with each other. They laughed and smiled as they joked with one another. I noticed that Demarcus had chosen not to participate in the discussion and was sitting quietly at his desk.
“Demarcus,” I asked him, “Did you have a nice time on your vacation?”
The boy silently shook his head.
“No?” I was afraid to ask, “Why not?”
“My house burned down.”
His house burned down?
“What?” I hoped I had heard incorrectly.
Demarcus went on to tell me that his house had burned down two days after Christmas. The family could not afford heat, so his mother had built a fire in the fireplace to produce some warmth. My ma’amma, she built a nice big fire, and I got to sit by it whenever I wanted. It wasn’t so cold with that fire burnin’. I liked it. My ma’amma, one day she say, Demarcus, we need to go to the store. So, my ma’amma and me, we left to go to the store. We left that fire going ‘cause my Grandma, she stay home and she want to keep warm. We weren’t gone too long, but when we got back, our whole house was burned down. All my Christmas presents got burnt up. But not this! Demarcus pulled a small toy car from his pocket. I had this with me! The boy smiled longingly at his toy.
What do you say to a child who’s home and all of his belongings have been burned in a house fire? I found myself wishing I could give Demarcus a home and new Christmas presents. Just like with Nelson, I wanted to be able to tell my student that everything would be all right, but I couldn’t. Instead I gave Demarcus yet another hug and sent him on his way, with Turd Boy, to the Resource Classroom.
After school, I went to speak with the Resource Teacher about Demarcus. I wanted to find out if she knew of a way to send donations to his family. The Resource Teacher told me that a local church had taken Demarcus and his mother in for the holidays. The boy and his mother were now homeless; his grandma had been killed in the fire.
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