Major cities all over the country have embraced what critics call a “surveillance society.” Cameras that can turn corners, operate in symphony with hundreds of other cameras, and feed video directly to any source properly connected to the system… cameras so powerful they can follow you, average citizen, down city streets and see exactly what you might happen to be reading, right down to “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or, if you’re like me, “Dear Penthouse.” Major cities. Cities as liberal and anti-fascist as San Francisco have implemented this billion-dollar system of monitoring everyday folks under the guise of safety.
So knowing this, it should be of no surprise to find out that administrators are listening in on my classroom. You all remember those little wood-box speakers mounted near the ceiling of every room, a laughably ancient technology compared to what these major cities are using, but just as effective. As with almost every technology, the flaw is user-related. It was by user-error that I came to suspect someone was spying on me. I heard a bell-tone that usually means someone from the office wants to say something to me or the school. “Hello,” I said. No answer. It happened again. “Hello?” No answer. Then I heard a quick succession of two unfamiliar beeps, what I now assume to have been the equivalent of a mute button.
Now I’m a pretty paranoid person as is, but it wasn’t long before I said something to another teacher about the strange PA noises, and it wasn’t long before my suspicions were conformed. Oddly enough, this teacher did overhear something about administrators listening in on my class. Why would they do that? I wondered. Something about how I might be cursing.
Cursing? Me? No! … well, yes actually. Quite a bit. Like a sailor. But who gives a fuck? Apparently the administration give several, several fucks, that is.
This leads me to the title of this post, which is the title of an entry with which I wanted to kick off the blog, following my introductory post. But things did not work out that way, so allow me now to set the scene.
It is the third day of school. I am still not used to the fact that there exist students who cannot remember what happened two seconds ago, who cannot sit still, who cannot keep their hands to themselves, who cannot stop talking, who have anger issues, who have deep-seeded sexual issues, students who speak in an unintelligible slang, students who will say whatever they want to a teacher, students with no vocabulary, students who answer rhetorical questions, students who are generally a bunch of assholes. I’m having enough trouble already trying to figure out how to make lesson plans, what to teach, how to teach it, etc. I’m having enough trouble being tested every which way by questions that I’m too clouded to realize are solely designed to test me, and when I try to answer them, being clouded, everything seeming very unreal, I am not conscious of the fact that the student isn’t actually looking for answer, but rather looking to see if I would actually be dumb enough to answer. All I’m asking of them, in calm, polite words, is that they stay seated a not talk while I try to go over the lesson—which I’m extremely self-conscious about considering I received nil guidance.
Anyhow, one thing leads to another, as the song says, and the next thing you know I am yelling at them to quiet down. They do not like yelling and it does not make them any quieter, even though the first thing I yelled was, “Quiet please!” I probably repeated myself three times before moving on to criticizing the students (not in a mean way) about not being able to follow simple directions, about how everything has fallen apart since the first day when we had that pep talk about respect, and about how everything was going to be easy-going and no one would get in trouble because there are only a few very basic rules to follow in this class… this whole spiel—students yapping back the whole time—ended, or I should say paused, in me yelling, “Why can’t you just fucking listen!”
Well, that was it. I said “fuck” and it was only the third day of school. I knew then I had to reevaulate my method. I knew this as soon as I said it. And I knew it before the note from the principal showed up in my box the next day: “Please see me re some comments you may or may not have made.”
The first emotion I felt was anger. Not at myself or the principal, but at my students, who, if recorded for one fifty-minute class period, would be captured saying the nastiest, most disgusting, most racist shit you’ve heard in a long time. A lot of it comes from the hyper-sexualized rap and R&B they listen to (“I pop in the nudie tape: bitch! I love the way the booty shake: bitch!”), and the rest of it comes from their backwards home lives (try to guess how many homes I pass on the way to school that proudly fly the flag of the Confederacy). Hypocrites! is basically what I thought.
But I knew the principal better than other new teachers. I met him the first day of pre-planning and we talked about literature and history. He really did put the “pal” in his title. Of course I was uncomfortable, but he was a good sport about it.
After a game of adolescent telephone, he heard that I had called the class “stupid fucking kids,” which, without a doubt, they certainly are. “But,” I explained, “I said no such thing… I said ‘fuck,’ sure, but the phrasing was more like ‘Why can’t you fucking listen?’” I had no problem admitting this, nor did I feel the need to bend the truth into some far-fetched story about teaching a lesson on “learning interrogative sentences through swear words” (it’s research-based!). I didn’t need to do anything like that because the principal had never seen anything like these kids either. He understood where a young guy like myself was coming from. The whole thing amounted to “don’t do it again, obviously” and the conversation quickly moved on to beer, literature, and the hardships of trying to impose middle-class enlightenment values on a bunch of kids who “can’t fucking listen,” to quote the principal.
So why is it, five weeks after the third day of school, administrators are still listening in? Okay, I suppose I have not washed my mouth out with soap completely. The other day I said “hell.” “Oooooooo” was the response I received from my bad class. This was after they would not be quiet and an administrator had to be called to come in and calm things down, only do be talked back to just the same (this was the third time this happened). So they’re all screaming and yelling unintelllgible bullshit at me and complaining about being punished for this or that, and all I said was “What the hell do you want me to do?” They say, “Ooooooo,” as if I did something horrible, as if one of them didn’t just make a reference to wiping the splooge off of his ho’s stomach (not kidding). They are intent on setting a double standard for foul language, but I have a plan.
All my plan requires is for me not to curse. The students, I know, will keep cursing. So here’s what I’m doing: I’m starting a swear jar. If I hear a student curse, drop at least a nickel into the jar. If they don’t have any change, I give them a referral and call their parents to tell them what their child said. It’s my little way of saying, “fuck you” without actually saying, “fuck you.”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Parent Night, or: Six Out of Forty-Four Ain't Bad
So what happened at Parent Night? It wasn’t even a farce. It was too miniscule to be a farce. It may as well have not happened at all.
Who showed up? Four of my A students, one average student, and the school’s worst behavioral problem (who happens to be one of my students). Did you know that students are supposed to go with parents to Parent Night? I did not, probably because anything involving my parents physically present in my high school caused several doomsday scenarios to play out in my head, followed by a swift repression. I’m sure I knew this fact about kids and their parents showing up somewhere deep in my subconscious, but I was not prepared for it.
What am I saying? Parent Night was a snap. Nothing eventful happened. Parents and kids moved from class to class every ten minutes, with the bell ringing just like it does during the day to make the whole thing seem like a Disney ride—“a typical day at school,” only it’s six at night, and the teachers are all ornery over being in the building so long, kind of like Disney employees. Nothing happened… only one minor gem, which looks handsome in sentence form: The school’s worst discipline problem and the school’s worst discipline problem’s mother showed up late to my class. You don’t know how bad I wanted to say, “I refer you during the day. Now I’m fittin’ tuh refer yo mamma!”
Who showed up? Four of my A students, one average student, and the school’s worst behavioral problem (who happens to be one of my students). Did you know that students are supposed to go with parents to Parent Night? I did not, probably because anything involving my parents physically present in my high school caused several doomsday scenarios to play out in my head, followed by a swift repression. I’m sure I knew this fact about kids and their parents showing up somewhere deep in my subconscious, but I was not prepared for it.
What am I saying? Parent Night was a snap. Nothing eventful happened. Parents and kids moved from class to class every ten minutes, with the bell ringing just like it does during the day to make the whole thing seem like a Disney ride—“a typical day at school,” only it’s six at night, and the teachers are all ornery over being in the building so long, kind of like Disney employees. Nothing happened… only one minor gem, which looks handsome in sentence form: The school’s worst discipline problem and the school’s worst discipline problem’s mother showed up late to my class. You don’t know how bad I wanted to say, “I refer you during the day. Now I’m fittin’ tuh refer yo mamma!”
Sunday, September 16, 2007
How Does Preparation for the Week Require the Entire Weekend?
That line is stolen from a Karate (RIP) song, written by Geoff Farina. It's damn true in my case, as I sit here writing myself to sleep after I've spent all day prepping lessons for the coming week. "It's the first year," they say. "First year sucks." "It's always the hardest." It's not so much the prep that bothers me, but the fact that I'm not sure any of it will sink in for the students.
Of course, I hope it does, but my teaching inexperience and their learning inexperience is not a good combination. According to my mentor I'm doing a fine job. I don't doubt her, but I do often feel like an island in my room all day, with the kids crashing in on me like waves, slowly eroding the coasts of my patience. The main thing to do if you're a teacher is to talk to adults as much as you can during the course of a day. Because talking to students, especially dumb ones, is exhausting. I wanted to read a novel this weekend, but it took me until right about now to get in the mood for anything adult. I spent much of the weekend shaking off the feeling being at a high school gives me, like wearing a heavy coat with too many straps and buttons. It was worse after the first week, but it gets better, and I'm becoming more proficient at compartamentalizing, separating my institutional role from my personal life as an individual (Chomsky, 94).
Tomorrow I am limiting my conversations with students to lesson-related speech only. I will be adapting style of the ninja, or the monk. My punishments will be swift and silent and any dissent will be met with further silence, calm and rational punishment, then back to the lesson at hand.
Tomorrow I will be experiencing my first parent conference, strangely enough, requested by the student, even stranger, after I've tried to contact his parents several times with no response. As I've been warned, oftentimes, the apple does not fall far from the tree. If so, this tree must be a arborous imbecilous, more commonly known as the "Stupid Tree." But I will have the backing of other teachers, a counselor and hopefully (but not likely) an administrator. You can complain all you want, but in the end, the Fs speak for themselves. I'll let you know how it goes.
I'm sorry, dear reader, this post is going nowhere, but there is an essay brewing, a long one, a doosey, if you will; it forms a new vital organ everyday, tomorrow it will have a heart, the next day brainwaves (choose life!), each draft developing more and more into a sentient being. Stay tuned!
Of course, I hope it does, but my teaching inexperience and their learning inexperience is not a good combination. According to my mentor I'm doing a fine job. I don't doubt her, but I do often feel like an island in my room all day, with the kids crashing in on me like waves, slowly eroding the coasts of my patience. The main thing to do if you're a teacher is to talk to adults as much as you can during the course of a day. Because talking to students, especially dumb ones, is exhausting. I wanted to read a novel this weekend, but it took me until right about now to get in the mood for anything adult. I spent much of the weekend shaking off the feeling being at a high school gives me, like wearing a heavy coat with too many straps and buttons. It was worse after the first week, but it gets better, and I'm becoming more proficient at compartamentalizing, separating my institutional role from my personal life as an individual (Chomsky, 94).
Tomorrow I am limiting my conversations with students to lesson-related speech only. I will be adapting style of the ninja, or the monk. My punishments will be swift and silent and any dissent will be met with further silence, calm and rational punishment, then back to the lesson at hand.
Tomorrow I will be experiencing my first parent conference, strangely enough, requested by the student, even stranger, after I've tried to contact his parents several times with no response. As I've been warned, oftentimes, the apple does not fall far from the tree. If so, this tree must be a arborous imbecilous, more commonly known as the "Stupid Tree." But I will have the backing of other teachers, a counselor and hopefully (but not likely) an administrator. You can complain all you want, but in the end, the Fs speak for themselves. I'll let you know how it goes.
I'm sorry, dear reader, this post is going nowhere, but there is an essay brewing, a long one, a doosey, if you will; it forms a new vital organ everyday, tomorrow it will have a heart, the next day brainwaves (choose life!), each draft developing more and more into a sentient being. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Chicanery of Harry Wong
Teachers call Harry Wong a guru. They buy his books. They pay money to see him speak. School districts spend taxpayer dollars to ship this small Asian man, presumably in a box, to their counties so he can bestow his ancient teaching wisdom upon their dim, unenlightened masses. I think Harry Wong is an asshole.
Harry Wong is a charismatic man, and, as I’ve mentioned before, he is very, very tiny. He is packaged in a gaudy plaid suit. He stands on a stage in front of a mock classroom and says things like, “You are working too hard. I’ve been teaching for 30 years and I have never worked a day in my life.” Teachers seem to see this as the paradoxical wisdom of the East.
He looks like a chipmunk that stumbled upon a pair of oversized bifocals, this Wong, and I had to spend the better part of three days with him at my county’s New Teacher Induction Ceremony—three of my last summer days blown at the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn. Because I’m new to teaching, the county thought I would benefit from the ways of the Wong. Of course, they were very sorry Mr. Wong could not be there in person. Instead, we were subjected to his televisual image, so our heckling, shouting and throwing of piping-hot, complementary Days Inn coffee would do no good, for the real deal was off entertaining the higher bidders.
If it hasn’t occurred to you yet—the combination of this man’s name and my pure disdain for him… well, let’s just say from here on out I’ll be referring to him as Harry Wang. To be honest that was the first thing I thought when I heard his name, though my tablemates—a group of nine other new teachers with no discernable personalities—didn’t find it as universally unfortunate and hilarious as I did.
Though I speak ill of Harry Wang, I do so only in retrospect. As a teacher of reading, I ask you to recall one of the basic elements one brings to the act: prior knowledge. For those of you who are kind enough to read this blog chronologically, you already know my school has a serious discipline problem. So, now, please imagine your humble narrator in the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn, prior to ever meeting any students. In fact, at this point, I’ve only been to the school once, for my interview. I am sitting there, despite my inherent cynicism and tendency to turn names into sexual puns, bright-eyed and ready for this silly man to give me some good advice. You see, even though he looks funny, I, completely new to education, am paying very close attention to what this man says. I believe every single word.
Before the video begins, our induction leader asks us to open our tote bags and find the book entitled “The First Days of School,” by guess who? That’s right, our friend Harry can’t be here, but at least his book is now a high-end piece of SWAG. I’m thrilled to have the book, for one because books just feel nice in my hands, and also because books in the genre of “education” are ridiculously expensive. (Just today, my department head gave me a book on reading, a thin paperback of about 170 pages, which sells for thirty dollars.) So I’ve got the shiny new copy of “The First Days of School” in my novice grasp. I’m flipping through it and reading the table of contents and thinking, this book has all the answers to my questions about the first days of school, and it does.
The thesis of the book is that the fate of the entire school year rests on what happens in class those first few days. You must establish clear rules and consequences, as well as classroom procedures. Sounds logical. Don’t make more than 5 rules, or the kids will stop paying attention. Make about 3 to 5. At this point I’m scribbling ideas on my free legal pad… two rules: 1) RESPECT… include a few subcategories: do not talk over people, keep hands to self, etc, etc. I even have the idea of making my syllabus interactive and asking the students what their definition of respect is. Brilliant! 2) Follow all school rules. This way I cover my ass (CYA, or “cover your ass” is an oft-repeated motto among teachers) and make it the students’ responsibility to go through all that grueling crap they should already know. Just refer to your student handbook, I will tell them.
Rules are one thing, but you also need procedures—how to turn in homework, the policy for bathroom use, and my favorite: bell work. Harry Wang promises that bell work is one of the greatest tools a teacher can have. Bell work is an assignment that is on the board everyday in the same spot (students hate change like teachers hate students). Students come, sit down before the bell rings, and know exactly what to do: quietly work on their bell work assignment. They won’t ask, “What do we do? What are we doing today?” etc.
I may as well just stop here, because Harry Wang says a lot of things in this three-day period and they all sound like educational gold. But bell work is my favorite concept and, by the time induction is over, I’ve already concocted bell work assignments for the entire first week of school. My expectations are higher than one of my students on a Friday evening and I’m ready for the upcoming week of pre-planning.
Pre-planning is the time teachers get (one week; not enough) to prepare for the onslaught of the adolescent mass that floods the school on day one. This week happens to be jam-packed with meetings of all sorts, and information overload occurs halfway into the first day. But all this information, I begin to realize, is abstract. Nothing I’m being told is very practical. And many topics being discussed, such as hall passes, referral slips, student code of conduct, are pointless without any kind of hard copy to reference. I’d much rather be working on lesson plans, finding out what textbooks to consider—remember, I’ve never taught, nor have I taken education classes… I have no idea what my students are supposed to be reading, what they already know, or what they need to learn this year.
One good thing about pre-planning is that lunch is provided for three of the five days. And during three of the five lunches, quite an interesting event took place. (If you happen to be Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitches, please avert your eyes from the remainder of this paragraph.) This event is what theists call prayer. All the teachers, who are mature enough to fake it, joined hands with the administration, and addressed someone named Lord. I suppose that was general enough. Jesus’ name was not invoked; though I’m pretty sure Lord is a Christian term. So we prayed, or they prayed, or most of them prayed, and I thought, “Man, this is really fucking weird.” I felt like I was home for the holidays, only everyone was gracious enough not to ask me to lead the prayer. I must say it was all a bit uncomfortable for me, not because I felt pressured, but because I didn’t know how to act. Do I bow my head with the rest of them, close my eyes, or simply stare out into the circle of people? It was strange enough to hold their hands. I certainly didn’t want to act like I was praying and not actually pray, but then again, it’s not like I’d be offending a god that I don’t believe exists, because you have to be religious to do something sacrilegious. I should have been concerned about offending my peers. But then again, why the hell were we praying? Sure, it wasn’t doing any harm, but it just seemed archaic and inappropriate. I suppose, in the end, if I had to be surrounded by a bunch of Christians, I would choose that group in particular. Because, as you know, teachers, despite their religious views, are more often than not quite progressive people, and while we may not agree about a white-bearded guy in the clouds (not to be confused with my former white-bearded co-worker, who looks more like Santa than anthropomorphic portrayals of god), we agree on almost everything else. But I digress… You should know that I did pray for something in that awkward circle. I prayed that Harry Wang knew what he was talking about.
So by Friday of pre-planning week I knew exactly what I was going to do the first day. I had my Wang strategies down and I was ready to enjoy a long weekend of visiting friends and drinking copious amounts of beer.
Weekends go by too quickly, and the first day of school arrived like a Jehovah’s Witness. I sat in my swivel chair waiting for the first batch of young men and women ready to be molded into mature, freethinking adults.
Enter Students. A brief and appropriate poem comes to mind. Ezra Pound wrote it. It’s called “In a Station of the Metro” and it continues to say, “the apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough.” The students appear to fit this description, a blur of faces. They bob around me, swaying like the poem’s petals, and they speak: “You the teacha?” “Bell work? We do work already?” “What bell work is?” “Yo palm sweaty. You nervous.” Nah, I say, not really aware of what’s happening, it’s just hot. “Shit. I ain’t doin’ no bell work.”
The room is loud. As their faces come into focus, I notice they are looking me up and down, as if I’m a museum display of modern man from 2007, a wax sculpture they’ve come to observe, looking back in time from a post-apocalyptic dystopia. Who is this guy in the tie? What was his purpose in the old days? But this analogy breaks down quickly. Why would a post-apocalyptic dystopia have museums? It is more likely, that they would all be eating each other. I don’t have to begin talking about the syllabus and the rules and consequences and procedures before I realize that Harry Wang is wong… very, very wong.
Harry Wong is a charismatic man, and, as I’ve mentioned before, he is very, very tiny. He is packaged in a gaudy plaid suit. He stands on a stage in front of a mock classroom and says things like, “You are working too hard. I’ve been teaching for 30 years and I have never worked a day in my life.” Teachers seem to see this as the paradoxical wisdom of the East.
He looks like a chipmunk that stumbled upon a pair of oversized bifocals, this Wong, and I had to spend the better part of three days with him at my county’s New Teacher Induction Ceremony—three of my last summer days blown at the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn. Because I’m new to teaching, the county thought I would benefit from the ways of the Wong. Of course, they were very sorry Mr. Wong could not be there in person. Instead, we were subjected to his televisual image, so our heckling, shouting and throwing of piping-hot, complementary Days Inn coffee would do no good, for the real deal was off entertaining the higher bidders.
If it hasn’t occurred to you yet—the combination of this man’s name and my pure disdain for him… well, let’s just say from here on out I’ll be referring to him as Harry Wang. To be honest that was the first thing I thought when I heard his name, though my tablemates—a group of nine other new teachers with no discernable personalities—didn’t find it as universally unfortunate and hilarious as I did.
Though I speak ill of Harry Wang, I do so only in retrospect. As a teacher of reading, I ask you to recall one of the basic elements one brings to the act: prior knowledge. For those of you who are kind enough to read this blog chronologically, you already know my school has a serious discipline problem. So, now, please imagine your humble narrator in the Seashell Ballroom of the Days Inn, prior to ever meeting any students. In fact, at this point, I’ve only been to the school once, for my interview. I am sitting there, despite my inherent cynicism and tendency to turn names into sexual puns, bright-eyed and ready for this silly man to give me some good advice. You see, even though he looks funny, I, completely new to education, am paying very close attention to what this man says. I believe every single word.
Before the video begins, our induction leader asks us to open our tote bags and find the book entitled “The First Days of School,” by guess who? That’s right, our friend Harry can’t be here, but at least his book is now a high-end piece of SWAG. I’m thrilled to have the book, for one because books just feel nice in my hands, and also because books in the genre of “education” are ridiculously expensive. (Just today, my department head gave me a book on reading, a thin paperback of about 170 pages, which sells for thirty dollars.) So I’ve got the shiny new copy of “The First Days of School” in my novice grasp. I’m flipping through it and reading the table of contents and thinking, this book has all the answers to my questions about the first days of school, and it does.
The thesis of the book is that the fate of the entire school year rests on what happens in class those first few days. You must establish clear rules and consequences, as well as classroom procedures. Sounds logical. Don’t make more than 5 rules, or the kids will stop paying attention. Make about 3 to 5. At this point I’m scribbling ideas on my free legal pad… two rules: 1) RESPECT… include a few subcategories: do not talk over people, keep hands to self, etc, etc. I even have the idea of making my syllabus interactive and asking the students what their definition of respect is. Brilliant! 2) Follow all school rules. This way I cover my ass (CYA, or “cover your ass” is an oft-repeated motto among teachers) and make it the students’ responsibility to go through all that grueling crap they should already know. Just refer to your student handbook, I will tell them.
Rules are one thing, but you also need procedures—how to turn in homework, the policy for bathroom use, and my favorite: bell work. Harry Wang promises that bell work is one of the greatest tools a teacher can have. Bell work is an assignment that is on the board everyday in the same spot (students hate change like teachers hate students). Students come, sit down before the bell rings, and know exactly what to do: quietly work on their bell work assignment. They won’t ask, “What do we do? What are we doing today?” etc.
I may as well just stop here, because Harry Wang says a lot of things in this three-day period and they all sound like educational gold. But bell work is my favorite concept and, by the time induction is over, I’ve already concocted bell work assignments for the entire first week of school. My expectations are higher than one of my students on a Friday evening and I’m ready for the upcoming week of pre-planning.
Pre-planning is the time teachers get (one week; not enough) to prepare for the onslaught of the adolescent mass that floods the school on day one. This week happens to be jam-packed with meetings of all sorts, and information overload occurs halfway into the first day. But all this information, I begin to realize, is abstract. Nothing I’m being told is very practical. And many topics being discussed, such as hall passes, referral slips, student code of conduct, are pointless without any kind of hard copy to reference. I’d much rather be working on lesson plans, finding out what textbooks to consider—remember, I’ve never taught, nor have I taken education classes… I have no idea what my students are supposed to be reading, what they already know, or what they need to learn this year.
One good thing about pre-planning is that lunch is provided for three of the five days. And during three of the five lunches, quite an interesting event took place. (If you happen to be Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitches, please avert your eyes from the remainder of this paragraph.) This event is what theists call prayer. All the teachers, who are mature enough to fake it, joined hands with the administration, and addressed someone named Lord. I suppose that was general enough. Jesus’ name was not invoked; though I’m pretty sure Lord is a Christian term. So we prayed, or they prayed, or most of them prayed, and I thought, “Man, this is really fucking weird.” I felt like I was home for the holidays, only everyone was gracious enough not to ask me to lead the prayer. I must say it was all a bit uncomfortable for me, not because I felt pressured, but because I didn’t know how to act. Do I bow my head with the rest of them, close my eyes, or simply stare out into the circle of people? It was strange enough to hold their hands. I certainly didn’t want to act like I was praying and not actually pray, but then again, it’s not like I’d be offending a god that I don’t believe exists, because you have to be religious to do something sacrilegious. I should have been concerned about offending my peers. But then again, why the hell were we praying? Sure, it wasn’t doing any harm, but it just seemed archaic and inappropriate. I suppose, in the end, if I had to be surrounded by a bunch of Christians, I would choose that group in particular. Because, as you know, teachers, despite their religious views, are more often than not quite progressive people, and while we may not agree about a white-bearded guy in the clouds (not to be confused with my former white-bearded co-worker, who looks more like Santa than anthropomorphic portrayals of god), we agree on almost everything else. But I digress… You should know that I did pray for something in that awkward circle. I prayed that Harry Wang knew what he was talking about.
So by Friday of pre-planning week I knew exactly what I was going to do the first day. I had my Wang strategies down and I was ready to enjoy a long weekend of visiting friends and drinking copious amounts of beer.
Weekends go by too quickly, and the first day of school arrived like a Jehovah’s Witness. I sat in my swivel chair waiting for the first batch of young men and women ready to be molded into mature, freethinking adults.
Enter Students. A brief and appropriate poem comes to mind. Ezra Pound wrote it. It’s called “In a Station of the Metro” and it continues to say, “the apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough.” The students appear to fit this description, a blur of faces. They bob around me, swaying like the poem’s petals, and they speak: “You the teacha?” “Bell work? We do work already?” “What bell work is?” “Yo palm sweaty. You nervous.” Nah, I say, not really aware of what’s happening, it’s just hot. “Shit. I ain’t doin’ no bell work.”
The room is loud. As their faces come into focus, I notice they are looking me up and down, as if I’m a museum display of modern man from 2007, a wax sculpture they’ve come to observe, looking back in time from a post-apocalyptic dystopia. Who is this guy in the tie? What was his purpose in the old days? But this analogy breaks down quickly. Why would a post-apocalyptic dystopia have museums? It is more likely, that they would all be eating each other. I don’t have to begin talking about the syllabus and the rules and consequences and procedures before I realize that Harry Wang is wong… very, very wong.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Your Child Is Not ADHD, He's Just An Asshole.
The jolly, white-bearded man across the hall quit. This is his last week. He has taught for 30 years. He has been to Vietnam. And he has quit. "I think," he says, "I’d prefer working at Home Depot."
There is a certain emotional complexity to dealing with kids who never learned how to behave. Behavior, after all, is why any teacher at my school quits. Also, there is an emotional complexity to teaching in general, which, as of now, I can't properly describe in broad terms, but I can give you a specific example: this morning I felt like teaching could be my career. But after 3rd period, I felt like taking a cue from my jolly, white-bearded (almost former) co-worker. After 6th period, I felt like I could definately teach the rest of the year... hell, I still might make a career of it yet. Then I contemplated all the certification requirements, half of which are a complete waste of time, and thought, maybe I don't want to do this.
But to return to the immediate problem... I’ve never had to discpline anyone before in my life, however, in the past four weeks, I’ve written about 10 referrals, meaning the student has gone so far as to force me to send him/her (usually him) to the Dean of Discipline for punishment.
It is a perverse, almost fascist feeling, writing a referral, because if you’re like me, you don’t want to have to discipline. In fact, you’re whole approach is very laid-back and friendly, and you tell the students on the first day, “This should be a nice, easy-going environment, so there’s no reason to break any of these simple and reasonable rules.”
And then they break the simple and reasonable rules. They cannot be peaceful. They cannot sit quietly or speak to anyone with respect. Then you wonder, Why do these students insist on breaking the simplest and most reasonable of rules? Why is it that when it comes time to face the consequences, and you utter the word “detention,” or “referral,” the student only digs a deeper grave.
For example:
This kid has been misbehaving (a word I still feel weird saying) all period. He has been warned, he has earned one detention, two detentions, but none of this is enough. He has done nothing severely wrong, but his talking has disrupted the class too many times, to the point where learning is significantly inhibited, and no one can concentrate. You try to explain in calm, rational terms that it is not polite to interrupt. You also try to give him a dictionary definition of talking back and respect. A few minutes of silence pass before you notice him. He is now officially fucking with you, staring all bug-eyed at you on purpose—
As previously mentioned, they do not like to face consequences, especially ones, unlike detention, which require their immediate removal and public shaming. The shaming, however, is solely the fault of the student, that’s right, the bug-eyed one, who has now stood up and started to yell in a whiny voice about how unfair this all is—though you must imagine his pleas in broken English—and about how he’s going to tackle you. He now drops his books on the floor and rips up the pass to see the Dean. He's stomping out of the room with that pained look of defiance he always wears on his face, trying to act hard but actually looking more like he’s holding in a perpetual sneeze. Goodbye, poor student, farewell, you say. Adieu, adieu, adieu, you say, as you’ve just been given, by his little performance, more fuel for the fire, more bullets with which he can shoot himself in the foot, and all because no one ever taught him how to be respectful.
But you’re still steaming. And while you’re sitting there, writing quite the literary referral, pressing the pen down extra hard to keep your hand from shaking, you think about how all the teachers who’ve been at this school a long time tell you, “B--? Oh, he likes to play. He’s got the ADHD.” And you think of what you’ll say next time you see them. You’ll say, “I may not know much about ADHD, because I’m from the pre-ADHD generation, but just because he’s got it doesn’t mean he has to be an asshole.” And this statement makes you feel good. This referral makes you feel great. The kid is gone and out of your hair, at least for now, with five minutes left in class. But as far as you’re concerned he’s gone for the next 24 hours. It all feels good. Your blood is boiling and it feels good. You are taking pleasure in the misfortune of another. Not just in writing the referral, but the fact that you actually have nothing to be mad about. Your life is in order. The bug-eyed kid is the one who’s really fucked. He probably has a horrible home life. His parents have not returned your calls. He can barely read and write, and the fact that he can’t behave only bodes disaster for his future as a productive member of society. It is likely he’ll end up in place much worse than lifting boxes or scrubbing shit from toilets, and this is not a good thing for anyone, because the felon next door is everyone’s problem, and this is not what you wanted for anyone in your class, not what you planned, not what you expected. And yet this kid fucked with you all period, he exploded your patience and ideals, and you tried and tried and tried to warn him but he kept on fucking away, fucking himself, and while everything about the entire situation is completely depressing and hopeless, you are sitting at your desk with a huge smile, you’re warm all over, and you’ve never felt better in your life.
There is a certain emotional complexity to dealing with kids who never learned how to behave. Behavior, after all, is why any teacher at my school quits. Also, there is an emotional complexity to teaching in general, which, as of now, I can't properly describe in broad terms, but I can give you a specific example: this morning I felt like teaching could be my career. But after 3rd period, I felt like taking a cue from my jolly, white-bearded (almost former) co-worker. After 6th period, I felt like I could definately teach the rest of the year... hell, I still might make a career of it yet. Then I contemplated all the certification requirements, half of which are a complete waste of time, and thought, maybe I don't want to do this.
But to return to the immediate problem... I’ve never had to discpline anyone before in my life, however, in the past four weeks, I’ve written about 10 referrals, meaning the student has gone so far as to force me to send him/her (usually him) to the Dean of Discipline for punishment.
It is a perverse, almost fascist feeling, writing a referral, because if you’re like me, you don’t want to have to discipline. In fact, you’re whole approach is very laid-back and friendly, and you tell the students on the first day, “This should be a nice, easy-going environment, so there’s no reason to break any of these simple and reasonable rules.”
And then they break the simple and reasonable rules. They cannot be peaceful. They cannot sit quietly or speak to anyone with respect. Then you wonder, Why do these students insist on breaking the simplest and most reasonable of rules? Why is it that when it comes time to face the consequences, and you utter the word “detention,” or “referral,” the student only digs a deeper grave.
For example:
This kid has been misbehaving (a word I still feel weird saying) all period. He has been warned, he has earned one detention, two detentions, but none of this is enough. He has done nothing severely wrong, but his talking has disrupted the class too many times, to the point where learning is significantly inhibited, and no one can concentrate. You try to explain in calm, rational terms that it is not polite to interrupt. You also try to give him a dictionary definition of talking back and respect. A few minutes of silence pass before you notice him. He is now officially fucking with you, staring all bug-eyed at you on purpose—
~Interlude~
At this point, you, the teacher, are wishing the student had the ability to empathize, to put himself in another person’s shoes. But this student cannot place himself in the shoes of his own peers, let alone an adult teacher. But if this were possible, this empathy, then that disruptive student might, at this point, use his buggy third eye to see what was going on in his teacher’s head. He would not like what he sees. What he sees is a vivid, horrifying scene. He sees his head being slammed repeatedly into the wall, blood and red, dry-erase marker indistinguishable from one another. He hears his professional, well-dressed teacher say, ‘You cocky fucking prick. You’re never going to learn anything at this rate, so why don’t you go flip some fucking burgers—but not for me because I’m not the stupid son-of-a-bitch who patronizes the kind of establishment you’re barely qualified to work at—and continue to disenfranchise yourself while blaming everyone else. Please, kindly, I do say, go on.” And because it’s your worst nightmare, he responds, “What do disenfrenchfries mean?”~~~
—so he’s looking at you all bug-eyed and, if you say something, class is bound to be disrupted again, but you have to say something because the kid is trying you. So you calmly say, “B--, I’m giving you a referral.” What happens next, do you think?As previously mentioned, they do not like to face consequences, especially ones, unlike detention, which require their immediate removal and public shaming. The shaming, however, is solely the fault of the student, that’s right, the bug-eyed one, who has now stood up and started to yell in a whiny voice about how unfair this all is—though you must imagine his pleas in broken English—and about how he’s going to tackle you. He now drops his books on the floor and rips up the pass to see the Dean. He's stomping out of the room with that pained look of defiance he always wears on his face, trying to act hard but actually looking more like he’s holding in a perpetual sneeze. Goodbye, poor student, farewell, you say. Adieu, adieu, adieu, you say, as you’ve just been given, by his little performance, more fuel for the fire, more bullets with which he can shoot himself in the foot, and all because no one ever taught him how to be respectful.
But you’re still steaming. And while you’re sitting there, writing quite the literary referral, pressing the pen down extra hard to keep your hand from shaking, you think about how all the teachers who’ve been at this school a long time tell you, “B--? Oh, he likes to play. He’s got the ADHD.” And you think of what you’ll say next time you see them. You’ll say, “I may not know much about ADHD, because I’m from the pre-ADHD generation, but just because he’s got it doesn’t mean he has to be an asshole.” And this statement makes you feel good. This referral makes you feel great. The kid is gone and out of your hair, at least for now, with five minutes left in class. But as far as you’re concerned he’s gone for the next 24 hours. It all feels good. Your blood is boiling and it feels good. You are taking pleasure in the misfortune of another. Not just in writing the referral, but the fact that you actually have nothing to be mad about. Your life is in order. The bug-eyed kid is the one who’s really fucked. He probably has a horrible home life. His parents have not returned your calls. He can barely read and write, and the fact that he can’t behave only bodes disaster for his future as a productive member of society. It is likely he’ll end up in place much worse than lifting boxes or scrubbing shit from toilets, and this is not a good thing for anyone, because the felon next door is everyone’s problem, and this is not what you wanted for anyone in your class, not what you planned, not what you expected. And yet this kid fucked with you all period, he exploded your patience and ideals, and you tried and tried and tried to warn him but he kept on fucking away, fucking himself, and while everything about the entire situation is completely depressing and hopeless, you are sitting at your desk with a huge smile, you’re warm all over, and you’ve never felt better in your life.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Who Am I?
I am a first year teacher with no previous educational experience. I am a Literature and Creative Writing major now teaching English III and Intensive Reading at a rural Florida high school. For all kinds of legal purposes I will remain simply “I.” The innocent, guilty and stupid will be herein renamed. I suppose I could just say that everything that follows is fiction, a flight of fancy, the product of an active imagination—that would make it easier to sleep at night. So why not: everything you read here is a work of fiction, any proper nouns resembling real-life entities are entirely coincidental. But really, between you and I, it’s all true.
Something else you should know. This is not going to be a diary-style blog, meaning there will be no day-to-day updates on such mundane details as the status of my cold sore. Rather than log every little detail, I prefer to let the events of the day sit for a while, reveal new meanings, and give me time to make connections to other events that may not have occurred to me had I sat down and wrote a reactionary entry on why I want to bash a certain student’s head into the wall. Not to say there won’t be a good rant or two. But, generally, I plan to use this blog to express both abstract feelings on teaching so-called “at risk” kids and very specific scenarios that I find amusing or disturbing. You’ll also find armchair philosophy, obscure details, references ranging from Fiddy Cent to French New Wave, borderline pretentious remarks, an acceptable level of guff, and some good old-fashioned storytelling. My goal is to entertain and enlighten. Still interested?
Then let me continue with some more introductory information… the school where I teach houses grades 6 through 12, a whopping total of 500 students. To give this figure some scale: I had more than 500 students in my graduating class. Some of these kids live on dirt roads. Some of them don’t have a floor. All of them manage to have a myspace account.
When you read “at risk,” your initial thought might have been, Okay, how long will it be before someone gets shivved? “At risk,” in the sense I’m referring to, means at risk of failing. My worst students will not be able to read and comprehend this blog. My very best students could understand what’s being said here after an intense and dedicated session.
My school has what the entire county refers to as a “discipline problem.” I find this fact amusing considering my interview involved a confession of my anticipated difficulty with discipline. (I’ve never had to discipline anyone in my life. What would I do?) But this “discipline problem” does not refer to the myths one hears of razor blades hidden in weaves, students being dangled by their ankles from the roof (our school is only one story), or your general guns, gang and riots. The biggest problem where I teach is basic: respect. These kids do not know how to raise their hands, stay in their seats, keep their hands to themselves. They do not know what talking back means. They do not know have to behave like normal, functioning human beings attending school.
This reputation, developed over the past ten years, has not only kept teachers away, it has driven unsuspecting suckers to insanity. Last year, a teacher quit on the first day because the class gave her such a hard time. This year there has been about a 50% turnover in staff, including a new principal and set of counselors. Some of the new teachers are new to teaching (me), a few of them are middleweights, some have taught for 30 years. Most of us were not familiar with the county, thus the school’s reputation. None of us have ever seen anything like the behavior at this school.
The man who resides across the hall from me is a jolly and white-bearded social studies teacher. He previously taught for 30 years at another rural school somewhere in Central Florida. One of the Deans of Discipline, who happens to also be his neighbor, convinced him that he would be a good fit. At the end of the first day we walked to our respective thresholds, heads hanging, to watch the students race out of the building. When the halls cleared he said to me, “I came out of retirement for this shit?”
Something else you should know. This is not going to be a diary-style blog, meaning there will be no day-to-day updates on such mundane details as the status of my cold sore. Rather than log every little detail, I prefer to let the events of the day sit for a while, reveal new meanings, and give me time to make connections to other events that may not have occurred to me had I sat down and wrote a reactionary entry on why I want to bash a certain student’s head into the wall. Not to say there won’t be a good rant or two. But, generally, I plan to use this blog to express both abstract feelings on teaching so-called “at risk” kids and very specific scenarios that I find amusing or disturbing. You’ll also find armchair philosophy, obscure details, references ranging from Fiddy Cent to French New Wave, borderline pretentious remarks, an acceptable level of guff, and some good old-fashioned storytelling. My goal is to entertain and enlighten. Still interested?
Then let me continue with some more introductory information… the school where I teach houses grades 6 through 12, a whopping total of 500 students. To give this figure some scale: I had more than 500 students in my graduating class. Some of these kids live on dirt roads. Some of them don’t have a floor. All of them manage to have a myspace account.
When you read “at risk,” your initial thought might have been, Okay, how long will it be before someone gets shivved? “At risk,” in the sense I’m referring to, means at risk of failing. My worst students will not be able to read and comprehend this blog. My very best students could understand what’s being said here after an intense and dedicated session.
My school has what the entire county refers to as a “discipline problem.” I find this fact amusing considering my interview involved a confession of my anticipated difficulty with discipline. (I’ve never had to discipline anyone in my life. What would I do?) But this “discipline problem” does not refer to the myths one hears of razor blades hidden in weaves, students being dangled by their ankles from the roof (our school is only one story), or your general guns, gang and riots. The biggest problem where I teach is basic: respect. These kids do not know how to raise their hands, stay in their seats, keep their hands to themselves. They do not know what talking back means. They do not know have to behave like normal, functioning human beings attending school.
This reputation, developed over the past ten years, has not only kept teachers away, it has driven unsuspecting suckers to insanity. Last year, a teacher quit on the first day because the class gave her such a hard time. This year there has been about a 50% turnover in staff, including a new principal and set of counselors. Some of the new teachers are new to teaching (me), a few of them are middleweights, some have taught for 30 years. Most of us were not familiar with the county, thus the school’s reputation. None of us have ever seen anything like the behavior at this school.
The man who resides across the hall from me is a jolly and white-bearded social studies teacher. He previously taught for 30 years at another rural school somewhere in Central Florida. One of the Deans of Discipline, who happens to also be his neighbor, convinced him that he would be a good fit. At the end of the first day we walked to our respective thresholds, heads hanging, to watch the students race out of the building. When the halls cleared he said to me, “I came out of retirement for this shit?”
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