In the past few months I have spent quite a bit of time with 3 and 4 year olds. It has been a big change from spending my days with 15 and 16 year olds, but it has been fun. They are particularly fascinated by my pregnancy, and have asked some fun questions.
Abby: Why is your tummy huge?
Me: Because I'm going to have a baby.
Abby: So
Me: The baby is inside my tummy. If you watch really closely you can see him kick.
At this point she gave me a strange look and decided to sit next to someone else
Samantha: Did you put your baby down for a nap in his crib?
Me: He won't sleep in a crib until after he is born.
Samantha: Oh. Did you put him down for a nap in your tummy?
Sophie: How are you going to get the baby out of your tummy?
Me: A doctor is going to help me.
Sophie: I don't think the baby likes being in your tummy.
Elliot: Are you having a baby or a boy?
Me: We're having a baby boy.
Elliot: Is it a baby or a boy?
Me: It's a baby that's a boy.
Elliot: No, are you having a baby or a boy?
Samantha: Why did you put that baby in your tummy?
Me: All babies start out that way. You were in your mom's tummy too.
Samantha: What are you going to name him?
Me: We haven't decided yet. What do you think?
Samantha: You should name him Luke when he's born, and when he gets older you can call him James.
20 December 2010
13 December 2010
Final Exams
For several years final exams have been a rather significant part of the Christmas season. This year I find myself neither taking nor grading exams. I would be a little bit lost, but the Texan is getting ready for his finals, so our household is not quite test free. And so in honor of all the students I know who are putting off their Christmas cheer until the testing is over, and who will spend many hours in line at the testing center, I present this poem I wrote during one exam week when I was at BYU. (It's amazing what I can accomplish when I'm putting off studying.)
The professors on campus like finals a lot
But the students, who lived just south of campus, did not!
The cougars hated finals! The whole finals season!
Now, please don't ask why for you all know the reason.
They'd have to stay up way into the night
And study real hard until morning's first light
They'd feel like they were banging their heads on the wall
Convinced that their brains were two sizes too small
But, for multiple reasons, such as midnight crams,
They sat there on reading days, cursing exams
Staring down at their books, with a sour, tired gaze
At the long lists of facts, reading page after page
For they knew every teacher on campus just north
Was busy now writing exams to put forth.
“And they’re printing them now.” They snarled with a sneer.
“Tomorrow starts finals. They’re practically here.”
“This huge pile of reading is really quite numbing,
We must find some way to stop finals from coming.”
For tomorrow, they knew, All the students would consign
They’d wake bright and early and long before nine
The testing center was sure to have a very long line.
That’s one thing they hated. The LINES LINES LINES LINES!
Then once in the building they’d sit down and write
And they’d write! And they’d Write
And they’d WRITE WRITE WRTIE WRTIE
They would write big long essays, and make no mistake
They would write until both hands had started to ache
And then they’d do something they liked least of all
Every student on campus, the tall and the small
Would hand in their tests and though somewhat deflating
They’d simply go home and they’d all start their waiting
They’d wait. And they’d wait.
And they’d WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT.
And the more students thought of this final-grade-wait
The more they all thought, “This is something we hate."
Why for quite a few years we’ve put up with it now
We must stop these finals from coming, But HOW?”
Then they had an idea.
An awful idea.
They all had a horrible awful idea.
“There’s just nothing to do. It’s all to no avail
“If we don’t take our finals we simply will fail”
So they did what all students have done in the past
They stopped whining and studied for finals at last.
(I know it’s a cop out ending, but I really should go study now)
How the Cougars took their Finals
The professors on campus like finals a lot
But the students, who lived just south of campus, did not!
The cougars hated finals! The whole finals season!
Now, please don't ask why for you all know the reason.
They'd have to stay up way into the night
And study real hard until morning's first light
They'd feel like they were banging their heads on the wall
Convinced that their brains were two sizes too small
But, for multiple reasons, such as midnight crams,
They sat there on reading days, cursing exams
Staring down at their books, with a sour, tired gaze
At the long lists of facts, reading page after page
For they knew every teacher on campus just north
Was busy now writing exams to put forth.
“And they’re printing them now.” They snarled with a sneer.
“Tomorrow starts finals. They’re practically here.”
“This huge pile of reading is really quite numbing,
We must find some way to stop finals from coming.”
For tomorrow, they knew, All the students would consign
They’d wake bright and early and long before nine
The testing center was sure to have a very long line.
That’s one thing they hated. The LINES LINES LINES LINES!
Then once in the building they’d sit down and write
And they’d write! And they’d Write
And they’d WRITE WRITE WRTIE WRTIE
They would write big long essays, and make no mistake
They would write until both hands had started to ache
And then they’d do something they liked least of all
Every student on campus, the tall and the small
Would hand in their tests and though somewhat deflating
They’d simply go home and they’d all start their waiting
They’d wait. And they’d wait.
And they’d WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT.
And the more students thought of this final-grade-wait
The more they all thought, “This is something we hate."
Why for quite a few years we’ve put up with it now
We must stop these finals from coming, But HOW?”
Then they had an idea.
An awful idea.
They all had a horrible awful idea.
“There’s just nothing to do. It’s all to no avail
“If we don’t take our finals we simply will fail”
So they did what all students have done in the past
They stopped whining and studied for finals at last.
(I know it’s a cop out ending, but I really should go study now)
06 December 2010
Morning Sickness and School Busses
I have been sick for far too long. I try not to be bitter about this, but my patience is waning. A more accurate statement is that I tried not to be bitter about this, but I have given up and am thoroughly irate about my current sate. It’s like the flu that won’t go away. I kind of expected that by the time I reached the I can’t tie my shoes, my wedding ring hurts my swollen hands stage of pregnancy I’d be finished with the I need to be close to a bathroom phase. People told me that I would feel better when I got to my second trimester. They lied. The second trimester has come and gone and I still find myself kneeling in the bathroom several times a week. In my more reasonable moments (which are occurring with decreasing frequency) I acknowledge that their dishonesty was probably unintentional. However, their inaccurate estimates cause me to question if I ever will feel better. I am somewhat certain that I am destined to spend the rest of my existence in an eternal state of “morning sickness.” I do think that the person who came up with that title was intentionally lying and should be punished accordingly.
As I approach my eighth month of suffering I have abandoned all pretenses of good naturedly accepting my lot and am quite unabashedly annoyed, frustrated, angry, and irritated. Unfortunately there is no easily defined target for my pregnancy enhanced wrath, and it occasionally lands on unsuspecting innocent bystanders. One day I was dropping the Texan off at school. As I approached his building the all too familiar gagging started. He quickly looked through the car, but unfortunately my plastic bag, which is normally stashed in the glove compartment for such occasions, had not been replaced since its last use. Although he was appropriately sympathetic and concerned, all he could really do was get out of the car, and wish me good luck on the drive home.
My rush home was significantly delayed when I got stuck behind a school bus on a road with almost no cross streets. I quickly became quite mad at the stupid bus driver who kept stopping to pick up kids. After only a few stops I earnestly loathed the flashing red lights and retractable stop sign. I sat in my car nearly choking. I wondered which front yard would become the receptacle of my partially digested breakfast. I cursed the unknown person who decided that all traffic going both directions must stop while children stepped from the sidewalk onto the school bus. I considered drafting a letter to the school board recommending they discontinue the bus system entirely. I tried to conceive of a way I could make one of the kids on the bus clean my car out should the need arise. I questioned why every child had to walk ever so slowly to the back of the bus only to find no open seats and walk twice as leisurely back to the front of the bus before sitting down, and I quite particularly wondered why the bus driver felt the need to continue holding up traffic for this entire process at every stop.
When I was thoroughly worked up over the inefficiencies of bus transportation and fully convinced that an anonymous bus driver had conspired with dozens of elementary students to ruin my life, I finally saw a cross street where I could turn off the horrible road and find a faster, bus-free rout home. Yards short of my escape the bus again assaulted me with flashing lights and an obtrusively insistent stop sign. I looked up the street that was supposed to be my reprieve and found instead an antagonist. A boy was running as fast as he could down the hill with his backpack in one hand and his coat in the other. I spent a full minute of my life hating this tardy child and mercilessly wishing the bus driver would leave him on the curb. The bus driver waited. If I had not been clad in pajamas (the white flannel polka dot ones) I probably would have taken more assertive action. Instead I sat in my car and angrily muttered hypocritically to myself about how late children should be left behind.
Since the bus incident the doctor has given me a new medicine that has significantly curbed the vomiting. It has also significantly curbed my ability to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. I am happy to report that, with the assistance of promethazine, I have made it as long as 10 days without involuntarily expelling my meals. I feel sort of like the factories that post how long it has been since their last accident.
As I approach my eighth month of suffering I have abandoned all pretenses of good naturedly accepting my lot and am quite unabashedly annoyed, frustrated, angry, and irritated. Unfortunately there is no easily defined target for my pregnancy enhanced wrath, and it occasionally lands on unsuspecting innocent bystanders. One day I was dropping the Texan off at school. As I approached his building the all too familiar gagging started. He quickly looked through the car, but unfortunately my plastic bag, which is normally stashed in the glove compartment for such occasions, had not been replaced since its last use. Although he was appropriately sympathetic and concerned, all he could really do was get out of the car, and wish me good luck on the drive home.
My rush home was significantly delayed when I got stuck behind a school bus on a road with almost no cross streets. I quickly became quite mad at the stupid bus driver who kept stopping to pick up kids. After only a few stops I earnestly loathed the flashing red lights and retractable stop sign. I sat in my car nearly choking. I wondered which front yard would become the receptacle of my partially digested breakfast. I cursed the unknown person who decided that all traffic going both directions must stop while children stepped from the sidewalk onto the school bus. I considered drafting a letter to the school board recommending they discontinue the bus system entirely. I tried to conceive of a way I could make one of the kids on the bus clean my car out should the need arise. I questioned why every child had to walk ever so slowly to the back of the bus only to find no open seats and walk twice as leisurely back to the front of the bus before sitting down, and I quite particularly wondered why the bus driver felt the need to continue holding up traffic for this entire process at every stop.
When I was thoroughly worked up over the inefficiencies of bus transportation and fully convinced that an anonymous bus driver had conspired with dozens of elementary students to ruin my life, I finally saw a cross street where I could turn off the horrible road and find a faster, bus-free rout home. Yards short of my escape the bus again assaulted me with flashing lights and an obtrusively insistent stop sign. I looked up the street that was supposed to be my reprieve and found instead an antagonist. A boy was running as fast as he could down the hill with his backpack in one hand and his coat in the other. I spent a full minute of my life hating this tardy child and mercilessly wishing the bus driver would leave him on the curb. The bus driver waited. If I had not been clad in pajamas (the white flannel polka dot ones) I probably would have taken more assertive action. Instead I sat in my car and angrily muttered hypocritically to myself about how late children should be left behind.
Since the bus incident the doctor has given me a new medicine that has significantly curbed the vomiting. It has also significantly curbed my ability to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. I am happy to report that, with the assistance of promethazine, I have made it as long as 10 days without involuntarily expelling my meals. I feel sort of like the factories that post how long it has been since their last accident.
21 October 2010
Pajamas
Fifth period continued. John’s empty seat was soon occupied by a student named Charlie. His story will be forthcoming. Today, however, I would like to articulate some of my thoughts on pajamas.
I am irrationally emotionally attached to the clothing in which I sleep. Much like a young child who requires a specific stuffed animal or security blanket, my ability to fall asleep depends largely on the pants that I wear to bed. My unreasonable affinity toward my pajamas began just prior to the Fall Semester of 2001. As I prepared to make the trek halfway across the country and attend a semester in Nauvoo, Illinois, I was shopping at Kohl’s for some last minute necessities. Megan was with me. I don’t remember what I was actually shopping for, but I do remember stumbling across the most amazing pajama pants on the clearance rack for $2. (Yes, I do remember the price of the pajamas that I purchased over 9 years ago.) These were magical pants. They were made out of a blue crushed velour fabric that was decorated with white clouds and yellow moons and stars, some of the shooting variety. The pants were remarkably soft, and they were definitely not my size. I’m not normally an impulse shopper, but with some encouragement from Megan I decided that I must have the pants, and took my extra-large clearance find to the register.
I packed my magic pants and headed to Nauvoo where putting on my pajamas became a highly anticipated part of the day. The fit was ridiculous. I had to tighten the drawstring to the point that less than half of it remained around my waist, and they covered my feet entirely, but I loved those pants. After the Nauvoo semester, I took the pants with me back to Provo and continued to love them. In 2003 I took the magic pants with me as I served a mission in Pennsylvania. In December 2004, on the last day of my mission, the mission president’s wife took my magic pants and threw them away. She said that they were worn out to the point of being immodest. As I looked at the nearly sheer seat of my magic pants I decided that she probably had a point, and offered only mild protest.
For the next 2 years I wore a pair of good fitting pants made out of striped purple cotton. I developed no connection to these pants. They were not magical in anyway. This is when I decided that there are three essential elements to attachment-worthy pajamas:
1. The most simple requirement of amazing pajamas is that they must be soft. Some animals are easily distracted by shiny objects. My attention is easily captivated by soft things. And, despite the fact that I know better, I am always tricked into thinking that I am warmer when I am clad in something soft.
2. The pajamas must be way too big. This makes them very comfortable, and keeps my feet warm when I get out of bed. It also makes them a novelty. Appropriately tailored pants are practical and are to be worn during the day when I have to look at least moderately professional and mind my limited manners. Extra-large pants are fun and are to be put on at night time when I no longer have to be presentable.
3. Very closely related to element 2, incredible pajamas must be made out of awesome fabric. Awesome pajama fabric is any design that is really cute, but not suitable for regular clothing. No one in their right mind would be seen in public wearing blue crushed velour with moons and stars on it, but sew it into a pair of pajama pants and suddenly it’s acceptable. This is probably at least partly due to the fact that most people are not seen in public wearing their pajamas.
Basically, pajamas that are way too big and made out of awesome soft fabric are so completely different from normal daily clothing that they are very fun to wear. Putting on such a pair of pants is the physical incarnation of the "my day is over and now it is time to rest" sentiment.
My boring pajama spell was finally broken on Christmas in 2006 with a gift from Heather. She gave me pajamas made out of white flannel with multicolored polka-dots and a striped drawstring. These pants make me happy. The Texan refers to these as my nun pants. I’m not sure why he calls them that. There is nothing about ill-fitting flannel polka dots that reminds me of nuns. Nonetheless, that’s what he calls them. They have made it through several years without reaching the extremely tattered state of the magic pants because I alternate their use with another pair of pants that I acquired in March of 2007 while visiting Washington DC. After hearing the National Symphony Orchestra perform Dvorak’s 9th symphony (which, incidentally, is an excellent piece of music frequently referred to as the New World Symphony) I was perusing the gift shop at the Kennedy Center and discovered the music pants. Much more appropriately named than the nun pants, they are made out of a white knit and are covered in musical notes and symbols. At first I was quite dismayed to find that the only size apparently available was a medium. Not willing to purchase anything smaller than an extra-large, but really wanting to have awesome pajamas as a souvenir from the nation’s capital, I located a clerk who was able to find the appropriate size for me. Someday the nun pants and the music pants will meet the same fate as the magic pants, but I think that they still have a few good years left in them.
I am irrationally emotionally attached to the clothing in which I sleep. Much like a young child who requires a specific stuffed animal or security blanket, my ability to fall asleep depends largely on the pants that I wear to bed. My unreasonable affinity toward my pajamas began just prior to the Fall Semester of 2001. As I prepared to make the trek halfway across the country and attend a semester in Nauvoo, Illinois, I was shopping at Kohl’s for some last minute necessities. Megan was with me. I don’t remember what I was actually shopping for, but I do remember stumbling across the most amazing pajama pants on the clearance rack for $2. (Yes, I do remember the price of the pajamas that I purchased over 9 years ago.) These were magical pants. They were made out of a blue crushed velour fabric that was decorated with white clouds and yellow moons and stars, some of the shooting variety. The pants were remarkably soft, and they were definitely not my size. I’m not normally an impulse shopper, but with some encouragement from Megan I decided that I must have the pants, and took my extra-large clearance find to the register.
I packed my magic pants and headed to Nauvoo where putting on my pajamas became a highly anticipated part of the day. The fit was ridiculous. I had to tighten the drawstring to the point that less than half of it remained around my waist, and they covered my feet entirely, but I loved those pants. After the Nauvoo semester, I took the pants with me back to Provo and continued to love them. In 2003 I took the magic pants with me as I served a mission in Pennsylvania. In December 2004, on the last day of my mission, the mission president’s wife took my magic pants and threw them away. She said that they were worn out to the point of being immodest. As I looked at the nearly sheer seat of my magic pants I decided that she probably had a point, and offered only mild protest.
For the next 2 years I wore a pair of good fitting pants made out of striped purple cotton. I developed no connection to these pants. They were not magical in anyway. This is when I decided that there are three essential elements to attachment-worthy pajamas:
1. The most simple requirement of amazing pajamas is that they must be soft. Some animals are easily distracted by shiny objects. My attention is easily captivated by soft things. And, despite the fact that I know better, I am always tricked into thinking that I am warmer when I am clad in something soft.
2. The pajamas must be way too big. This makes them very comfortable, and keeps my feet warm when I get out of bed. It also makes them a novelty. Appropriately tailored pants are practical and are to be worn during the day when I have to look at least moderately professional and mind my limited manners. Extra-large pants are fun and are to be put on at night time when I no longer have to be presentable.
3. Very closely related to element 2, incredible pajamas must be made out of awesome fabric. Awesome pajama fabric is any design that is really cute, but not suitable for regular clothing. No one in their right mind would be seen in public wearing blue crushed velour with moons and stars on it, but sew it into a pair of pajama pants and suddenly it’s acceptable. This is probably at least partly due to the fact that most people are not seen in public wearing their pajamas.
Basically, pajamas that are way too big and made out of awesome soft fabric are so completely different from normal daily clothing that they are very fun to wear. Putting on such a pair of pants is the physical incarnation of the "my day is over and now it is time to rest" sentiment.
My boring pajama spell was finally broken on Christmas in 2006 with a gift from Heather. She gave me pajamas made out of white flannel with multicolored polka-dots and a striped drawstring. These pants make me happy. The Texan refers to these as my nun pants. I’m not sure why he calls them that. There is nothing about ill-fitting flannel polka dots that reminds me of nuns. Nonetheless, that’s what he calls them. They have made it through several years without reaching the extremely tattered state of the magic pants because I alternate their use with another pair of pants that I acquired in March of 2007 while visiting Washington DC. After hearing the National Symphony Orchestra perform Dvorak’s 9th symphony (which, incidentally, is an excellent piece of music frequently referred to as the New World Symphony) I was perusing the gift shop at the Kennedy Center and discovered the music pants. Much more appropriately named than the nun pants, they are made out of a white knit and are covered in musical notes and symbols. At first I was quite dismayed to find that the only size apparently available was a medium. Not willing to purchase anything smaller than an extra-large, but really wanting to have awesome pajamas as a souvenir from the nation’s capital, I located a clerk who was able to find the appropriate size for me. Someday the nun pants and the music pants will meet the same fate as the magic pants, but I think that they still have a few good years left in them.
31 August 2010
5th Period Adventures - Ice Cream
Evidently being assaulted by a student is an excellent way to get whatever you want from the administration for the rest of the school year (and a bigger classroom with windows for the next year.) The day after John dumped his lemonade on me a rather large accident shut down the freeway, and I was a few minutes late checking in. When I walked in the secretary greeted me with, “Why are you here? We didn’t expect you to come in today.” I thought to myself: Really? I could have stayed home and no one would have thought less of me? Why on earth did I wake up early today?
They had a substitute ready for my classes, and I momentarily considered going back home. But I decided that I had already gotten up before the sun, and fought with ridiculous traffic, so at that point I might as well stay and work. From that day on my Principal thought I was the most resilient teacher on the planet. And while he didn’t stop sending me difficult kids, he did give me pretty much anything I asked for. I’m certain that I had the most well supplied History classroom in the state. (This is obviously not the same principal that banned maps. It’s too bad she had to come along and ruin things.)
A few weeks after John was removed from my classroom I was in the hall dutifully monitoring students as they left the cafeteria. The kids only get 22 minutes for lunch, so it is fairly common to see students hurriedly trying to finish eating as they walk to their 5th period classes. One kid, who was not a student of mine, was quickly working on an ice cream cone. I guess he decided that he didn’t want the rest of it because as he walked by me he stopped eating and smeared his dessert in my face. Then without missing a step he continued around the corner to his class.
I was a little bit stunned for a couple of reasons. First, the ice cream was really really cold. Second, this was some random kid. I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know who I was. At least when John threw stuff at me he was doing it out of anger and spite. I hadn’t made the ice cream kid sit in a seat he didn’t like, or mark him tardy, or take a magazine away from him, or give him a bad grade on a test. He had no reason to be angry with me or wish death by dairy dessert on me. He just shoved ice cream in my face because it seemed like the thing to do. After spending a minute indulging my indignation, I decided I couldn’t write up a kid I didn’t know and gave up on pursuing appropriate disciplinary measures. Instead I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Then I took a stack of paper towels and put them in my desk drawer in case of future food encounters.
They had a substitute ready for my classes, and I momentarily considered going back home. But I decided that I had already gotten up before the sun, and fought with ridiculous traffic, so at that point I might as well stay and work. From that day on my Principal thought I was the most resilient teacher on the planet. And while he didn’t stop sending me difficult kids, he did give me pretty much anything I asked for. I’m certain that I had the most well supplied History classroom in the state. (This is obviously not the same principal that banned maps. It’s too bad she had to come along and ruin things.)
A few weeks after John was removed from my classroom I was in the hall dutifully monitoring students as they left the cafeteria. The kids only get 22 minutes for lunch, so it is fairly common to see students hurriedly trying to finish eating as they walk to their 5th period classes. One kid, who was not a student of mine, was quickly working on an ice cream cone. I guess he decided that he didn’t want the rest of it because as he walked by me he stopped eating and smeared his dessert in my face. Then without missing a step he continued around the corner to his class.
I was a little bit stunned for a couple of reasons. First, the ice cream was really really cold. Second, this was some random kid. I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know who I was. At least when John threw stuff at me he was doing it out of anger and spite. I hadn’t made the ice cream kid sit in a seat he didn’t like, or mark him tardy, or take a magazine away from him, or give him a bad grade on a test. He had no reason to be angry with me or wish death by dairy dessert on me. He just shoved ice cream in my face because it seemed like the thing to do. After spending a minute indulging my indignation, I decided I couldn’t write up a kid I didn’t know and gave up on pursuing appropriate disciplinary measures. Instead I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Then I took a stack of paper towels and put them in my desk drawer in case of future food encounters.
18 August 2010
5th Period Adventures - Part 4: Lemonade
The next day John entered my classroom only 5 minutes late. I took this as a good sign. I was further encouraged by the fact that he was carrying a backpack. Perhaps John had arrived with some scholastic purpose in mind. He sat in his seat for about 3 minutes and then stood up. I decided that John might not want to sit next to Frank in all of his cosmetic glory, and since a couple of students were absent that day I figured I could accommodate him. I asked John to choose an empty seat to sit in. Surprisingly he picked the desk that I lovingly refer to as Outer Siberia where I send the political prisoners. I continued teaching my class about the Black Plague. After looking around for a few minutes John realized that he had voluntarily placed himself in the time out chair, and got up to move. I continued to teach.
John, much like Daniel, was not getting the attention he wanted, so he decided to take more ostentatious action. He stood up and walked around the classroom talking to the other students. I decided that my strategy of ignoring the problem in hopes that it would go away was no longer the best course of action.
“John you need to be in a seat. It doesn’t have to be your chair but you need to be in a chair.”
John drew himself up to his full height and proclaimed, “Miss, you can’t make me sit down.”
“You’re right. I can’t. Do it anyway.”
This confused John and he stopped for a moment, but he quickly re-gathered his senses and continued to walk around the room. At this point it occurred to me that it was very likely that John did not enjoy being told what to do any more than I do. Rather than dictate instructions, I decided to give him some options. “John, you may sit in a chair, or you may stand outside the door.” John sat down. I think he didn’t really want to get locked out again. But he wasn’t about to admit defeat, and certainly did not want to portray an attitude of compliance. As soon as he sat down he reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of lemonade. The district maintains a strict no food or drink policy in classrooms, and every student in that room, including John, knew that he had just broken a very aggressively enforced rule. He looked with an “I dare you to stop me” glance. Knowing it wouldn’t work I asked him to put the lemonade away and he again responded with “You can’t make me.” Then very slowly and deliberately he opened the bottle and took a drink. I walked over to him, touched him on the arm and repeated my request. I knew that I had just broken a cardinal rule of teaching by touching a student, but I did not expect the reaction that I got. John angrily threw the bottle on the ground and walked out of my classroom, slamming the door on the way out.
I decided that John had temporarily solved the problem. He was no longer interrupting my class, and I could write him up later. So I picked up his lemonade bottle, threw it away and continued teaching. Within a few minutes I had my students diligently working in groups to trace the route of the Bubonic Plague as it spread throughout Europe. I was standing in the back of the room between two students answering a map question when I heard someone knock on my door. I looked up in time to see another student let John back in the room. Without saying anything John crossed the room and retrieved his lemonade from the trash can, dumped it all over me, threw the empty bottle on the ground, and left the room slamming the door yet again on his way out.
Every student in the room silently watched me and waited for my reaction. I instantly wished I had something of extreme importance to tell them, because I was keenly aware that I had more absolute attention from 5th period than I would ever have from any other class for the rest of my teaching career. Unfortunately their concentration was somewhat wasted. Instead of taking advantage of their attentiveness by sharing deep pearls of wisdom, all I could manage to do was use my sleeve to wipe the lemonade out of my eyes and then check on the students I was standing between. After confirming that both kids all of their materials were lemonade free I finished answering their question, and moved to the next group to see if they needed any help. The class decided that the show was over, and rather disappointedly went half-heartedly back to their assignment.
Despite my best efforts, John successfully interrupted my class more thoroughly than any other student, and more completely than I think he realized or even intended. The kids tried to refocus, but for the rest of the hour my classroom seemed to be a parade of adults completely oblivious to the fact that school was still in session, and I still had a class to teach. First the counselors’ secretary came into class to find out why John was wondering the halls. Next the principal came in to hear what had happened. He was followed by one of our police officers who came to ask if I wanted to press charges. The lead counselor came in to tell me that he was working on a schedule change so that John would no longer be in my class. Every assistant principal in the building stopped for no apparent reason really. They kind of reminded me of people on the freeway who slow down to look at the remnants of an accident that has already been cleaned up. All there is left to see is some broken glass, but they are going to be sure to see it. Then the counselor came in again saying that he couldn’t complete the schedule change without a documented reason, so I needed to write up the incident on the appropriate discipline referral form. A custodian came in to mop the floor. The counselor came in yet again asking if I had completed the referral yet. By the time my neighboring teacher came in to ask if I needed anything I was so sick of interruptions I told him I needed him to leave and lock the door on his way out.
John, much like Daniel, was not getting the attention he wanted, so he decided to take more ostentatious action. He stood up and walked around the classroom talking to the other students. I decided that my strategy of ignoring the problem in hopes that it would go away was no longer the best course of action.
“John you need to be in a seat. It doesn’t have to be your chair but you need to be in a chair.”
John drew himself up to his full height and proclaimed, “Miss, you can’t make me sit down.”
“You’re right. I can’t. Do it anyway.”
This confused John and he stopped for a moment, but he quickly re-gathered his senses and continued to walk around the room. At this point it occurred to me that it was very likely that John did not enjoy being told what to do any more than I do. Rather than dictate instructions, I decided to give him some options. “John, you may sit in a chair, or you may stand outside the door.” John sat down. I think he didn’t really want to get locked out again. But he wasn’t about to admit defeat, and certainly did not want to portray an attitude of compliance. As soon as he sat down he reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of lemonade. The district maintains a strict no food or drink policy in classrooms, and every student in that room, including John, knew that he had just broken a very aggressively enforced rule. He looked with an “I dare you to stop me” glance. Knowing it wouldn’t work I asked him to put the lemonade away and he again responded with “You can’t make me.” Then very slowly and deliberately he opened the bottle and took a drink. I walked over to him, touched him on the arm and repeated my request. I knew that I had just broken a cardinal rule of teaching by touching a student, but I did not expect the reaction that I got. John angrily threw the bottle on the ground and walked out of my classroom, slamming the door on the way out.
I decided that John had temporarily solved the problem. He was no longer interrupting my class, and I could write him up later. So I picked up his lemonade bottle, threw it away and continued teaching. Within a few minutes I had my students diligently working in groups to trace the route of the Bubonic Plague as it spread throughout Europe. I was standing in the back of the room between two students answering a map question when I heard someone knock on my door. I looked up in time to see another student let John back in the room. Without saying anything John crossed the room and retrieved his lemonade from the trash can, dumped it all over me, threw the empty bottle on the ground, and left the room slamming the door yet again on his way out.
Every student in the room silently watched me and waited for my reaction. I instantly wished I had something of extreme importance to tell them, because I was keenly aware that I had more absolute attention from 5th period than I would ever have from any other class for the rest of my teaching career. Unfortunately their concentration was somewhat wasted. Instead of taking advantage of their attentiveness by sharing deep pearls of wisdom, all I could manage to do was use my sleeve to wipe the lemonade out of my eyes and then check on the students I was standing between. After confirming that both kids all of their materials were lemonade free I finished answering their question, and moved to the next group to see if they needed any help. The class decided that the show was over, and rather disappointedly went half-heartedly back to their assignment.
Despite my best efforts, John successfully interrupted my class more thoroughly than any other student, and more completely than I think he realized or even intended. The kids tried to refocus, but for the rest of the hour my classroom seemed to be a parade of adults completely oblivious to the fact that school was still in session, and I still had a class to teach. First the counselors’ secretary came into class to find out why John was wondering the halls. Next the principal came in to hear what had happened. He was followed by one of our police officers who came to ask if I wanted to press charges. The lead counselor came in to tell me that he was working on a schedule change so that John would no longer be in my class. Every assistant principal in the building stopped for no apparent reason really. They kind of reminded me of people on the freeway who slow down to look at the remnants of an accident that has already been cleaned up. All there is left to see is some broken glass, but they are going to be sure to see it. Then the counselor came in again saying that he couldn’t complete the schedule change without a documented reason, so I needed to write up the incident on the appropriate discipline referral form. A custodian came in to mop the floor. The counselor came in yet again asking if I had completed the referral yet. By the time my neighboring teacher came in to ask if I needed anything I was so sick of interruptions I told him I needed him to leave and lock the door on his way out.
17 July 2010
5th Period Adventures - Part 3: John
Administrators don’t teach fifth period. In fact many administrators have never even been in a classroom. So when John returned from our alternative campus the counselors thought it would be a good idea to add him to my fifth period family. John was a rather large student. He had been in my class the year before, failed miserably and got kicked out of school for selling drugs. He came back with a chip on his shoulder and an axe to grind. He arrived in my classroom 15 minutes late. He carried no materials with him, and said nothing to anyone. He merely glared around the room and clenched his fists. I assigned John the only empty seat in my classroom, which happened to be right next to Frank, and braced myself for a new onslaught of disruptive behavior. John stomped his way over to his desk, slammed himself into the seat and stared at the floor.
I decided to do my best to help John succeed in my class and handed him some paper and a pencil that he could use for the day, and asked him to bring his own the next day. He lifted his gaze only slightly and acknowledged my request with a grunt. A few minutes later stood up, pushed his papers on the floor, walked out of my room, and slammed the door. Having taught John before, I was discouraged but not surprised by this performance. His bewildered classmates watched me pick up his papers and continue teaching without comment. A few minutes later John returned to my classroom, and discovered, much to his dismay, that I keep my classroom door locked. When he slammed the door he locked himself out. I took much pleasure in this little victory and continued teaching.
I have a very simple policy that John was already familiar with. You can walk out of my classroom any time you want. I won't stop you, I won't get in your way, and I won't argue with you about it. But once you leave, you can't come back without a note from your principal. And if you don't make it back with a note from the principal by the end of class, you are marked absent. With my door locked, John knew that he needed to go tell the principal that he walked out of class, but decided to see if he could avoid that meeting, as it surely would end in detention. He knocked on my door. I went outside and asked him if he had the required note. When he told me he did not, I went back into class leaving him in the hallway to contemplate his options.
John knocked on my door again, I ignored him. He pounded on the window, I ignored him. He jiggled my doorknob, I ignored him. One of my students helpfully pointed out that John wanted to come back into class. Tenth graders are so observant. I told them that John wanted to disrupt class and asked them to ignore him. They performed remarkably well. I was so proud of all of them. John continued his pounding and got very frustrated when he could see through the window that no one cared. He started shouting through the door. When that didn’t work he pulled out his cell phone, which is not allowed in school, turned on the alarm, and pushed it under my door. It found it very difficult not to laugh as I picked his phone up off the ground, turned it off, and deposited it in my desk drawer to be turned into the office at the end of the day. John cried out loudly in dismay and defeat just as an Assistant Principal rounded the corner. He was assigned detention.
I decided to do my best to help John succeed in my class and handed him some paper and a pencil that he could use for the day, and asked him to bring his own the next day. He lifted his gaze only slightly and acknowledged my request with a grunt. A few minutes later stood up, pushed his papers on the floor, walked out of my room, and slammed the door. Having taught John before, I was discouraged but not surprised by this performance. His bewildered classmates watched me pick up his papers and continue teaching without comment. A few minutes later John returned to my classroom, and discovered, much to his dismay, that I keep my classroom door locked. When he slammed the door he locked himself out. I took much pleasure in this little victory and continued teaching.
I have a very simple policy that John was already familiar with. You can walk out of my classroom any time you want. I won't stop you, I won't get in your way, and I won't argue with you about it. But once you leave, you can't come back without a note from your principal. And if you don't make it back with a note from the principal by the end of class, you are marked absent. With my door locked, John knew that he needed to go tell the principal that he walked out of class, but decided to see if he could avoid that meeting, as it surely would end in detention. He knocked on my door. I went outside and asked him if he had the required note. When he told me he did not, I went back into class leaving him in the hallway to contemplate his options.
John knocked on my door again, I ignored him. He pounded on the window, I ignored him. He jiggled my doorknob, I ignored him. One of my students helpfully pointed out that John wanted to come back into class. Tenth graders are so observant. I told them that John wanted to disrupt class and asked them to ignore him. They performed remarkably well. I was so proud of all of them. John continued his pounding and got very frustrated when he could see through the window that no one cared. He started shouting through the door. When that didn’t work he pulled out his cell phone, which is not allowed in school, turned on the alarm, and pushed it under my door. It found it very difficult not to laugh as I picked his phone up off the ground, turned it off, and deposited it in my desk drawer to be turned into the office at the end of the day. John cried out loudly in dismay and defeat just as an Assistant Principal rounded the corner. He was assigned detention.
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