Homeroom...what is it good for...absolutely nothing.. say it again...

It's time to meet some of the young men and women who give me such a wealth of material... the motley crew that is my homeroom...

We only have homeroom once a week at my school, but believe me that's plenty of time. We're utilizing a program developed by Stephen Covey, which in and of itself is a good program, but it's rather lame. How in the world am I supposed to teach decision making and character education to a bunch of kids I see once a week for 30 minutes? Sure, I'm a super teacher and all... false modesty aside for a moment, but it's darn near impossible. This morning we focused on how well we know our parents. There was a survey for students to fill out regarding their parents, information like eye color, hopes and dreams... you know really easy stuff. Duane, who you may know from a previous entry, looks me in the eye this morning when I hand him his survey and says, "What's this shit, Miss?" Which was exactly what I wanted to know but was afraid to ask.

A word about Duane. Duane is the reason there is a stereotype of the African American gay young man. He's small so he's got a lot to prove, i.e. "i ain't never been no bitch, bitch" and he's snippy. Duane is the man you want in your corner in a "yo mamma" battle. The kid is good. He's got a rapier sharp wit and biting sense of the well timed come back. He's also a swishy as they come. I enjoy Duane. He's real.

I have twins in my class. One of them I taught as a junior and the other brother, well I didn't have him. Thank GOD! These two goons are constantly bickering with one another. It's like a lame Smothers brother routine. Mom likes me best. No, she likes me best. One young man wrestles and this has earned him the pleasure of his brother telling anyone who will listen that his brother is in fact, "a queer who rolls around with other guys." Naturally this doesn't go over well. It's a wonder to me how their parents can stand them. After all I only see them once a week for 30 minutes. I had no idea that 17 year old boys fought like 2 year olds.

There is a group of really good kids, i.e. in IB and AP classes, really smart and talented. They sit in the back of the room-near my desk and talk about things like which Shakespeare play they are reading and how each other's college application process is going. They're a really self-sufficient group of kids. At times I am sure they are afraid for their lives in that classroom.

There's another contingency of really good kids who come every Wednesday morning and ask me to help them with their English IV assignments. I do. I have some colleagues who believe that if they load a kid up with 50 vocabulary words a week they are TOUGH and their course is CHALLENGING. I can't quite figure out the logic behind this assumption and I don't have the heart to tell them that volume doesn't equal rigor. It just makes you an asshole. I'd also wager that they themselves don't know half of the vocabulary words they assign but that's a story for another day.

Then we have James. James is a young man who singlehandedly convinced a large portion of the class that Barack Obama was a secret Muslim and when he was elected President he would, in fact, bring over and I quote, because to not quote would lead you to believe I was making this up, he would "bring over all those BALALALALALALALA people." While I am certain that most days I am going deaf and genuinely don't hear half the crap they say, on that day I said, "I'm sorry. What did you say?"at least 3 times. I finally isolated the offending portion of the declaration, "James, what is BALALALALALA?" to which he replied innocently enough, "the towel heads, camel jockeys, you know, Miss." Should I point out that James is an African American young man? Never being one to fear pointing out the obvious I say, "James let me get this straight. You're an African American man..." I am interrupted at this point by Duane, whose two cents is always offered, "Miss, James think he's white. He ain't black, Miss." "Excuse me Duane... now, James, you're an African American man who is continuing to spread racial stereotypes?" "Miss, " he says, "It's true, they are towel heads." At this point my head exploded and I don't recall the rest of that day.

Last, but certainly not least, is Lynnetta. Lynnetta is a lovely young woman. She's tall and striking. Her weave is always impeccable, clothing is immaculate, heels are always at least 4 inches tall. Lynnetta is a knock out, except when she isn't. Most days Lynnetta is dressed better than most of the teachers at my school. She's a fashion plate from the word go. Her efforts are appreciated by the male population of the school. Young men really do clamor to carry her books. I thought that was a myth of days gone by, but they really do carry her books to class for her. It's amazing. She's also completely aware of her power. Lynnetta is the what the Spice Girls had in mind when they chanted Girl Power! She owns it and works it. I admire it really. On days when she's not on her game Lynnetta is unrecognizable. She'll sport old, baggy sweatpants, BEDROOM SLIPPERS, some hugely oversized t-shirt and her hair will be wrapped up in some sort of bandana thing. The first time she came in like that I didn't know who she was. I asked her if she was new to the class! She was offended. Imagine that. Lynnetta is Frack to Duane's Frick. She is his back-up when they tag team James. Duane will usually make a comment on James's blackness and Lynnetta is his "Amen" choir. It's really a beautiful thing. It's like a carefully choreographed dance. Duane sweeps in with a barb, and Lynnetta adds insult to the injury.

At the end of the 30 minutes I am just happy that no one is bleeding and no one got their feelings hurt, too badly. The kids at the back of the room file out and say good-bye, the vocab. crew gives me an appreciative "thanks, Miss" and the others well they just run out as fast as they can as if somehow I've been torturing them.