When the thrill is gone I hope someone tells me

School is the great equalizer. We've all been and therefore we are all experts on the subject. So when I tell you that there are teachers out there who are dead, and like Bruce Willis in the 6th Sense they just don't know it yet, you probably already knew that. These are the folks who hate kids. I cannot imagine why I'd continue to go to a job that requires me to deal with children if I didn't like kids, call me stupid. I just don't get it.

I had a colleague, let's call her Mary, who was just such a creature. I don't think she'd ever admit that she hated kids, but she did. She'd say things to students in the hallway that on first hearing them they sounded innocent enough but if you really listened you realized that they were just awful pot shots at the kid's expense. Things like, "Oh Ashley, are you trying out a new hair style?" and the unsuspecting young lady would answer, "Why yes, Miss Causeascene, I saw it in a magazine." The little 8th grade girl, trying desperately to figure out who she was would answer and beam that someone had noticed. Little did she know that this was just the opportunity Mary was dying for. Mary looked the young lady right in the eye, smiled this sadistic smile where only the corners of her mouth turned up and said, again I could not make this stuff up, "I'll bet it looked good in the magazine." I gasped as I witnessed this scene. I looked immediately to crest-fallen Ashley and saw her little shoulders slump and her smile fade. She'd been had. It was awful. I always wanted to tap Mary on the shoulder and say, "You know you're dead, right? The Thrill is gone, the horse is dead-dismount for the love of God."

When she wasn't dashing their hopes and dreams she was engaging in lose-lose battles of will with them. Anyone who knows kids knows that you don't back them into a corner, you don't make them look stupid in front of their peers and you don't engage in power struggles. Power is never up for grabs, but our dear Mary was a master of the age-old tradition of jerking kids around simply because she could. On one such a occasion a young man, a student on our team who was challenging to say the least, was assigned to In-school Suspension for several days. She sent him work and received it back the next day with a doodle or a scribble from the student written on it. In the upper right hand of the paper she had written her name: Ms. Causeascene.
The paper came back with the young man's edit: Ms. Pork-n-bean. She thrust it in my face and was furious that he would be so disrespectful. SO... she writes on the paper: That's not funny, young man! The next day the paper is back in her mailbox and said young man has felt compelled to reply: Yes, it is. It's damn funny. This little exchange goes on for one or two more days. You'd think she was the adult and would let it go, or at the very least just stop it but nooooo.. .she keeps it going and is infuriated that he doesn't stop. Duh! She engaged him. She asked it for it, the way sweet little Ashley had asked for her to dash her self-esteem that day in the hallway. I'll admit that I laughed at the kid's smartass replies to her. He was holding his own in the battle of wits and wills. I admired and respected him for that.

I had the pleasure of working with Mary for many years. I knew her pretty well. I also knew how to work around her. One year we were eating lunch and I was relaying a laundry list of concerns I had for a certain student. They were in a bad situation at home and I was heartbroken for them. I said that I hadn't really slept the night before because I was so worried about the student. She puts her sandwich down, looks me right in the eye, and says in a tone that was nothing less than astonished, "You really care about these kids, don't you?" I said, "Yeah, I do." Equally astonished. "Yeah, not me." She says. " I don't think about them when I'm not here."

We all know folks like Mary. We've been their classes. We've worked along side of them. We've maybe even been them from time to time. I just worry about becoming Mary. It's a mantra that I've adopted. "Don't be a Mary Causeascene." When I feel I've become a little negative I think to myself "Oh no...I've become Mary." Let's face it. Teaching is tough. It's often thankless, God knows the pay and respect stink, but in the end what we do matters. Mary is the teacher that gives us all a bad name. She's in teaching for three reasons: June, July, and August. She likes to grouse about how little we're paid, how little we're respected, how little we're trusted. She's got a litany of complaints and nearly nothing on the positive list. I feel sorry for Mary and teachers like her. I know the job is hard. I know that kid's aren't what we were when we were in school, they don't come to us loving algebra or nouns and verbs, and if they did they wouldn't need us. I have a relative who also teaches and he's frequently guilty of crying, "oh, my students are so dumb" to which I reply, "and so, you're the teacher, what are you going to do about that?" but that's story for another posting perhaps. Teachers like Mary just need that tap on the shoulder and a gentle push towards the light. It's warm in the light. The angels are singing there. Kids sit in neat little rows, raise their hands eagerly and always say "good morning" in unison when you greet them in the morning. Where's that damn Haley Joel Osmet kid when you need him?

Early in My Career

When I was a younger teacher, maybe my third or fourth year, I encountered a situation that still warms my heart. I had a particularly challenging young lady, as most 8th grade girls are, and her name was Ashton, not her real name. Ashton was that rare beast, or at least at that time she was a rare beast, of an 8th grader. She had the look of someone who had done A LOT of living. She resembled a 40 year complete with a really rough, I smoke a pack day, voice and just a really WORLDLY demeanor. She was a tough nut, as they say.

One afternoon I called Ashton's house to discuss her surly behavior and Ashton answers the phone. I identify myself and she says, "Hang on Ms. N, let me get my mom." Two seconds later another preadolescent voice takes the phone and is introduced to me as Ashton's mother. I'm not detective folks, but I knew this wasn't the kid's mother. So... I have the discussion I intended to have with her actual mother and maybe I embellished a little bit, said somethings I might not ever say to a parent and was assured by mother that I would not have another moment's trouble with Miss Ashton, giggle giggle in the background. I was nothing if not proud and determined when I was new to the classroom and I was damned if a 13 year old was going to pull one over on me! I steamed. I plotted my revenge!

I waited until 8 pm to call back. When the phone was answered this time it was a real adult . I introduced myself as Ms. N and said that I just wanted to clear up a few things with Ms. Ashton's mother from our earlier afternoon conversation. Of course mother was really perplexed. "What earlier conversation?" She asked. "Oh," I replied innocently, "the one we had about Ashton's behavior today." "We didn't talk today." She says. "Oh," again as innocently as possible, "we didn't? Because when I called this afternoon Ashton told me that she would get her mother and then I spoke to someone else then who claimed to be you." Do you remember that scene in the film, A Christmas Story? The one where Ralphie is being punished for uttering the F word? His mother calls the mother of his friend Swartz and tells her that Ralphie heard that abominable word from Swartz. What transpires is we get to hear Swartz's mother beat his ass. That very thing happened here. Ashton's mother screams her name and summons the child within earshot and proceeds to really go to town. I even think that perhaps Ashton got an ass whippin' too that night, much to my sadistic delight.
My husband walked past me and asked what was with my big goofy grin. I hung up the phone and replied triumphantly, "somewhere in our town tonight a kid is getting her ass whipped and that's a comforting thing."
Of course I realize how cruel this must make me sound. I get it, you bleeding hearts. I don't condone beating your kids. I do, however, believe that sometimes each one of us has a moment when our uppence comes and that night I witnessed that moment for Ashton.

I've been ignorant...but I ain't never been no bitch, bitch!

The title sums it up, pretty much. I have a senior section for homeroom. They are by far the most entertaining group of young people I've ever met. They discuss such meaningful topics as "you ain't really black, " "you think you're white," and "No.. Barack Obama is a secret Muslim and he will bring over all of those "balalalalalala" people when he's elected." Today's topic was "you're a bitch, bitch." and the conclusion of that conversation is "I've been ignorant, but I ain't never been no bitch, bitch!" I love 'em. I really do. They are passionate and LOUD about those passions. They think nothing of dropping an F bomb or some other four letter word and my presence is simply an inconvenience. I remind them, "yoohoo! I'm in the room." They always apologize. "I'm sorry Miss, but Duane is a muthafuckin' bitch, Miss." And you know what, you can't argue with that. :)

Please?...Please?...Please?.....Please?

Thanks to all the parents who have trained their children to continue begging for their way with a simple, well timed, please? 16 & 17 year old young adults will stand next to my desk, ask a question, get an answer they already knew was coming, and then proceed to bombard me with an endless string of pleases... This can only mean one thing. Some parent, somewhere has been worn down, after the 500th please they cave in. Thus a child has learned to outlast the adult. Let me just say two things, 1) BUCK UP! No means no. If you need help understanding that one let me introduce you to MY mother. She understood that one perfectly, and 2) THANKS A WHOLE FRICKIN' BUNCH, because of you your kid thinks every adult is a push over and will cave. Good grief. Could you just raise your kids the way I think they should be raised? Please? Please? Please? Please? Please?........

Snack and what it is NOT...

I thought this would be nice way to catalogue some the weird and wonderful things that happen on a day to day basis in my classroom. As you know kids say and do the darnedest things or at least that's what Art Linkletter says. Need I remind you that I teach 11th grade so the things my students say and do are more than a little strange sometimes. One such instance centers around a young woman, let's call her Fancy, and her interpretation of my snack policy.



My school frowns upon allowing students to eat in class. I guess it's a pest control issue or something, but I've never been one to really follow all the rules, especially the ones I think are stupid. So.. I allow snack. I make it abundantly clear that I am not their mother; I will not clean up after them and the moment that snack becomes inconvenient for me it's over. Fancy, again a close approximation of her name, began by eating an entire can of pringles in the space of 50 minutes. I guess I thought, stupid me, that snack implied a quick bite, an apple, a package of crackers, a candy bar even, but not something that took an entire class period to eat. So, I explain to her that snack is quick, not all period. Snack can't be the main focus of class. She hems and haws but I think we have an understanding. I am satisfied. She's got it!


Next day, I cannot make this stuff up, the bell rings. I come inside the classroom and am immediately greeted by the overwhelming smell of a bait bucket. I can't believe it. I sniff like a bloodhound and lo and behold I find the source. It's Fancy. She's propped up in the back of a row, desk covered in papertoweling and in the center is a plastic container. In her hands, delicately balanced in her fingertips actually, is a shrimp. She is eating peel and eat shrimp for snack, complete with a little hot sauce for dipping! I understand the adage "ask a dumb question" because I said, "Fancy, honey... what in the sam-hill are you doing?" Her reply, just as sweet as you please was, "Scrimp." "Ohhhhh..." I say, "Didn't we cover the whole snack vs. meal issue yesterday?" She looks me dead in the eye and says, "But Miss I'm hongry... and a girl has got to eat." And I reply, "You're right, Fancy. A girl has got to eat." Two days later, not of my doing, the brainacs that run our master schedule realized that Fancy was supposed to be in an ESE co-taught classroom situation and not in my gen. ed. English III class. Perhaps they will have better luck in getting the snack v. meal argument settled once and for all.