Just a Moment

Sometimes, there is a moment that makes the day worthwhile--such as the student who became upset when Act II of Julius Caesar ended today. She wants to know what's going to happen!

"Aren't you going to tell us," she asked, "or at least give us a clue?"

"Nope," I responded, "you'll have to do some more reading to know what comes next."

"But I have to know: does Caesar die? Who becomes the new king?"

A classmate provided the response from those in the know: "No way Caesar dies! The play is called Julius Caesar, and it's only the end of Act II. He can't die with all these pages left to read!"

Ah, it's so nice to know that someone is listening, that someone is reading along, that someone is engaged in the captivating classic by William Shakespeare! It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes savoring the moment to fully appreciate it.

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Contrast the above conversation with another student's query, following a comment I made about how tired I am of finding that every single lesson in the lit book has a question that requires the student to ... "using a chart like the one below." An original idea lacks originality when it replicated a hundred times!

Anyway, I told the students that since the chart in the book is purple this time, I'll be looking for their purple chart when I collect the assignment Friday.

"But what if I don't have a purple marker?" she asked. "Can I still turn in the assignment?"

I just smiled.

Nowhere to Turn

Our campus is crowded; there are 2800 students occupying a school intended for 1500. Walking across campus during a passing period is quite a challenge, especially when students are so totally unaware of anyone else around them.

This morning, I had to go to the bathroom. Because the facility nearest my classroom has been removed and is in the process of being replaced with a much smaller handicapped facility, to make it to the bathroom and back during a break takes some doing--and some hustle.

I made it to right outside the office on the library side when the girls walking in front of me suddenly stopped. There was nowhere for me to go to get out of the way, so in order to avoid a collision, I tried to stop, but my shoe caught in the uneven pavement, and I pitched into the tree. My arm flung itself out to stop my fall, causing a nasty scrape on my forearm to deal with as I hurriedly finished the trip to the toilet, washed the wound well with soapy hot water, and scurried back to the classroom before the bell rang.

The wound bled, but I cleaned it again with waterless hand cleaner and bandaged it, so it wasn't a big deal.

I did, however, ask a student to take a photo of the injury, which I then attached to a brief accident report. The school secretary was a bit taken aback that I wanted to file a report of the accident and my injury. I assured her I really wanted to do that--and left the report and the photo with her. I reminded her that I have diabetes, which means that I am both prone to infection and slow to heal, so I want to be sure the accident and injury are properly documented.

During the last class period, a student asked me why I had a bandage on my arm, and I explained (briefly) that I had tripped and fallen into a tree. The one kid I just cannot stand to see come into the room had his usual smart-ass retort: "You fall all the time. You should retire and stay home! That would be great!"

Picture the obnoxious little fat boy laughing his ass off for all the other kids in the class.

If it had been anyone else making the comment, I would have laughed, but this kid's mouth gets to me as it's going constantly in a steady, vile stream of put-downs and crap directed at me, as well as the other students in the room. I've told him he's going to ISS every time he opens his mouth as I am sick of dealing with his rudeness and crudeness, but he doesn't care. As a matter of fact, he thinks it's funny that I find him offensive.

My apologies to John Wayne, but this campus just ain't big enough for the two of us! June can't come soon enough.

Patience is Sometimes Just Not Worth the Wait

I've been working in my office, using my computer to finish up some business. Five (yes, that's 5) separate times, the outside of my house has been hit with projectiles being fired by some kind of pellet or b-b gun.

Each time I've gone outside to catch whomever is doing the shooting and tell them to stop hitting my house. With the door open, I heard men talking and laughing, speaking some Spanish and some English, and then one of them yelling, "Kill it! Kill it!" and more shots.

They are in the house next door, so I waited outside until they came out and fired again. As I walked to the side of my house, the front door slammed, but they must have seen me because when I rang the bell, no one answered. After ringing the bell several times, I walked back to my house and called them.

You would not believe the "dumb" act on the phone: "Who's calling, please? Where did you say you live? Next door? What address would that be?"

I finally told her to come out her front door and she'll see me standing in my front yard, looking at her front door. And I hung up the phone.

I already have b-b holes in all 3 front windows from the last episode with b-b guns in my neighborhood, right after Christmas. My next-door neighbors also had their windows shot out, including the back window of their van, so it's hard to believe that they now have a pellet gun and are shooting in indiscriminantly in their front yard and hitting my house in the process.

I don't need the window to my office shot out: it has already been replaced once, and every penny of the cost came out of my pocket! I'm not up for that again, thanks anyway.

If they begin firing again, I'll call the police and let them handle it.

Gender Issues

The buzz on campus is … separate classrooms for males and females … a separate “high school” for 9th grade only … differentiating instruction … expanding the curriculum offerings so more students have more choice.

It seems that recycling is alive and well in the educational institutions of this district. If a teacher stays in the profession long enough, there is time to see it come, go, come back again with a new name, die off, and be resurrected once again. At that point, it’s time to move on because the teacher truly has been there, done that, and seen it all.

When I walk through the door and see that the class is a majority of males, I relax: I prefer to teach boys. A recent discussion with a dear friend, also an educator, revealed the reason why: boys asks questions, but girls make comments.

Boys, if you can get past the male posturing, are generally more straight-forward than girls. If they want to know something, they ask. If the teacher asks a question, they clam up, but will respond with gentle prodding that allows them to be right—somehow.

Girls, on the other hand, don’t’ ask questions: they make comments, lots of comments, and if they don’t understand what’s going on, those comments often become personal snipes at one another, as well as the teacher.

Example: Teacher invites the students to talk about Antony, a character from the play Julius Caesar, to help them clarify their understanding of who Antony is and his role is in the play.

Male response: isn't he some guy in the play? (restating the question)
Female response: he’s so totally hot in the movie! (playing to the crowd)

Teacher: yes, he’s a male character in the play. I’m asking about the character in the play, not the actor in the film.

Male response: uh, I’m not sure what you want me to say. (silence from male students)
Female response: well, you don’t have to be so bitchy! How was I supposed to know you were talking about the play? (lots of giggling from other girls)

Guys either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, they fall asleep. Girls either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, it’s because they are writing notes, doing their make-up, whispering, text messaging, flirting with a guy across the room, making faces at a girl friend across the room, adjusting the furniture, digging in their backpacks, demanding to use the bathroom … the list is endless!

When a male student is told to knock it off, he usually does after first making a comment such as, “You talkin’ to me?” Once the teacher confirms that he is, indeed, the target of the comment, he usually accepts he’s been busted and shuts up, at least for the moment.

When a female student is told to knock it off, she attacks: “Me? Why do you always pick on me? I wasn’t doing nothing!!” If the teacher again directs her to be quiet, we have to travel the “why do you always pick on me/why aren't you telling so-and-so to be quiet: she's talking too” road, which can be long and winding even on a short day.

Guys seldom do personal grooming in the classroom; girls are hard-pressed to keep their make-up and mirrors hidden for an entire 55-minute class. Guys may read a text message, but seldom initiate it. Guys may not take notes on the class discussion, but girls are constantly writing anything except lecture notes. Guys don’t decorate their notebook covers, but girls have photos that would make any grown-up blush! Guys write filthy comments and gang graffiti in the textbooks and on the desktops, but girls confine their writing to notes they pass during class, between classes, during lunch, on the way to and from school, during the pep rally, at the dance. Neither the males nor the females use a paper and pencil to complete the assigned homework.

Tell a guy to pull up his pants and he does it; tell a girl to cover up her bulging boobs hanging out of a spaghetti strap tank top and she wants to know why you are looking at her!

For me, it’s a no-brainer: give me a group of guys over a gaggle of girls any day.

It Is What It Is

While some people go through life taking it out on others, I have spent my life fighting to be me. I envy those who have their own “brand,” their own identification not associated with their parents, their siblings, their spouses, their offspring, their job. How refreshing it would be to just be … me.

This week, I gave a gift to a colleague because she asked me if I would make her a scarf like the one I wore to school. Sure, I said, and spent my TV time this week crocheting her a design I created. I wrapped it with tissue, tied the package with a bow, and put it in her cubby at work, hoping that she would like the end product of my endeavors.

The endless thank you cycle annoys me. She called my room and said thank you, and then asked if she could pay me for the item. No, it was my pleasure to create this item for you: wear it and enjoy it. Oh, I couldn’t do that: at least let me take you out for drinks. No, I seldom drink. Then, what about dinner? No, I made you the gift because you admired my scarf and asked about one for yourself. I am pleased that you like my handiwork, so wear the scarf and enjoy it. Oh, I can’t do that: I have to give you something for it!

I also received an email, and then a cutesy card expressing her gratitude, and then a mutual friend added her thanks from the recipient, who told her to be sure and thank me if she saw me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Some people need the endless enthusiasm of constant reinforcement, but I just need to be acknowledged sincerely, and then I move on. I don’t like standing in one place as I’m not the person today that I was yesterday, and I pray that I become yet another iteration tomorrow. Each day that I walk into the classroom is a new beginning, and I try conscientiously not to bring the baggage of yesterday with me. Some days it’s harder than others, especially when a particularly nasty confrontation occurs, but I know that my clients are kids, that they haven’t yet learned the basics of socially acceptable behavior, so I move on. If there truly is no harm, then there’s no reason for the foul: we don’t shoot penalty free throws in education.

In my personal life, however, it’s been a series of fouls and penalty shots, so as I face the late autumn/early winter of my time on earth, I feel battered from all the physical contact under the basket. I’ve spent my life as a guard, not as a shooting forward, so I’ve taken more than my share of elbows. Unfortunately for my game, people have been able to drive through me and dribble around me, and then score at my expense, so I don’t have impressive numbers in the win/loss statistical database.

For the past decade, since an especially nasty two years of my life led to a complete upheaval and change for me, I’ve worked hard to just be who I am, rather than living up to other people’s expectations and/or perceptions of who they need me to be. I seldom ask anyone for anything, but I’ve had to ask several times in the last few years, only to find that the old adage “ask and you shall receive” is not always up and running in my life.

I’m struggling right now, feeling an inner need to do something else, something I cannot define, but feeling the pressure to leave well enough alone. I looked at volunteering overseas, but had not understood that I must pay for all expenses except actual living expenses while in a foreign country. I’ve thought about volunteering for a literacy program, working with the Boys & Girls Club, becoming a den mother again (den grandmother?), but then I realize that all I’m doing is thinking about doing my job again—and losing myself in the process.

This is more difficult than I thought it would be, figuring out who I am and what my needs are on the journey to the end of the time allotted to my soul in this lifetime. The nagging sense of not being finished leads me to believe I am missing something essential, but my stored memories aren’t accessing that information yet, so, for now, it is what it is. I’ll wait to see what it’s going to become.