Shake the Dust

Pardon my absence!  I've been without internet, as I made the stellar decision to move during Thanksgiving break.  Oops.  We can't all have brains.

Today I took a personal day, and I'm not ashamed.  Moving usually leaves me feeling like I need 11 days off.  It's 10:49 and already I have dropped off my rent check, drunk two cups of coffee, run errands, hung a display of my favorite cards/postcards, and am now watching a very talented young man install cable and internet in my living room. If that's not productivity, I don't know what is. 

I don't have much to say other than:

-Monday night, I had a salad with kidney beans and then some kind of vegetable mixture with black beans.  Tuesday I was ALMOST able to blog about the first time farting in front of my students, but I made it through safely by the skin of my colon.  I think maybe a small part of me wants this to happen, just so that the anticipation is over.  But the larger part of me says "No. Never."

-I really think I would like to write a book about how to be a horrible first year teacher.  It will be part how-to, part memoir; a series of essays strung together by the theme of insanity.  Stylistically, think David Sedaris meets Nell*. Would any of you mind substituting for me for the rest of the year so I can make this happen? I would appreciate it. 

-I showed this poem to my students this week and we all had the greatest day of our lives afterward.  You should watch it. Excuse me while I weep.

-We are having a poetry slam next Wednesday and I forced my students to let me participate, but now I don't know what to write about.  It's a toss-up between some poem that satirizes the life of a teacher through a metaphor and they won't realize I'm making fun of them until the last line, an ode to my orthopedic teacher shoes, or a poem about being white. A conundrum, indeed.

-I just asked the cable/Internet guy if he would hang up my coat rack, too, and he said no. Rude.

Love,

Teach

*Nell is a 1994 drama film starring Jodie Foster as a young woman who has to face other people for the first time after being raised by her mother in an isolated cabin. Trailer can be found here. 

Fun with Acrostics

I was told in a district training session for teaching English as a Second Language that acrostic poems are a great activity for kids struggling with English.  The Cynical Teacher in me said to myself, “Psh, acrostic poems? That’s too easy. They'll finish it in five minutes and goof off.”  But, needing an activity for my ESL class for the days just before Thanksgiving break, I decided to give it a try.

I ONLY WANT TO DO ACROSTIC POEMS FOREVER.

Some were so adorable that they made my love muscles sore*.

From one of my newcomers :) So precious!

And some were so hilarious that I want to frame them and hang them in my living room forever.

Please note the illustration on this one.  (The student may or may not have had help from his teacher.)

I think that one's my favorite.

"START MOPING!"

Don't ask if you can live. 

           I Learned

                  tO

               neVer

underestimatE

             ,

            The

            Effects

            Acrostics

            Can

            Have

 *by “love muscles” I mean “heart”

Victory

Today I told my students I couldn't afford Kleenex in an effort to guilt trip them into bringing more for our classroom. (But really, even if I'm raking in millions one day, Kleenex is the one classroom supply I just don't think I can ever bring myself to buy.)

I told my cute cashier at the grocery store at 6:51 AM, "Thanks, precious," when he handed me my receipt.  Then I WINKED.

I'm wearing shoes that don't go with my dress.  (At all.)

I made up my lesson this morning.

I gave a student detention for after school on the day we let out for Thanksgiving.

The copier machine jammed on my job as the bell was ringing and I left it for the next person to fix with a Post-It Note that read "Ms. Teach is sry, try calling NASA? :("

I had two cups coffee AND a Diet Coke today and I am abominably hyper

I just invented the phrase "abominably hyper"

As you can see, I did a lot of stupid things today.  But none of it matters because

I PASSED MY ESL EXAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Take that, Folds.

Love,

Teach

White as a

Creating work to leave with a substitute is a huge pain in my can.  It has to be easy enough for the kids (and sub) to understand, relevant enough that the kids will take it seriously, and lengthy enough to keep them busy the whole period so that students don't get bored and light themselves on fire.  Because those factors are kind of mutually exclusive, I try to be absent as little as possible since the stress of planning for a sub usually ends in me making stupid, drastic decisions (i.e. bangs).

Anyway, since I had to be out for professional development on Thursday, I had to create work to leave with a sub. I really wanted them to have some meaningful practice with the poetic devices we'd learned on Wednesday, but I knew that many of them were still shaky with the new concepts.  I decided to go ahead and write a worksheet where the kids first had to identify the poetic device, then apply their knowledge of that device in a sentence of their own. In hindsight, it was definitely a stretch for their ability level after one day of direct instruction, and also a stretch for the type of work to be done while I was out.

But I'm so glad I did.

Let's start with metaphors.

Metaphors

 Translation: "I'm a boss; fast and wild." This isn't too far off from a more traditionally-accepted metaphor (I think the thought process was that the student was comparing himself to a "boss" without using "like" or "as." I think I also may be giving too much credit), but it is not true. I am the boss, and I'm pathetically tame and grandmotherly.

Rhyme

For some reason, understanding and using rhyming words is really difficult for some of my students. Probably because their hands are tired.

???

 Simile

My personal favorite. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a simile.

As an extension of my student's learning and a closing to this post, I will use this simile in three different poems. Ahem.

Haiku:

White as a white man,
The pale snow leopard donned his
ironic eyewear.

Limerick:

There once was a blue jay named Leonard
Who found a birdbath full of paint thinner
He sang, "Tweedle-dee!"
Bathed from noon until three
Came out white as a white man in winter.

Free verse:

I am a boss; fast and wild
Chasing, fleeing, stealing, breaking
Riding the winds of my own poetic devices
I will not lay, no
I will not rest my hands
I am the coals in the pit
Glowing
White as a white man.
White as a white man.

*Snaps*

Love,

Teach

Metaphcr

Today I introduced a new unit on poetry.  After writing several poetic devices, definitions, and examples under the doc cam, I went for a stroll around the room to check that my students were doing the same.

One of my consistently off-task students was not writing, so I helicoptered over to him.

"Have you copied down the poetic devices on the board?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Look."  He pushed his paper toward me.  I examined it.  Surprisingly, he had written them all down.  But just to prove a point*, I found an error.  I tapped my index finger on one of his poetic terms.

"Make sure you're spelling them correctly," I said.

"What?  Where?"

"On 'metaphor'."

"I spelled it right!" he protested.

"It's 'metaPHOR,' not 'metaPHER. You spelled it the way it's spelled in 'Christopher.'"

"Oh," he said, glancing at the board to check the correct spelling. "I didn't know metaphor had a 'c' in it."

"What?"

"That's the way it is on the board."

"Oh, no," I laughed.  "I guess the way I wrote that o made it look like a c.  But think about it-- if I had written a c there, it would have been meta--"

I stopped myself, realizing exactly what it would sound like if there was a c instead of an o in "metaphor."

Have you ever seen 30 people whisper or mouth the word "metafucker" and then burst into hysterics?

I am batting 1,000 for word mistakes this school year.

Love,

Teach

*that I'm a jerk

Updates from a Non-Motivational Speaker

The last week of DEVOLSON is often the most hopeless-feeling.  Because I'm not even motivated enough to use paragraphs, here are some bullet point updates for you:

• It is laughable how spent I am right now.  If I had things my way, my students would be on a field trip to the moon until Thanksgiving.  Without me.  But I still get paid.

• I was simultaneously delighted and dismayed to read the comments section of my "I'm sorry you farted" post. This one in particular made me throw my head back and man-laugh:

I farted once while teaching in Africa with the Peace Corps. The female student I was next to quietly smiled and looked at me but said nothing. Angel? Or maybe she was just surprised that a "muzungu", as they called us, farts.

         That image nearly killed me.  Hilarious.

•  No word yet on whether I passed or failed the test I didn't mean to take.  If I fail it, I'm at a point of such low motivation right now that I actually might just hand in my room keys and call it a year.

• My motivation level is also responsible for the fact that, last night, I dined on peanut butter, spinach leaves, and an egg because I won't go grocery shopping on Sunday nights. Salmonella, anyone?

Oh, and my student who lied about the train hitting his cousin told me I was stupid for believing it.  I laughed.  Then I almost boxed his ears, but I wasn't motivated enough.

Love,

Teach

R.I.P.

I inherited a new student who won't do anything.  Let's call him Steve.  He is a good kid and loves to chat with me after class, but during class acts like my voice is on a frequency beyond his range of hearing.  Steve won't do anything I say-- whether it's taking out a sheet of paper or looking at the screen during a short movie-- unless I'm standing over his desk and ask him an additional three times.  And even then, subtle nuances in his behavior tell me, "You know, your requests of me are getting really irritating."  I've been tired of it since he arrived in my class, but I finally decided to get real about it today.

When the bell rang to leave, I asked Steve to wait so I could talk to him.  Knowing that class was over and I could no longer ask real tasks of him, his face lit up. 

"So what's the deal?" I asked. 

"With what?"  he frowned slightly, pretending to search his mind for what I could possibly be referring to.

"You know, the whole not-doing-anything-I-ask."

"Oh," he said. "You mean my behavior?"

"You could say that."

"Oh yeah, that," he said, looking away.  "It's because my cousin died."

A huge, green sign flashing the word "LIE" appeared directly above Steve's head, but I pretended not to see it.

"Oh," I said.  "That must be really hard on you.  Were you close?"

"Very," he said, half-smiling sadly.

"When did this happen?"

"Wednesday."

"Wow," I said. 

"Yeah," he said with a sigh.  "Runned over by a train."

"Tragic."

He nodded.

I should interrupt here and explain that I'm not a terrible person.  Tragedies do happen all too often at schools like mine, and I definitely take stories from kids seriously.  But unfortunately for my students, I'm also equipped with a finely tuned B.S. Meter and have caught tons of childlets in their own bullhonky.  But just in case I was wrong, I continued to be sympathetic as I ended our conversation.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear about your cousin, but when do you think I can expect your behavior to improve?" I asked.

"I don't know, miss," he said.  "I mean, we were really, really close."

"Hmm," I said.  "Well, think about it and you can get back to me tomorrow."

"Ok," he said.  "Bye, miss!"

About 90 seconds after Steve left, I had his father on the phone. 

No cousin.

No train.

Parent-teacher-student conference tomorrow.

Dad asked me to not tell him he was coming. 

It's going to be a very awkward afternoon for somebody whose name rhymes with Cleave.

Love,

Teach

I'm sorry you farted.

Back in August at in-service, we had to write down our greatest fear about the upcoming school year and read it out loud to the rest of the faculty.  Then we had to crumple up our "fear" and throw it in the trash can amidst the cheers of our colleagues to signify our non-fear-having-ness.

Knowing that I would be reading my greatest fear of teaching out loud to 50 strangers, I said, "My greatest fear about the upcoming school year is that the third year will be harder than my first and second."  Others nodded sympathetically and shouted encouragement as I threw away my fear.

It was a lie.

My greatest fear of every school year is farting.

I've tripped over cords, backpacks, and other objects tons of times in front of my kids.  I've mispronounced words resulting in terrible errors ("slimy rock cod," anyone?).  I've unintentionally projected my cleavage onto the board.  But for some reason, the idea of farting in front of my students is a notion that practically paralyzes me when I think about it.

This fear probably has a lot to do with a memory I have of a math teacher who farted in front of her class back when I was in junior high.  I didn't even have this particular teacher, but the stories I heard about the event were all so vivid and it was repeated so many times by so many different pupils of hers that I can see it in my mind as if I experienced it.  Apparently the teacher, who had a reputation for being pretty strict and no-nonsense, was just about to sit down on a stool to demonstrate something on the overhead when she audibly ripped one.  According to sources, the teacher, after freezing for a few moments, snapped, "We all do it."  She never regained control of her class, and the story circulated for weeks.  Even when I heard that story as a bratty seventh grader, I remember feeling sorry for her.  Now, as a teacher myself, it makes me want to cry out of solidarity. 

Also, I just remembered that in 5th grade some jerk accused me of farting during a math competition (I totally didn't!).  If you were out of the competition you had to sit against a wall, and as he and his little dumb jerk friends got out, they sat behind my desk and continued to whisper accusations until finally I just lost it.  I put my head down and sobbed.  My teacher hurried over to me.

"What's wrong?"

"Z-Zach says that I'm f-farting!" I choked out.

My teacher sent all of them to the office immediately, and later on in the day during art class I received several handwritten letters from Head Jerk and his Jerklets.  The Jerklets' letters said

Dear ____,

I'm sorry for lying.  That was stupid and hurt your feelings.

Brian


Dear ___,

I'm sorry for listening to Zach and joining in on his joke.  Now I realize it was hurtful and not funny at all.

Luke


Then I turned to Zach's letter.  His said:


Dear ___,

I'm sorry you farted.

Zach


Obviously the principal had neglected to actually read the letters before they got into my hands, because as soon as I burst into fresh tears, my teacher picked up the letter, read it, and marched back to the office.  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could have sworn she whispered, "That little shit." 

I have no idea what I will do if I ever break wind in front of my class, but if we combine how I've reacted to teacher mistakes with how I've reacted to fart accusations of the past, I think we can safely assume that I will:

1) Laugh hysterically for 5-15 minutes
2) Cry pathetically and ask for apology letters from anyone who laughed
3) Give them a free day while I sit at my desk and alternate between laughing and crying
4) Write a blog post about it

Have any of you ever farted while teaching or doing some kind of presentation for work? How did you handle it? Impart your fart wisdom to me.

Love,

Teach

P.S. In high school, I was an office aide with Zach and reminded him of that day and he said, "Oh, yeah, I totally remember.  Wow, I was such a jerk.  But really, your farting was out of control." Then I drop-kicked him.

Tangled

Today I showed clips from the movie Tangled as kids took notes.  I created the lesson last year after seeing that my kids needed some extra support identifying and understanding the effects of different plot elements. The movie has a very clear plot line with story elements and characters that are common to my kiddos hailing from different lands, so it's perfect.  Plus I love that little green chameleon Pascal fiercely.

I have severe performance anxiety when it comes to being observed as a teacher, so when my administrator came in with his legal pad, I was glad it was a lesson I had taught before and was fairly comfortable with.  I rambled, tripped over my words, and said a bunch of meaningless phrases (as I usually do when I'm being observed), but my students were gems and I even made them laugh a few times.  My administrator was gathering up his things to leave as I started the next clip, which features Rapunzel throwing her hundred-foot long hair around her in piles.  Just as he was headed out the door, one of my students said in a voice past loud-ish to his neighbor, "LONG HAIR DON'T CARE!"*

And, because the gods of teaching are good today, my administrator did not hear it.

Or he did a flawless job of pretending.

Love,

Teach

*If you don't teach middle school and don't already know what that phrase means, please do yourself a favor and don't look it up. Preserve your innocence. 

Want to see a trick?

I made a late October resolution last week to start writing more regularly for a few reasons:

1) I am a happier individual when I am writing often
2) I read on a blogging website that highly successful bloggers write every (or almost every) day, and I am nothing if not a perfectionist*
3) I know that some of you read my blog purely to allay your fears that you might be the craziest person alive, and I want to make sure I give you your daily dose of reassurance.

I've gone a couple days without writing now, but just know that it's because this happened.

When I signed my contract with my new district earlier this year, I was told that I would need to be certified to teach ESL before the school year was up.  My content exam to teach English Language Arts several years ago was disturbingly easy, but I'd heard from several people and administrators that not only was the ESL one in particular pretty tough, but that ALL content exams to teach had become more rigorous.  *On soapbox* I think this is a good thing, because I do think some people teaching right now are a reflection of the moron-welcoming teacher exams of the past *off soapbox*, but I was also a little disappointed to know that I would actually have to attend a district study session for the test.  However, after sitting through both sessions, I was glad I did-- most of the questions were based on material I could have never common-sensed my way through. After studying for a while, I knocked out the 60-question practice test with a 98, so I made plans with a friend for two hours after my test was to begin on Saturday.

At 7:30 AM yesterday in the lobby of a local university's science wing, a proctor herded those of us taking various content exams into a lecture hall.  Clutching our number two pencils and our printed test information, we headed to our assigned seats scattered randomly throughout the room.  Fortunately for you readers and unfortunately for me as a test-taker, I was seated behind a man I'm going to call Folds.

Folds was a very large, very bald man.  Folds gets his namesake from the very prominent folds on the back of his neck, between his ears. Neither of these have to do with why it was unfortunate for me to sit behind him; a high percentage of lovely people in my life happen to be large and/or bald.  But things turned dark and cold in my life from the second Folds turned to his neighbor and said, "Want to see a trick?"

I don't know what I was expecting.  Juggling, maybe? Pulling brightly-colored scarves out of his mouth?  But this was Fold's trick:

That man put a pencil inside one of his head folds.

I gasped quietly. Several people around him laughed or congratulated him on his feat ("I'll know who to ask if my pencil breaks!"), but I stared at my registration materials on my desk intently, furious at myself for blushing. I looked up again.  It was still there.

The proctor began passing out test booklets.  It was still there.

To distract myself from the human skin pencil pouch in front of me, I studied my test booklet carefully.  It looked awfully thick for 60 questions.  Then, on my answer sheet, I noticed there were bubbles for 200 questions. I reassured myself that it was fine, that perhaps all test-takers got the same answer sheet regardless of how many questions their content exam contained.

But sure enough, when the proctor told us to begin, I opened my packet to find 200 questions.  Some were ESL questions, but others were about electron tendencies of a substance moving through a battery circuit, the exact location of the crash of two marbles  being shot through a ring at locations C and F, and reasons for population density in selected areas of China and India.

What? What is happening? Have I fallen into the rabbit's hole? I asked myself.


I looked up.  "Yes," answered Fold's fold, pausing between bites of his pencil.
***
The short ending to the story is that that I took four and a half hours to take a test in which 75% of the questions were based on material I hadn't touched since high school. There are two tests for ESL: a supplemental exam with only 60 questions for teachers who are already certified, and the other is a 200-question motherload exam that combines the ESL test with the test to teach all 4 content areas in grades 4-8.  Guess which one I registered for?  The good news is that, if I passed, I'm pretty sure it will take care of my requirements to teach ESL... if not, I'll probably be on the news for setting my classroom on fire tomorrow.

The long story includes a thunderstorm, traffic, tears, not eating a cupcake, and recovering at my parents' house. But that is a story for another day.

Wherever you are, Folds, I hope you passed your test for which you probably were adequately prepared.  Lucky bastard.

Love,

Teach

*but only when it comes to writing, decorating,  and my eyebrows. 

The Best Drug/Drinking/Bullying Prevention Poster in the History of Ever

Last week during Red Ribbon Week (a week-long national campaign every October to for alcohol/tobacco/drug/violence prevention awareness), students created posters to help encourage a safe and healthy school.

This poster, an unassuming little number hidden away in a quiet, not oft-visited area of the school, was my favorite. 

Let's analyze its allure.

First, the eye is drawn to the bloodbath in the lower left corner.  A mohawked assassin with a gardening spade is threatening his victim to look at a peanut made out of blood, while an accomplice with questionably long arms massages the victim's scalp.

Who is momy, we wonder?

We may never know.

Next, in the upper left corner, we have an interaction between two creatures who have asterisks for hands. The happier one offers the other a lime snow cone, assuring him, "It cool man." The other appears disappointed, perhaps because his arms are stuck in a "touchdown" position.

Finally, we have our last quadrant.  A man with a book on his head is blissfully unaware that his beer bottle is actually full of blood.

I think they captured the spirit of Red Ribbon Week perfectly. Bullying and substance abuse are completely senseless.

Love,

Teach