So the last week or so has been less than fabulous.
But today, I discovered this little gem, and I must energetically doff my wig and say a hearty "THANK YOU" to Katie Couric for providing me with about 10 minutes of solid, bellyaching, body shaking laughter.
When last we left off, the English department at Ye Olde High School was under siege by a parent attempting to ban a book.
Without giving away too much that could be detected through a high spirited Google search, I'll say that the parent in question only sends her little cherub to the school for the fall semester because she wants him to be able to play a certain athletic endeavor in which teams kick a round, white ball up and down a field in an attempt to get it past a goalie. The rest of the time, the kid (and his army of siblings) is homeschooled.
The book in question is the follow-up novel to a very popular book (published about four years ago) set in Afghanistan and centering on two male friends. The friends enjoy a certain activity that involves scampering after an airborne device that you hang onto with a string. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN? So the follow-up novel, also set in Afghanistan, deals more with women and details events occurring against the backdrop of the Soviet invasion in Afghanistan. The women are both married to the same man, and there are a few scenes in the book that are disturbing but not graphic (unlike a certain scene in the previous book). Anyway. I'm probably confusing you now, so I'll quit. But I think most of you know which book I'm talking about, and while it does have some episodes that are unsettling, they are far from graphic. The teacher who introduced the novel had one of our guidance counselors come speak to the kids, prior to reading the book, during which she discussed domestic violence. Because, you see, this book contains scenes of domestic violence. The teacher tried very hard to educate her students on a part of the world about which they are completely ignorant, as well as on understanding the pervasive evil of domestic violence.
So.
The administration of Ye Olde High School completely backed the teacher, who continues to have students read the book independently and discuss it during a weekly book club in class. Brava, as they say. I do not think, however, that this subject has died - not by any stretch. I believe the mother is taking her case to the superintendent, so we'll see what happens there.
Meanwhile, my completely incompetent and increasingly deranged Damn Yearbook staff continues to set new lows of participation and attention to detail. Out of the 33 on the staff, I've got 10 who can be relied upon to produce something coherent. The rest? Not so much. We did make our initial 66-page deadline yesterday, no thanks to two-thirds of the staff. And thus we soldier on. At last count, there are over 40 registered for next semester. I emailed guidance and asked, as kindly as possible, if they could kick at least ten of them out. They have yet to comply. So I'm going to have to take this to the principal as I ask what in the HELLO KITTY I AM SUPPOSED TO DO WITH 44 KIDS AND 27 COMPUTERS.
I'll keep you posted.
But all of this seems fairly trivial in light of the fact that this week has been one of the most emotionally - if not physically - draining I've had in my nascent teaching career.
On Sunday, one of my yearbook girls text messaged me to say that a junior at the school took his life. The death itself is so shocking and heartbreaking that words cannot begin to adequately express how traumatized many of the students (and teachers) are. The act was gruesome, and I am consumed with thinking about the people who witnessed it, just as I cannot stop thinking about this boy. On Monday, many of my redneck Geniuses in Cell Block F, who ordinarily are full of a certain joi de vivre, had their heads on their desks, either staring off with vacant eyes or struggling not to cry. Some did sit quietly and weep. I did not know the boy, but I know my Geniuses, and I would walk past them, ruffle their hair, or pat them on the back. The funeral was today. It will be some time, faithful readers, before my Geniuses process this - if ever.
The Damn Yearbook, meanwhile, is providing a very convenient, very attractive target for the grief and anger of the boy's family. Our policy is that we do not publish any kind of tribute for students who suffered a self-inflicted death. This covers suicide, overdosing and DUI. We do not publish ads for those children. We.Do.Not. The family is outraged, and they are directing all of their feelings toward the yearbook in general and me in particular. The principal and I discussed this very thing on Monday, before I was asked about a page. She concurred with the policy. Some fellow staffers do not, and they are joined by many students. I keep reiterating the policy while expressing how devastated I am for this boy's family. Much like the book, this controversy will not end until the family is ready to let go. And that, my friends, could be a while.
Then came Tuesday.
I arrived at school and notice a veritable plethora of police cars. Then I saw the canine force and thought, "Drug raid." I rounded the corner to my classroom and saw a cluster of four of cops, tight jawed and narrow eyed, with one hand on their gun holster and the other on a taser. The Girl Wonder and I tried to figure out what was going on. About ten minutes before class started, two yearbook girls flew into the room, waving their cell phones and wailing. We were, they announced, under the threat of an "incident." That was the word: "incident." Two students - allegedly - sent a text message to someone (several someones?) that promised an "incident" on Tuesday, and they also promised that the "incident" would involve guns.
Those kids' teachers were called into the conference room, and we were on high, high alert. Dogs patrolled the halls, the cops were EVERYWHERE, and to say that my Geniuses were as nervous as whores in church is presenting a very, very large understatement. All morning, kids were called out of class as parents came to get them. We were told repeatedly that it was a hoax and not to believe the rumors.
Still, though.
Sometimes kids - heck, sometimes PEOPLE - are unstable enough to be attracted to the attention surrounding a tragedy such as the loss of a life, especially if the loss is self-inflicted. Is it too far a stretch to find yourself thinking that, indeed, a kid or two would want to come and hurt people? I don't think so. And I also think that complacency is the hobgoblin we must avoid right now.
Supposedly "they" know who the boys are. I don't think the boys have been back at school, but I don't know where they are or what is being done about them.
It's been weird, faithful readers. Weird and stressful and so, so sad. I guess that's why I found this clip to be wildly entertaining. It can't be wrong to want to have a moment of levity, can it?
I wrote a post that I just couldn't publish, because I need my job, even if it is low paying and unappreciated.
A parent is attempting to ban a book.
She did not like the teacher's offer of an alternate assignment for her son, and she further was frustrated when the principal backed the teacher. She's taken the matter to the Superintendent, and will not be happy until this book is denied to students.
It is not "disturbing" or "graphic," as she would have others believe. But it offends her.
There is so much more - so much more merda - but I just can't put it out there in Internet Land.
But there are days when really, truly, I hate people.
Oh, faithful reader(s). Where to begin. This school year - it is kicking my fat white arse. And when I say "kicking," I mean "ramming a metal cleated, steel toed boot repeatedly until the aforementioned fat white arse resembles ground beef."
How about we begin with the first period Geniuses.
Of the 15, I have the one Genius who got suspended the fourth (his third - he missed the first day because he was in court for "gettin' drunk") day of school for ten days, came back, got suspended again, and currently is SUSPENDED AGAIN. This infraction? Skipping. Yes, faithful readers, he was suspended for skipping. It seems there is a rich irony there, but to stop and think about it might depress me more than I already am.
There is Dark Genius, who confessed in his "Definition of Me" memoir that one of his favorite things to do is to burn stuff, and who qualified that by saying that what he really REALLY likes is to see people burn.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then there is ... I can't even think of a nickname for this kid. Through the 8th grade, he was enrolled in an occupational course of study, meaning that his needs are best served outside of a traditional classroom. For reasons no one can quite understand, the boy's parents decided to place him in a mainstream classroom his freshman year. We, his teachers, are mystified. This child's parents did him a tremendous, deeply damaging disservice. I cannot figure out what they hope to achieve by their son squeaking by with a D- average (he failed two of his freshman year classes). It isn't that he won't pay attention or do his work, it's that he can't. He literally CANNOT comprehend what he reads. He literally CANNOT follow directions. He literally CANNOT successfully function in a traditional classroom setting. You should see his handwriting. It isn't so much handwriting as hieroglyphics.
So that starts off the day.
Then comes Cell Block F.
Four of the 25 have been suspended this year, three for fighting (one being a girl who yanked a handful - and I do mean HAND FULL - of hair out of her combatant) and one for cussing out a teacher (not me).
Here are some stories from Cell Block F that perfectly encapsulate how fabulous this class is, the first two courtesy of a kid I'll call Inmate Clueless.
IC announced one day that he was frustrated. I asked why (huge mistake). He said that he had tried, the previous night, to find out if he snores while he sleeps. His method? He tried to stay awake to see if he snored while he's sleeping. But he fell asleep, so he still doesn't know. He FELL ASLEEP, so he still doesn't know if he SNORES WHEN HE'S SLEEPING.
Another day, he came to class and warned me that he was "real tired" (to get the full effect, pronounce 'tired' as 'tarred'). I asked why (huge mistake). He explained that he had gone to the emergency room the previous night because he was feeling dizzy and light headed and kind of nauseous (to get the full effect, pronounce 'nauseous' as 'nash-uss'). The doctor said he was fine, so Daddy and him got in the truck and headed home. Only IC was hungry, so they stopped at McDonald's (to get the full effect, pronounce 'McDonalds' as 'MAC-donalds') so he could get a snack wrap. He came home, sat on the couch, ate his snack wrap, and fell asleep. But sometime later, he got up and walked into his bedroom, lay down on his bed, and got "real confused," because he thought he was still in the ER. It just didn't make any sense that he was in his room, because he was sure he was still in the ER. I said, "Let me get this straight. You come home, you eat some food, sit on your couch, watch your television, fall asleep, wake up, walk to your room and get in YOUR bed. At that point, you become confused, because you think you're still in the ER?" He nodded solemnly. "Yeah."
As we worked on essays asking to define the meaning of human rights, Amtrak thought he came up with a stellar definition: "Riding Amtrak trains." He also believed that he nailed an effect of speeding: "Drunk driving."
Then came two of the most bizarre conversations I have ever witnessed.
We were reading Night, the Elie Wiesel memoir. There is a mention in the book about some of the Nazis trafficking in homosexuality, particularly with young boys. This section always elicits comments from students, so I did what I usually do and steered them toward looking at how this is another example of Nazi cruelty, because they buttered up the boys by giving them extra bread and food. One of the Inmates raised his hand. Now, this Inmate, up to this point, had contributed really interesting thoughts to our discussion of Night because he had lived in Germany for several years, during which he visited a couple of concentration camps. So I asked if he had an observation or a question or whatever, and this exchange followed:
Inmate 1: What do you mean, 'buttered them up'? Did they cover the boys with butter or something?
Inmate 2: I bet they didn't use butter.
Inmate 3: They didn't have any butter, remember?
Inmate 2: Yeah. Ms. Cupcake said they didn't get butter on their bread.
Inmate 1: So why'd they cover them up with butter?
Inmate 2: I bet they used a salve. I bet that's what they used.
Inmate 3: Cause they didn't have butter.
Inmate 2: That's right.
Inmate 1: I'm still trying to understand why they needed butter.
Inmate 2: But it wasn't butter.
Inmate 3: It was a salve.
Inmate 1: Oh.
You may wonder why I did not jump into this discussion to clarify things. I did, eventually, but for the most part, I stood there, frozen with shock.
Flash forward a few weeks. We are discussing effects of feeling different - what happens when you realize that you are different from other people.
cupcake: For example, if all of my friends were really good in math, I'd feel different, because sometimes when people talk about math, they might as well be speaking Mandarin Chinese, because I don't understand a word.
Inmate 1: What's Mandarin Chinese?
Inmate 2: I think she means mandarin oranges.
Inmate 3: She's eating mandarin oranges in math class?
Inmate 4: I don't like oranges. The stringy stuff gets caught in my teeth.
Inmate 1: I bet she doesn't mean mandarin oranges. I bet she means a mangerine.
Inmate 2: What's a mangerine?
Inmate 1: It's one of them oranges that's a cross between a mandarin orange and a tangerine.
Inmate 3: I've never eaten no mangerine. Are they good?
Inmate 1: Yeah. Them mangerines are real good.
Inmate 2: Ms. Cupcake, do you mean mangerine?
Ms. Cupcake: Yes. Yes, I do.
So now we're through 2nd period.
Then comes 3rd period, otherwise known as Yearbook Hell.
I have received emails from an assistant principal asking that not one but TWO of my beloved staffers not be let outside of the room during class, because they "spend a lot of time in the halls, away from instruction." One of the little dears raised her shirt on the school bus and allowed a boy to fondle her bosoms in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. The other one was caught smoking with her boyfriend and has to attend weekly smoking cessation classes. She was late for last week's class because she was - you got it - smoking.
We have a 62-page printing deadline on November 10th, and so far, three pages are ready. The reliable yearbook staffer who completed those three pages is ME. The rest of the damn class is content to sit around, talk on their cell phones, wander the halls, or complain. I shouldn't say that, actually. Some of them are working very, very hard, and in fact, those few have begun to organize themselves into a peasant uprising of sorts. I have rained down my wrath on the belligerent, lazy sods who do NOTHING in class, but they don't care. The few who work have realized that The Others are belligerent, lazy sods who don't care, and The Good Ones are ready to have have a beat down with The Others. I already keep more kids in the classroom with me than I allow in the computer lab, because THEY CAN'T BE TRUSTED. And I have had IT, faithful readers. If we produce a yearbook this year, it will be due to the work of about eight kids. Eight out of 31.
On top of all of that, The Princess pulled a stunt that left the rest of us in the English Department in shock. North Carolina decided to go the graduation project route, although they won't pay for it, which means most of the counties refuse to do it. No state funding = not mandatory. My county, naturally, continues to force seniors to complete this beast. They wrote their 1500 word research papers, the first drafts of which were delivered to us English teachers and a few teachers chosen from the rest of the departments. We each received about 15 of those papers. Fifteen 15oo word papers is a considerable load to read, edit, and deliver comments on, especially within 10 days. The Princess did not complete hers within the requested amount of time. The following day, after being hounded by the graduation project coordinator, she delivered three of her fifteen. She did not complete the rest because she is "too busy."
You can imagine, I am sure, how well that went over with the rest of us, who are also too busy, but yet WE READ AND EDITED OUR 15 DAMN PAPERS.
There are some people in this world who believe that rules do not apply to them, who believe that they are above the expectations meted out to the rest of us. The Princess is one such person.
And there it is. A summary of the first eight weeks. It's been GREAT.
Fortunately, in this, my hour of desperation, I can wallow in the schadenfreude of this episode:
In nine school days, my will to live is hanging on by a fraying, rotted, decaying thread. The Geniuses in first period are my new Happy to be Dumb class. Sweet, personable, enjoyable, and yet oh so frighteningly dumb. But I can work with dumb. Give me dumb, and we'll go somewhere. We may not go far, but by Oprah, we WILL learn something.
But dumb with behavior problems? That, faithful readers, is Cell Block F, and THAT is a far bigger challenge. I had three kids skip last Friday, the day I told them they would write their first essay. I knew I'd have some skippers, but I have to say that I was surprised at who they were. GIRLS, faithful readers. The boys showed up, bless their little hearts. And they wrote their definition essays, in which they defined themselves in three ways. Yes, some listed rather than elaborated. Yes, some discussed (at length) the many ways they enjoy killing defenseless animals and then justified their reasons for doing so. Some extolled their virtues as future NBA prospects. Some tried to sell me on their rapping skills. But the boys in Cell Block F were THERE. With three female skippers, that left three in the class, one of whom - I suspect - is playing me. She wrote about what a good writer she is. And, um, if by "good writer" she means "someone who abuses what appears to be the English language to such an extent that all that's left are some mangled, error-laden phrases missing crucial letters of the alphabet," then, yes, she's a good writer.
Amtrak tried to refuse to leave the room, which he is legally obligated to do, given that this essay is a test, and part of his IEP demands that he have separate seating. He and seven other members of Cell Block F, need I add. (For the mathletes in the house, that's 25% of the class. You fellow teachers know the score on that one. And, yes, I accept any and all offers of pity.) The only reason he did leave is that the EC teacher who joins me during Cell Block F for 45 minutes (and whose sole function appears to be holding up the wall, given how instrumental he is during classroom instruction) nudged him out the door. But Amtrak was not so easily swayed. He then stood in the doorway, demanding to listen to his headphones. I explained that he could not listen to whatever it is he hears through his headphones because come writing assessment day, he will not be able to do so, and it is best to get used to that starting now. Amtrak continued to ask, as he is wont to do. And ask and ask and ask and ask and ask. And ask some more. AND ASK. I finally stuck my hand out, told him that I am not a cocktail waitress and will not take orders, and that he was to get to the testing room, write that essay, and do so without his headphones. Otherwise, he would lose the Internet privileges that I allow him before school, when he comes in the room to check the train schedules. Only then did he leave. I still haven't asked the testing room teacher if she let him use those damn headphones. I just don't want to know.
I still have 30 kids in the damn yearbook class, which is three more than I have computers. Not that it matters. Because, you see, the students can log on to the yearbook program, but then it stalls out and their connection goes away. I have no problem logging on and working, so the problem lies somewhere in what our IT department permits students to do. I am not amused. If this does not get fixed, and fixed soon, I will have 30 yearbook staffers who can't do a damn thing because they can't get online. Of those 30, 25 need to be trained on the software. I am, in a word, screwed, if this doesn't get fixed. SCREWED, I tell you.
Then there was my three-day weekend. On Saturday, Secondo had a football game, 2½ hours away, so given that we had to be there an hour early, you can figure out how long we were gone. Sunday and Monday, The Queen played in a golf tournament, and her tee times were the delightfully invigorating early hours of 8:10 and 7:49. AM, faithful readers. And you know she had to get there 30 minutes early to hit the range and practice putting green.
Oh, and I'm still taking classes for my Masters, which entails a certain amount of homework.
I am, if I haven't said it often enough, one muscle twitch away from a fabulous nervous breakdown.
But even in the darkest hours, a glimmer of joy can be found. I've been searching for a way to define "irony" for The Geniuses and Cell Block F. Thanks to Lindsay Lohan, I think I found it:
One of last year's Geniuses decided over the summer that he wants to go to a four-year college. Bear in mind that this kid routinely called my class "boring" and "stupid," and once threatened to knife me in the parking lot. Despite the fact that he can't read, can't write and possesses no higher order thinking skills, I passed him. After many discussions with members of the EC department and others in the English department, I determined that failing him would accomplish no good. What benefit would be derived from him taking the class again? Let's send him on to his senior year. Buona fortuna, my little Genius.
Prior to this summer, the boy's goal was to become an auto mechanic. But by Oprah, he took those summer days to think about his Future, and his Future includes a four-year college. He visited the guidance department, and they pointed out the dearth of high school course prerequisites on his transcript. How to rectify the situation? Why, take eight core classes during his senior year.
Eight.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(As an aside: clearly this year is going to be exclamatory. Hence my new love of and obsession with exclamation points. I beg your indulgence.)
Two of those eight classes must be in a foreign language, which brought him to the door of La Señorita. During a meeting yesterday, she related the following tale, a harbinger, to be sure, of this young man's four-year college prospects:
Genius, sitting with his head resting in his hands as he pores over a textbook: Man, I cannot understand this stuff.
La Señorita: How about you try closing your Geometry book and opening your Spanish book instead.
Genius: Oh, man! I didn't know I was doing Geometry! I thought it was Spanish!
I really appreciate comments from you faithful readers. They make me laugh, mostly because you say that I make you laugh. It's either find the humor in the whole freak show or self-medicate until this happens ...
You'll never guess what happened today. Smack in the middle of Cell Block F, we had a fire drill!
See, here's the thing. A ten minute fire drill turned into a 20-minute free for all, because Cell Block Fdid not quite return to class as promptly as they should have. In fact, some of them sauntered through the door a good 15 minutes after the rest of them.
Yes, I'm shocked as well.
The reason for their tardy return? They claimed they got lost.
He missed the first day of school because he was in court, facing charges for "gettin' drunk," as he explained it.
On Friday, his third day, he managed to get himself suspended for ten school days.
That's right: within 21 school day hours, the boy nicely arranged things such that he doesn't need to return until September 15th. That takes TALENT, faithful readers. This same child plopped his little head on the desk last Friday to take a sweet snooze, and, upon waking, explained that he needed the sleep because "it's Friday, I've been in school all week [cupcake's note: it was three days = THREE DAYS] and I'm worn out."
Thank Oprah he gets to enjoy some rest and relaxation. Bless his heart.
