Preparing for Unemployment

So this year, my boss decided that instead of him writing a performance evaluation on each of us teachers, we should write it ourselves. In essence, the one opportunity I have to be given criticism that could be helpful to me, is now gone. Here is the evaluation I wrote on myself: (By the way, does anyone have any leads on open positions for smart-ass middle school teachers?)

Observation of Classroom Practice (required annually): I think I am a pretty spectacular teacher. I work hard to make sure that I am never neglecting math nor drama. That being said, I feel that it is not possible to split me in half and expect an outcome to be wholly spectacular. People tell me I am doing well in two departments, but the truth is that if I was able to teach only one subject, the outcome would be nothing less than miraculous.  I carry a Wonder Woman backpack for a reason. My goal in life is to improve kids’ lives, whether it be through helping them discover a talent they never knew they had or helping them discover the ability to conquer the fear of their most terrified subject. I know I rock, but I wish I could be given the chance to rock a little harder.

Kids need electives, they need help in math. Kids also need teachers who are getting enough sleep and have the opportunity to properly prepare for lessons, evaluate their work and respond to their concerns.  So why aren’t they getting this? If the answer is “budget,” I am going to lose it. I am going to finally fall all the way off my rocker. Most of us know what is best for kids: tons of good teachers and small enough classes so that kids get the opportunity to interact with those professionals. Instead, they get computers. Well, I’m sorry. If computers could teach kids then we’d all be unemployed.

            I feel this rant would end nicely with a metaphor. Being so involved in dramatic arts, I am a proficient juggler. This metaphor compares teaching to juggling. When a person begins to juggle, they are given scarves. Scarves stay afloat longer and are easy to grasp. The juggler then moves onto balls and pins. Once the juggler proves to be an expert, she is then told to juggle fire, chainsaws and other dangerous objects. An amazing juggler can throw and catch many different and terrifying objects at once, in a delicate, mid-air ballet. The juggler can only do this for so long before they reach exhaustion. Eventually, a chainsaw will fall and the juggler’s career (and femoral artery) will be cut short.

A Case of Synnonym Confusion

The counselors at my school are putting together a focus group of students to address some middle school issue or other. They sent around a questionnaire asking students if they would be interested in joining said focus group.

One of my students became immediately terrified and said "Why would we want to join one of those? Isn't that what Hitler did to the Jews?"

No, son. Those are called concentration camps.

The good news is I snapped.

Dead dads and shitty schedules made me very, very tired. Maybe it was just the dead dad that made my work life seem so shitty, but whatever caused it, I've been a terrible teacher for an entire semester. Teaching without passion is like drinking without getting drunk. There's just no point.

I would like to announce that the despression cloud has lifted. In a glorious display of sarcasm, anger and self-righteousness, my desire to live passionately returned. Last Friday I walked into my boss' office and (very loudly) announced that he had allowed his ego to superceed what was best for kids. I also added that his sloppy handling of school operations was not only unfair to students, but illegal. After my berrating monologue directed at my seated boss, I took a deep breath, felt the sweat that had pooled in various areas of my body and prepared to be told to quietly return to my room and be a team player. Instead, a look of panic fell upon is face and he... apologized.

I feel so alive.

Whatever story your son is telling you, the truth is: he punched me.

It's so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming to your son's parent-teacher conference. I know we have never met, even though I had Stephen in class last year. I'd just like to say, no matter what your son has told you, he is the one who punched me in the mouth.

I'm sure he's at least mentioned the incident last year, but let me be clear: I did not bite your son's hand. I'm sure he will tell elaborate stories about how other students saw me bite him and how I called him a liar. Honestly, who are you going to believe? Some snot-faced kid who punches teachers in the mouth? Or me? Look at me, I'm like, a grown-up.

I'm sorry about having to tell you that your son is a liar, and prone to violence against educated women, but I think it's best that you know. I hope you are able to find him some help. He may need years of therapy to reprogram his obviously confused memory. How sad, I think he actually believes that I bit his hand and then lied about him punching me. Poor kid.

A Teacher's Funeral

Here's the deal. I know this guy who was a teacher at a school in my district. He was the drama teacher (like me) and did a lot of shows at the community theater (twinsies!). This guy was a really nice teacher guy, and honestly I didn't know him that well, but rather knew of him. Anyway, I thought it would be prudent for me to attend the memorial service and pay my respects, along with the rest of the theater community.

I show up and there are a lot of nicely dress kids there. "Wow," I thought, "How nice of them to pay their respects by showering and putting on clean clothes." During the service, lots of actors and other directors got up to memorialize this man's contributions to their lives and the community as a whole. Then the kids began to bravely, and tearfully, speak about their "favorite teacher." Their words were kind, and truthful and eloquent (for the most part.) As the audience sat in the theater and shed a few well-deserved tears, listening to children speak from their hearts, I was suddenly struck with a sobering thought: "What will the children say about me when I die?" Here are a few possibilities:

"She used to tell me to turn my face off."
"She fell a lot."
"Even when she threatened me with the pointiest part of her elbow, I knew she was kidding."
"One time she bit my hand." (I will argue, to my grave, that kid punched me in the mouth.)
"Sometimes we thought she might be possessed by some type of evil spirit."
"I remember how she used to say that the crushed soul was the most delicious part of the child."
"I'm pretty sure she wasn't a real teacher."
"She used singing as a torture device."
"I think she changed her name so often because she was running from the law."

I'm not saying that this sudden realization is going to make me change my teaching strategies, just that if I die, you might want to record what the children have to say. It could be entertaining.

I have a confession to make.

Hey Blog,
Listen. I know I have been kind of distant lately. I feel really bad about it. It's just that... I have something I need to tell you.

You know that when I started you, you were my only blog. I had a lot of emotions I needed to get out and enough time to spend with you. Remember when I used to update you nearly every day? Those were really good times.

Well, things have changed. I didn't want to tell you, but I know you've noticed my neglect. The thing is that I have another blog. Well, three actually. Two of them are for my classes at school, but I run them from the same account, so I guess they are twins. The other one is on my Avon website. I started them because I worked with them, and you weren't there. I know that sounds shallow, but they do things that you never have. My school blogs fulfill my needs during the day and the Avon blog just understands me and my beauty product issues.

So, I'm really sorry. I know you probably won't be able to trust me for a while. But I'm begging you, come back to Ike baby!

You Expect Me to do WHAT?

I'm sorry. Excuse me? I'm a little unclear as to precisely what you want me to do. See, I'm incredibly busy right now. I'm not sure how you think I have to time to "return to work." Yes, I understand I signed a contract that indentures me to another year of servitude in the educational system, but I'm just not sure I'll be able to fit educating into my really packed schedule.

See, I already have a pretty full day as it is. I wake up and check my e-mail right about the time your bell rings. I mean, I don't usually take a shower until ten or 11 o'clock. Then I get back on the computer and blog, or read blogs for a while, then it's youtube and Facebook for at least two or three hours a day. I can't even get to youtube or Facebook at work because the web filter blocks them, so multitasking is out of the question.

I'm also confused because I watch 5-6 episodes of Hoarders, Intervention, Toddlers & Tiaras, House or NCIS every day, and there is no cable connection in any of my classrooms.

Also, there is no way all those kids would let me get any rest during my usual nap time either, so even if I did bring my little couch from home it would be totally useless. I can't be expected to miss my nap, I'm pretty sure that's an ADA law or something.

So, yeah. If you can come up with a way for me to take care of all my necessities and do this precious work you keep talking about, let me know. Really. I'm totally open to suggestions.

Fellow Employees, You Are Welcome.

I bet you all think Walter's retirement party is going to be pretty lame. I am here to make sure that doesn't happen. Now, I'm not the kind of public school employee that shows up to a retirement party looking to get wasted and fall on the sheet cake. I'm a little classier than that. Don't be ridiculous, I'm not going to pull a "young new science teacher" and rip off all my clothes and jump into the pool in my tiny lacy undies. But, what I will do is get just drunk enough to say things like "No, I can totally drive home, I just need to chill in the parking lot for a while and remember where I live." When Paul's wife says to me "When are you going to stop loosing weight?" I will reply "As soon as my dad is done dying from brain cancer." And when Walter opens the gag gifts, I will lick my finger and insert it into the rear orifice of the blow up sheep.

I know it's not much, it isn't as cool as having sex in the bathroom with one of your wives or sisters, but it's what I am willing to do to make sure that you go home with some memorable moments from this party.

Let's Be a Little More Sensitive, Please?

Kids are so insensitive! They are always calling each other faggots and saying how things are gay. It's so cruel. I can't stand it. Don't they know it's wrong? When they say that it makes me want to walk up to them and scream in their stupid faces "Stop calling each other faggots, you idiots!"

I mean, don't they know how inappropriate it is to say that something they don't like is gay? They are so retarded for doing that. I can't believe that they don't realize that they are degrading homosexual individuals every time they say that. I can't believe kids can be such retards.

And I hate how boys and girls alike call each other fag, faggots, queer, joto and lesbo all the time. I'm like, hey Charlie Gordon, what are you, special? Don't you know you can't use words that describe members of the homosexual community as slurs? Even a sped kid would know that. Seriously, remember that "Tell me about the rabbits again George" guy from the Steinbeck novel? Yeah, even that guy would know it's not OK.

I'm just saying, apparently these kids missed the day at Special Olympics Summer Camp where they discussed that gay and lesbian themed insults just aren't acceptable in today's culture. I wish someone would help me get it though their giant foreheads.

Kids Don't Know How to Work for Anything Anymore

Well, it's Mardi Gras again. Time for all the semi-attractive females to let lose their sweater puppets for an onslaught of drunken college boys and desperate, lonely men. In New Orleans there are actual cultural festivities associated with this pre-Lent observance, but for the rest of the country, it is just an excuse to come to work with a hangover on a Wednesday.

This year I am most offended because Mardi Gras beads are being sold at lunches to our students. Not because they represent a celebration marked by drunkenness and debauchery, but because in my day, we had to work for our beads! There was no way we could pay fifty cents a strand and walk around campus as if we had actually done something to earn those beads. We had to bear all in the freezing winter temperatures to greasy creepers. We wore those beads as a badge of honor, not a hip accessory.

So shame on you, society, for taking away the opportunity for our girls to learn the value of good, honest, hard work!

In My Day, We Didn't Call Our Teachers "Pirate Hookers"

I've sat through all the PowerPoint presentations developed by Human Resources about how kids are part of a more advanced society than we were. I understand they see and hear things that are more adult-themed than I ever did when I was a child, but in my day, we never called our teachers "Pirate Hookers." To their faces. Especially as a compliment.

Alright, alright. I may have made hurtful comments about a teacher's outfit, face, limp, accent, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status or apparent gender identity crisis. But never to their face. OK, there was that time I called Sister Sue "Mister Sue", but it was totally an accident. And you can't tell me that in all her 76 years of teaching she'd never heard that one before.

Here's my point. When I'm taking attendance and a kid yells "Hey Miss, you like a pirate hooker, in a good way." I'm thinking maybe there is something wrong with our society. Have we taken away the fear and respect kids should have for adults? Or should I have rethought the knickers, puffy sleeved blouse and 4 inch spike heel ensemble?

Hide Your Kids, Hide Your Wives...

Obviously, we have a bad influence in our public school system! I'm sitting in parent-teacher conferences and I keep wanting to tell all my students' parents to go to the school board and complain because our curriculum is terrible and our district is failing all of our standardized tests! "34% of our students pass the state math exam with a C- average, why are you smiling?!?"

Then I just met a mom and dad who, all I could do was stare at the mom's gigantic bosoms and false eyelashes.

I'd blame my inappropriate behavior on my lack of concentration due to my dad's gigantic brain tumors, but I do this every semester during parent-teacher conferences.