No high school teacher wants to teach summer school: not even the teacher who loves his/her craft, who loves kids, who would still teach even if he/she won the lottery.
Yes, even that teacher doesn't want to teach summer school.
Any teacher who teaches summer school does so because he/she has to for financial reasons. And I mean I-won't-be-able-to-eat reasons. These teachers aren't good savers--or have financial goals beyond a normal teacher's salary and might want to consider administration. Those fools have to work in the summer as part of their contract, but they make A LOT more money.
I'm a little of both: I don't save well and I live like I am already a published and a successful author. So, my punishment is summer school.
And since I am angry and have a flair for drama, summer school for me is HELL. Total hell-- flames, pitchforks, and demons to rule over. So, I guess that makes me Satan. You'd think that prospect would make it more attractive, but . . .
It's HELL I tell you.
Homelessness, starvation, the pole are looking better and better every day.
I have 48 students (no, that's not a typo) ranging from ages 14-17 who have all failed English. 38 of them are boys.
I'm in HELL.
Picture dealing with 48 of your worst customers, clients, or employees for 2 1/2 hours a day for 24 days. The most immature, the most idiotic, the least motivated--the ones with the most attitude. All at once.
I just finished day 12 and I might not make it without committing a felony.
I take pride in my work. Yes, I entered teaching to pay the bills until I get published, but much to my chagrin, I find that I do love it--during the months of September- June. But, faced with having to teach this summer, I decided that all I wanted to do was get through it.
That takes a lot of patience and very few standards.
This is where I might get myself in trouble because I know one of my current bosses and one of my former bosses (you know who you are, mister) will probably read this, but shit, I have tenure.
I am not showing movies. I teach vocabulary and grammar every day. The students have a test every week. I make them read. I make them write.
But, I try to make it interesting: right now, we are reading literature related to insanity. We've read excerpts from Fight Club and One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest; we've analyzed "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" as a poem. Read some Edgar Alan Poe. Currently, I do have them working on a synthesis essay, but I am offering so much guidance a monkey on acid could follow me.
You wanna listen to your iPod (my school has a strict no-iPods-ever rule) while working? Okay. Keep that phone out and update your Facebook periodically--as long as you are fairly focused. While I am distributing handouts, go ahead and play Angry Birds.
You hear this phrase a lot in my room: "Okay everyone, unplug and look up here because I've got something to tell [teach] you."
During the normal school year, I send one or two students to the dean. One or two a year. Last year, I didn't write a single referral. I have excellent classroom control. In fact, when I do send students to the dean, they send SWAT up to my room because they assume something HUGE is going down.
My reputation among the students is that I'm a "hard-ass" who makes my students work, but that I'm cool. I have a strict "no bullshit" policy, but enforcing it is a bitch with summer school kids because they assume I am as clueless as they are.
On the first day, I had a student taken out of the room by security for defiance.
I had a student claim that the giant bong he drew on his paper right in front of me was a cup with a straw. When I rolled my eyes and informed him that a) I'm not a moron and b) I have a legal obligation to report suspicion of drug use, he accused me of being judgmental.
Right kid, people who don't smoke weed draw bongs all day long.
I threw his ass out.
Yesterday, this a student said to me with much indignation: "I'm not stoned, Ms. Vance, I am hungover -- okay?"
My response: "Well, since you are in summer school, how do you think that drinkin' thing is working out for you?"
On that note, another student who has attended 5 out of 12 days so far told his classmate that he hasn't been coming because he's been smoking too much weed--I heard him loud and clear even though students believe that teachers become deaf and blind the moment they sit at their desks. And then he strolled over and asked me for make-up work.
I have perfected my fuck-off expression.
A student threw papers at me.
That one almost required SWAT. Let's just say he's not in summer school anymore.
I've put students in corners. Straight-up desk in the corner, student staring at the wall.
I've lost count of how many I've had to send outside for a little chat.
One particular day, after sending two students to the office, I said: "Okay everyone, all iPods and phones need to disappear. I see a wire or an earbud, hear a bleep or a buzz, I am taking you phone, iPod, hand-held center of your world, and running it over with my car."
"I'm done with you," I continued. "I am trying to make this as painless as possible by reading stuff that is edgy and interesting. But, I have no problem handing out worksheets for 2 1/2 hours and if you even fart without asking permission, I'm throwing you out."
"No more Fight Club. No more Metallica. No more Angry Birds. Nothing but Puritan Literature, Charles Dickens, and T.S. Eliot poetry."
Well, that is if I can figure out what the heck Eliot is writing about. That dude is complicated.
"Test prep until your eyes fall out."
Tomorrow? "A thirty-minute lecture on the dash vs. the hyphen." And I'm not nearly as entertaining as Missed Periods.
Forty-eight pairs of wide eyes staring at me in fear.
I finish with, "You want the bitch? Here she is!"
From somewhere in the room, I hear whispered, "You mean she gets worse?"
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Friday, July 8, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
"Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill"-- Buddha
If Buddha is correct, then I am doing my part to destroy the future minds of America.
Some of the funniest incidents come from misuse of words, and if you teach English to teenagers, you will find yourself giggling (or screaming) a lot.
Or, if I am your English teacher, you'll find yourself giggling (or screaming) on the way to your therapist.
One year as I was transitioning from slang to dialects, I announced quite loudly: "Okay, now we are moving on to dicks." Immediately after I heard my diction faux pas, I threw my arms in the air like a referee signalling a touchdown and shouted, "Day two everybody!"
Forty pairs of wide eyes stared back at me. That their teacher even knew what a dick was seemed to have stunned them.
Last year, while reading from "Narrative of Captivity and Restoration of Mary Rowlandson"--a horrific account of her imprisonment to the Native Americans in 1675--I managed to turn a scene of violence into a snuff narrative. After reading about "bowels being split open" and a nursing mother and her child being shot through, I concluded by saying, "the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon [the pilgrims] over their fornication."
I stopped. The last word was supposed to be "fortification." I pictured a bunch of pilgrims doing it doggy style while shooting up at the Indians on the roof. I couldn't help sputtering a few Beavis and Butthead chuckles.
I know. There's something wrong with me.
Of course, I was the only one who laughed because the students had no idea what "fornication" meant, even though they probably engaged in it more than I did. So, instead of seeing this humor in my mispronunciation, they watched me giggle at the idea of innocent men, women, and children being slaughtered.
Then there was the time I told my students to "put away their notebooks because I was passing the testies out." I was trying to play off a persona that is so not me: cutesie and playfully condescending (I'm naturally sarcastically condescending).
And I often say fuck-tion instead of "function."
I could be on Law and Order Special Victims Unit. As myself.
I really threw out a good one the other night during the Advanced Composition class that I teach at the junior college during the summer. This class was dedicated to diction: denotation, connotation, phonetics and such. I end the class with a lecture on the phonetics and purpose of profanity. Clearly, I cuss a lot during this lecture.
I had decided to give the students a break beforehand. As they were getting up to leave the room for a break, I overheard a student utter to another student a phrase that included the word "fuck" as a noun, adjective, and adverb. I smirked at the versatility of the word, which alerted the student that I could actually hear him. Embarrassed, he apologized for his language. To put him at ease I was going to say, "Don't worry about it, I'm going to say 'fuck' a lot after the break."
But, that's not what I said.
I forgot a word.
(drum roll while readers try to figure out what I did say)
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
Instead, I said, "Don't worry about it because I'm gonna fuck a lot after the break."
Let's just say no one was late coming back from the break.
And my second period seniors will not forget to turn in their composition notebooks on Wednesday. Why? Because when I reminding them, I said, "On Wednesday, I am going to start collecting your condoms."
From the silence, once small voice utters, "Well, we know Ms. Vance had a good weekend."
OMG.
Some of the funniest incidents come from misuse of words, and if you teach English to teenagers, you will find yourself giggling (or screaming) a lot.
Or, if I am your English teacher, you'll find yourself giggling (or screaming) on the way to your therapist.
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| Available from Cafe Press |
On the second day of the new school year, I used to teach students about the difference between Standard American English, slang, and dialects to help them understand why certain situations call for certain ways of speaking: you wouldn't use Standard American English when socializing with friends just as you wouldn't use slang with a teacher, employer, or anyone else not from your generation.
One year as I was transitioning from slang to dialects, I announced quite loudly: "Okay, now we are moving on to dicks." Immediately after I heard my diction faux pas, I threw my arms in the air like a referee signalling a touchdown and shouted, "Day two everybody!"
Forty pairs of wide eyes stared back at me. That their teacher even knew what a dick was seemed to have stunned them.
Last year, while reading from "Narrative of Captivity and Restoration of Mary Rowlandson"--a horrific account of her imprisonment to the Native Americans in 1675--I managed to turn a scene of violence into a snuff narrative. After reading about "bowels being split open" and a nursing mother and her child being shot through, I concluded by saying, "the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon [the pilgrims] over their fornication."
I stopped. The last word was supposed to be "fortification." I pictured a bunch of pilgrims doing it doggy style while shooting up at the Indians on the roof. I couldn't help sputtering a few Beavis and Butthead chuckles.
I know. There's something wrong with me.
Of course, I was the only one who laughed because the students had no idea what "fornication" meant, even though they probably engaged in it more than I did. So, instead of seeing this humor in my mispronunciation, they watched me giggle at the idea of innocent men, women, and children being slaughtered.
Then there was the time I told my students to "put away their notebooks because I was passing the testies out." I was trying to play off a persona that is so not me: cutesie and playfully condescending (I'm naturally sarcastically condescending).
And I often say fuck-tion instead of "function."
I could be on Law and Order Special Victims Unit. As myself.
I really threw out a good one the other night during the Advanced Composition class that I teach at the junior college during the summer. This class was dedicated to diction: denotation, connotation, phonetics and such. I end the class with a lecture on the phonetics and purpose of profanity. Clearly, I cuss a lot during this lecture.
I had decided to give the students a break beforehand. As they were getting up to leave the room for a break, I overheard a student utter to another student a phrase that included the word "fuck" as a noun, adjective, and adverb. I smirked at the versatility of the word, which alerted the student that I could actually hear him. Embarrassed, he apologized for his language. To put him at ease I was going to say, "Don't worry about it, I'm going to say 'fuck' a lot after the break."
But, that's not what I said.
I forgot a word.
(drum roll while readers try to figure out what I did say)
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
Instead, I said, "Don't worry about it because I'm gonna fuck a lot after the break."
Let's just say no one was late coming back from the break.
And my second period seniors will not forget to turn in their composition notebooks on Wednesday. Why? Because when I reminding them, I said, "On Wednesday, I am going to start collecting your condoms."
From the silence, once small voice utters, "Well, we know Ms. Vance had a good weekend."
OMG.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
To Quote My Grandmother: "Why are teenager's so stupid?"
As my recent post indicated, I teach seniors in high school. It is 8 days until graduation. I no longer stand in front of a room extemporizing on the beauty and relevance of literature and rhetoric while 40 pairs of wide, shining eyes gaze up at me, eagerly hanging on my every word. No more hands shoot into the air as students cry, "Pick me, Ms. Vance. Pick me!" No more do I hear the phrases, "That poem was awesome!", "This novel changed my life," or "I am learning so much in here."
Because you know that shit happens every day in my classes.
Regardless, right now, I am just trying to stay alive. My most conscientious seniors won't do anything--except ask me 1000 questions about graduation procedures even though I have ZERO to do with coordinating the ceremony. But, I am bombarded with calls from counselors and parents concerning failing seniors, wanting final grades even though finals weeks isn't even here yet; juniors who just now decided to ask me about making up that test from February; papers that I've procrastinated grading; one principal telling me to teach until the bitter end while another one tells me to turn in my textbooks, NOW!
To quote a colleague: "My brain is hammered right now."
Still, I am trying to maintain some fraction of decorum. I still enforce showing up on time, I refuse to take any late work, I've assigned each class a "project" to keep them busy (which we all know I probably won't grade) and I have not shown a single movie!
NOT ONE.
But I am losing my grip, finger by finger.
Thank God teenagers can be so stupid--it is keeping me entertained.
One of my senior classes took a final today on the novel Frankenstein. Multiple choice. Fifty questions.
After writing question #49, my brain just died. Fizzled out. Shut down.
Shouldn't have done all those drugs in high school.
So, I tacked on this question to the end of the test:
50. Ms. Vance is all EXCEPT:
Because you know that shit happens every day in my classes.
Regardless, right now, I am just trying to stay alive. My most conscientious seniors won't do anything--except ask me 1000 questions about graduation procedures even though I have ZERO to do with coordinating the ceremony. But, I am bombarded with calls from counselors and parents concerning failing seniors, wanting final grades even though finals weeks isn't even here yet; juniors who just now decided to ask me about making up that test from February; papers that I've procrastinated grading; one principal telling me to teach until the bitter end while another one tells me to turn in my textbooks, NOW!
To quote a colleague: "My brain is hammered right now."
Still, I am trying to maintain some fraction of decorum. I still enforce showing up on time, I refuse to take any late work, I've assigned each class a "project" to keep them busy (which we all know I probably won't grade) and I have not shown a single movie!
NOT ONE.
But I am losing my grip, finger by finger.
Thank God teenagers can be so stupid--it is keeping me entertained.
One of my senior classes took a final today on the novel Frankenstein. Multiple choice. Fifty questions.
After writing question #49, my brain just died. Fizzled out. Shut down.
Shouldn't have done all those drugs in high school.
So, I tacked on this question to the end of the test:
50. Ms. Vance is all EXCEPT:
A. Brilliant
B. Beautiful
C. A man
D. Funny
E. The ruler of classroom R102
Out of 38 students 35 answered C, 2 answered B, and 1 answered A.
Two students think I am an ugly man; one student thinks I am a stupid man.
Awesome.
I pondered not changing their answers on the scantron and making them take the one-point hit on their grade. Yes, I found the error (or prank) hilarious, but what I found even more funny was the fact that they forgot to take into consideration the fact that I HAVE TO MAKE AN ANSWER KEY. Instead, I changed their answers and then sent an email to the entire staff at my school about the incident (leaving the students' names out, of course), but the aid that is in my room during that class called me immediately to asked which students, so I told her and let the power of rumor do its work.
I don't just open a can of worms; I open a vat of worms. My inbox blew up with not only sarcastic retorts, but also affirmations that I was pretty and that I was smart and that people liked me dammit! I oscillated between laughing and saying "ahhhhh" for the rest of the day. I think my favorite was the phone call from one of my colleagues, who has also been a good friend for the fourteen years I've taught, asking, "Is the stupid, ugly man who rules R102 available?"
I should have said, "No, because he's with your wife," but I was too busy laughing.
By the following day, rumor had done its work. The three confused students (or pranksters) rolled into class wailing with excuses and apologies for their error while I feigned offense for all about 5 minutes. They claimed that they though they were marking what I was, not what I wasn't.
I love adolescent back-peddling.
But, when the Assistant Principal popped into my class to discuss the importance of graduation and how it represents all that they've accomplished, he jerked a thumb at me and added, "I mean, you've had to put up with this ugly, stupid guy all year."
The class exploded in laughter.
Bravo, sir. Bravo.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
To quote my grandmother: "Why are teenagers so stupid?"
When I started blogging, I promised myself that I would not allow it to turn into a mock-my-students blog, and believe me, I've got enough material to take the blog down that road.
This blog is supposed to be about writing--my writing specifically. And it's been relatively easy to keep it all about me.
But today, I can't resist.
Inspired by Lana Banana's post, I must share the greatest student quote EVER.
At the high school where I teach, we are in the final stages of the senior project. It's a district requirement for graduation; an assessment of the cumulative skills of seniors. Every senior must complete it--no exceptions.
Here's what the babies are required to do within a semester: write a 6-page research paper on a topic of their choosing, take the content of that paper and put it into practice for 15-30 hours of fieldwork under the guidance of a mentor, and then present their experience to a panel of judges from the community. This project is designed to push students out of their comfort zone, make them responsible for their learning, and help them explore career paths--a cutting of the umbilical cord, if you will.
And it's an excellent torture device for us teachers; only the most sadistic (and masochistic) of us get to teach it.
I've been teaching it for 14 years.
As my colleagues who are also mothers have said, "The senior project is like childbirth: unbelievable pain that results in the greatest of rewards."
Right now, I and my fellow SP teachers are in hard labor. The final presentations are Thursday and Friday of this week. Tensions are high because teenagers are freakin' out, and teachers have had it. Because the senior project is so individualized, teachers are scrambling to solve a variety of "hitches" spiced up with an abundant amount of teenage drama and a barrage of parent phone calls wondering why we can't dedicate hours of our time to their lovely child who up until now hasn't done DICK.
So let me be a little more specific: senior project teachers are currently akin to schizophrenics in hard labor. Without our medication. And the anesthesiologist is nowhere to be found.
I know that on Thursday and Friday, it will be rapturous as I watch my students march off to their presentations and return glowing and elated. There will be laughter, hugs, and camaraderie. It's the type of day that reminds me why I stay in teaching (I went into it to pay bills until I got published--ha, ha).
But right now . . . the pole as a source of income is looking better and better.
Right now . . . I want to change "what I'm looking for" criteria on my online dating profiles to "an elderly, rich man with a delicate ticker."
Students are currently practicing their presentations, which covers everything they have learned and highlights the specific skills they have acquired.
One of my students did his project on rap music and poetry. In his research paper, he justified rap as a legitimate form of poetry that adheres to the traits of great poetry as outlined by the masters. For his fieldwork, he took an online poetry class, wrote his own song, and recorded it. Overall, I thought this project to be pretty good.
But, this is how he started his presentation (and here is the greatest student quote EVER): "Poetry has been around before literacy. Ya know, back when everything was oral? Ya know, before Christ."
He finished his presentation by plugging his iPod into my portable speakers and rapping for five minutes. No mention of his paper; no mention of the skills he learned during his fieldwork. Even if I had had an Urban Dictionary on hand and several gang members to act as consultants, I still wouldn't have had any idea what he was talking--excuse me--rapping about.
At this point, I just want the doctor to come in and say, "Fuck it. We're doing a Cesarean."
So, in honor of the end of the school year, when teachers are exhausted, crawling toward the finish line, piles of students on their backs, I invite my community of educators to share those moments that justify the title of this blog series. I need the laugh.
Shit, we all do.
At the high school where I teach, we are in the final stages of the senior project. It's a district requirement for graduation; an assessment of the cumulative skills of seniors. Every senior must complete it--no exceptions.
Here's what the babies are required to do within a semester: write a 6-page research paper on a topic of their choosing, take the content of that paper and put it into practice for 15-30 hours of fieldwork under the guidance of a mentor, and then present their experience to a panel of judges from the community. This project is designed to push students out of their comfort zone, make them responsible for their learning, and help them explore career paths--a cutting of the umbilical cord, if you will.
And it's an excellent torture device for us teachers; only the most sadistic (and masochistic) of us get to teach it.
I've been teaching it for 14 years.
As my colleagues who are also mothers have said, "The senior project is like childbirth: unbelievable pain that results in the greatest of rewards."
Right now, I and my fellow SP teachers are in hard labor. The final presentations are Thursday and Friday of this week. Tensions are high because teenagers are freakin' out, and teachers have had it. Because the senior project is so individualized, teachers are scrambling to solve a variety of "hitches" spiced up with an abundant amount of teenage drama and a barrage of parent phone calls wondering why we can't dedicate hours of our time to their lovely child who up until now hasn't done DICK.
So let me be a little more specific: senior project teachers are currently akin to schizophrenics in hard labor. Without our medication. And the anesthesiologist is nowhere to be found.
I know that on Thursday and Friday, it will be rapturous as I watch my students march off to their presentations and return glowing and elated. There will be laughter, hugs, and camaraderie. It's the type of day that reminds me why I stay in teaching (I went into it to pay bills until I got published--ha, ha).
But right now . . . the pole as a source of income is looking better and better.
Right now . . . I want to change "what I'm looking for" criteria on my online dating profiles to "an elderly, rich man with a delicate ticker."
Students are currently practicing their presentations, which covers everything they have learned and highlights the specific skills they have acquired.
One of my students did his project on rap music and poetry. In his research paper, he justified rap as a legitimate form of poetry that adheres to the traits of great poetry as outlined by the masters. For his fieldwork, he took an online poetry class, wrote his own song, and recorded it. Overall, I thought this project to be pretty good.
But, this is how he started his presentation (and here is the greatest student quote EVER): "Poetry has been around before literacy. Ya know, back when everything was oral? Ya know, before Christ."
He finished his presentation by plugging his iPod into my portable speakers and rapping for five minutes. No mention of his paper; no mention of the skills he learned during his fieldwork. Even if I had had an Urban Dictionary on hand and several gang members to act as consultants, I still wouldn't have had any idea what he was talking--excuse me--rapping about.
At this point, I just want the doctor to come in and say, "Fuck it. We're doing a Cesarean."
So, in honor of the end of the school year, when teachers are exhausted, crawling toward the finish line, piles of students on their backs, I invite my community of educators to share those moments that justify the title of this blog series. I need the laugh.
Shit, we all do.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
It's Not What You Say, but How You Say It
After teaching my jaycee class this evening, I'm thinking of changing my blog series from "To Quote My Grandmother: 'Why are teenagers so stupid'?" to "Why the fuck am I teaching?"
I spent the weekend grading the first of five essays they will be writing for me; I would have rather been plucking my pubic hairs out one by one. It was that painful. I may not come out of this semester with the same intellect with which I went into it.
My jaycee students have funny experiences and a decent repetoire of wisdom to share, but they don't know how to share them. Assaulted by texting language, misspellings, countless grammar errors, and slang that I don't understand, I found myself flinching as I read. (Did you know that if you are "talking to a guy/girl" you are in the first stages of dating? I talk to a lot of people, so I better rephrase how I communicate that otherwise I might be known as the whore of California).
To address this problem, and save some of my brain cells, I developed a lesson that I thought would exemplify the importance of rhetoric. I started by projecting following scenes onto the board:
I spent the weekend grading the first of five essays they will be writing for me; I would have rather been plucking my pubic hairs out one by one. It was that painful. I may not come out of this semester with the same intellect with which I went into it.
My jaycee students have funny experiences and a decent repetoire of wisdom to share, but they don't know how to share them. Assaulted by texting language, misspellings, countless grammar errors, and slang that I don't understand, I found myself flinching as I read. (Did you know that if you are "talking to a guy/girl" you are in the first stages of dating? I talk to a lot of people, so I better rephrase how I communicate that otherwise I might be known as the whore of California).
To address this problem, and save some of my brain cells, I developed a lesson that I thought would exemplify the importance of rhetoric. I started by projecting following scenes onto the board:
Bermuda hoped that the dude she jacked from the bar weren’t no microwave minded guy in bed. Because sex is fun. Sex is a way to show love.
She took her pants off, he took his pants off she looked at him he looked at her. The light was on. Bermuda
She put it in her vagella. He said “ahhhhhh,” she said, “ohhhh” but she really liked it you know so anyways he came and then she came. He got up and put on his pants. Right?
Don’t u want 2 have this kind of six LOL!!!! I mean, you know, sex?
It lay before me: hot, open, ready to be devoured. Licking my lips, I caressed my fork before taking it up and thrusting into the pasta. I twirled the firm yet tender noodles around the prongs and then scooping up a meatball, drew all toward my parted, red lips.
I enveloped the bite dripping with marinara sauce. A few spicy droplets escaped through the corner of my mouth, but I lapped them up. Cradling the meatball on my tongue, I sucked it, rolled it around in my mouth, and slide it down my throat—warm, sweet and totally satisfying.
I asked my students to write about which activity they would rather engage in and why.
The response? Sputters of discomfort, shifting around in seats, avoidance of eye contact --with me--at all costs.
Apparently, I had caused confusion.
And then, one student asked: "Can't we have both? You know, have sex and then enjoy the spaghetti?"
Apparently, my students thought I was giving them the choice of having bad sex or good spaghetti. And a few seemed to have inferred that offer included my involvement.
To ameliorate this discomfort, I went into a lecture about how great writing can save an otherwise boring topic and how sloppy writing can ruin a stimulating topic. Careless writing created awkward sex; great writing created orgasmic spaghetti.
So then I asked, "Who wants to have some spaghetti?"
Two out of thirty students raised their hands.
I pointed out that given the two options, I'd rather have spaghetti too. And that what they have given me was bad sex.
Wide eyes stared at me, their slack expressions saying, "You'd rather have spaghetti than sex? You're an idiot."
And, I'm willing to bet that more than a few were thinking: "Man, do you need to get laid."
Maybe I do, but that wasn't the point.
Or, maybe just before I collect a class set of essays I need to have phenominal sex so that I don't give a shit about the quality of their writing.
The response? Sputters of discomfort, shifting around in seats, avoidance of eye contact --with me--at all costs.
Apparently, I had caused confusion.
And then, one student asked: "Can't we have both? You know, have sex and then enjoy the spaghetti?"
Apparently, my students thought I was giving them the choice of having bad sex or good spaghetti. And a few seemed to have inferred that offer included my involvement.
To ameliorate this discomfort, I went into a lecture about how great writing can save an otherwise boring topic and how sloppy writing can ruin a stimulating topic. Careless writing created awkward sex; great writing created orgasmic spaghetti.
So then I asked, "Who wants to have some spaghetti?"
Two out of thirty students raised their hands.
I pointed out that given the two options, I'd rather have spaghetti too. And that what they have given me was bad sex.
Wide eyes stared at me, their slack expressions saying, "You'd rather have spaghetti than sex? You're an idiot."
And, I'm willing to bet that more than a few were thinking: "Man, do you need to get laid."
Maybe I do, but that wasn't the point.
Or, maybe just before I collect a class set of essays I need to have phenominal sex so that I don't give a shit about the quality of their writing.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The most valuable form of social commentary is the one you write about yourself (or . . . yay ego!)
I am having my students write a caricature sketch of themselves in third person as part of our social commentary unit. Of course, I am going to create a model of one for myself to guide them. I'd love to know what you think, how I could improve it, and for those of you who know me, how does it compare to your perspective of me?
Ms. Vance is an unconventional teacher: she loves to teach her students about vampires, incorporates a lot of slang into her lectures, and will shout "Woooohoooo" and clap her hands just before a grammar lesson. To quote one of her students: "She's really cool, but she'll cut you."
One of her means of control is her eyes that bug out further than those of a preying mantis. A student says something inappropriate or random, they open wide as the moon. When she's angry, they scrunch up into slits of fury that are powerful enough to silence a room. When she's really, really mad she'll boom out, "Are you kidding me right now?" or "Really? You really wanna go here?"
The rest of her visage is formed by cheeks puffy enough to hold a winter store of grain and a forehead high enough to host a hockey game. But sometimes, when she says something lame, she'll smile so wide that those balloon-like cheeks can hide behind a row of clenched, white teeth.
When she does something really dumb, like spelling "represent" r-e-p-r-o-s-e-n-t or not noticing she wrote "importenance" on the board until the end of the class, she'll laugh it off and say, "It's a good thing I'm pretty, because clearly I'm not very smart."
If one pops into her classroom, he or she will find her organizing the papers on her desk (she's convinced that organizing and grading are the same thing) or digging into her refrigerator for a Diet Coke, of which she will clutch as if her life depended on the contents. She's always up for a casual chat and a good laugh, but don't you dare ask her if she's graded an assignment--she hates grading more than anything--or those bug-eyes will narrow and you will wish you had never stepped into room R102.
Ms. Vance is an unconventional teacher: she loves to teach her students about vampires, incorporates a lot of slang into her lectures, and will shout "Woooohoooo" and clap her hands just before a grammar lesson. To quote one of her students: "She's really cool, but she'll cut you."
One of her means of control is her eyes that bug out further than those of a preying mantis. A student says something inappropriate or random, they open wide as the moon. When she's angry, they scrunch up into slits of fury that are powerful enough to silence a room. When she's really, really mad she'll boom out, "Are you kidding me right now?" or "Really? You really wanna go here?"
The rest of her visage is formed by cheeks puffy enough to hold a winter store of grain and a forehead high enough to host a hockey game. But sometimes, when she says something lame, she'll smile so wide that those balloon-like cheeks can hide behind a row of clenched, white teeth.
When she does something really dumb, like spelling "represent" r-e-p-r-o-s-e-n-t or not noticing she wrote "importenance" on the board until the end of the class, she'll laugh it off and say, "It's a good thing I'm pretty, because clearly I'm not very smart."
If one pops into her classroom, he or she will find her organizing the papers on her desk (she's convinced that organizing and grading are the same thing) or digging into her refrigerator for a Diet Coke, of which she will clutch as if her life depended on the contents. She's always up for a casual chat and a good laugh, but don't you dare ask her if she's graded an assignment--she hates grading more than anything--or those bug-eyes will narrow and you will wish you had never stepped into room R102.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
To quote my grandmother: "Why are teenagers so stupid?" Part II
I am very trusting.
I frequently leave my classroom unlocked and unattended. Inside, I house five computers, an LCD projector, and a DVD player. My purse rests in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, which is always open. (I have some aversion to shutting cabinets and closing drawers. That combined with my horrible memory makes me feel like I live in perpetual Poltergeist.) My iPhone rests on my desktop and my classroom keys sparkle on my podium.
Maybe, I'm just very careless.
Nevertheless, I have never had a problem with theft. Not a computer has been taken or even vandelized; not a dime has been stolen. LCD projector: check. DVD player: check. iPhone? Still jacking up my mourning routine (see post on structure).
But this year, three things have been stolen: a gargoyle reading a book, a white salad bowl, and a bungee cord.
It is very difficult to keep a classroom door open. It is either heavier than a Biggest Loser audition or the springs that draw it closed are wound up tighter than an aristocrat's asshole so the damn thing slams shut even if I have the campion of all doorstops against it. And believe me, when you spend six hours a day with 40 sweaty, hormonal teenagers per hour in one room (and I'm pretty sure that someone in my one of my morning classes poops his/her pants every morning) you wanna be able to prop the fucking door open.
So, I brought my gargoyle reading a book from home to keep the door open. Instead of sitting on my roof, scaring away demons, it is designed to be a bookend. It's about a foot tall and made of heavy, grey rock. It was perfect for keeping the door propped open and it looked cool. Very gothic; very Vancesque.
Two weeks before someone stole it. Fourteen years of teaching and the first major theft is of my doorstop.
I didn't have anything else heavy enough to prop the door open, so I yanked one of the 20 bungee cords I keep in my trunk (don't ask) and used it to hook my doorknob to the outside rails. It psyched the kids out for a day because they couldn't figure out how I was keeping the door open.
Two days before someone stole it. (Who am I fooling? I should just write two days before a teenager stole it.)
I have another bungee cord in it's place, but I watch it closer than my iPhone. I have lost count of how many times I have had to say, "Don't touch my bungee cord."
Why do teenagers want a gargoyle bookend and a bungee cord? They can't get drunk with them, high on them, or even text them.
And the white salad bowl? That got stolen from a colleague's room! I left it there during lunch and when I went back to retrieve it-- less than five minutes later-- it was gone.
A gargoyle reading a book, a white salad bowl, and a bungee cord.
The game is afoot. I will figure it out!
Until then, please comment about the strangest things you've had stolen.
I frequently leave my classroom unlocked and unattended. Inside, I house five computers, an LCD projector, and a DVD player. My purse rests in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, which is always open. (I have some aversion to shutting cabinets and closing drawers. That combined with my horrible memory makes me feel like I live in perpetual Poltergeist.) My iPhone rests on my desktop and my classroom keys sparkle on my podium.
Maybe, I'm just very careless.
Nevertheless, I have never had a problem with theft. Not a computer has been taken or even vandelized; not a dime has been stolen. LCD projector: check. DVD player: check. iPhone? Still jacking up my mourning routine (see post on structure).
But this year, three things have been stolen: a gargoyle reading a book, a white salad bowl, and a bungee cord.
It is very difficult to keep a classroom door open. It is either heavier than a Biggest Loser audition or the springs that draw it closed are wound up tighter than an aristocrat's asshole so the damn thing slams shut even if I have the campion of all doorstops against it. And believe me, when you spend six hours a day with 40 sweaty, hormonal teenagers per hour in one room (and I'm pretty sure that someone in my one of my morning classes poops his/her pants every morning) you wanna be able to prop the fucking door open.
So, I brought my gargoyle reading a book from home to keep the door open. Instead of sitting on my roof, scaring away demons, it is designed to be a bookend. It's about a foot tall and made of heavy, grey rock. It was perfect for keeping the door propped open and it looked cool. Very gothic; very Vancesque.
Two weeks before someone stole it. Fourteen years of teaching and the first major theft is of my doorstop.
I didn't have anything else heavy enough to prop the door open, so I yanked one of the 20 bungee cords I keep in my trunk (don't ask) and used it to hook my doorknob to the outside rails. It psyched the kids out for a day because they couldn't figure out how I was keeping the door open.
Two days before someone stole it. (Who am I fooling? I should just write two days before a teenager stole it.)
I have another bungee cord in it's place, but I watch it closer than my iPhone. I have lost count of how many times I have had to say, "Don't touch my bungee cord."
Why do teenagers want a gargoyle bookend and a bungee cord? They can't get drunk with them, high on them, or even text them.
And the white salad bowl? That got stolen from a colleague's room! I left it there during lunch and when I went back to retrieve it-- less than five minutes later-- it was gone.
A gargoyle reading a book, a white salad bowl, and a bungee cord.
The game is afoot. I will figure it out!
Until then, please comment about the strangest things you've had stolen.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
To quote my grandmother: "Why are teenagers so stupid?"
It's Friday, 4th period, and I have thrown routine to the wind by assigning an in-class writing to my students before SSR (silent sustained reading). As with all things in the teenage world, this minor change evoked chaos: students are throwing their books down on their desks, bartering each other for paper, asking me where the pencil sharpener is (which has been in the same place since September), and asking me what the in-class writing is on (even though the instructions are written on the board and we've been practicing this all week).
Me (glancing at the clock): I'd like to start this assignment before the Apocalypse.
Jennifer: OMG, you believe in 2012?
Sam: What if the Apocalypse doesn't happen?
Me: Oh, it's gonna happen in about a minute.
Tyron: Wait, why is everyone getting paper out?
Sam: We're writing something.
Candice (who sits in front of Sam): What's going on?
Tyron (looking to Justin who has just opened a notebook full of paper): Dude, do you have any paper for me to borrow?
Justin (holding up his own piece and tilting his notebook so Tyron can see his "stash"): No.
Jennifer: Ms. Vance, you think the Apocalypse is coming soon? Why?
Deedee (who sits behind Jennifer): Because she's going to bring it.
Jennifer: Ha! I love it when I'm dumb.
As a writer, how do I turn this real event into a work of horror?
It's easy. All I have to do is remind you that this is the generation that is going to be in charge of taking care of ours.
But, the point of this blog is to display my creative talent, so here's the element of fiction:
Ms. Vance raises her arms above her head, forming a sharp V. Outside, dark clouds swarm over her classroom. Thunder roars. Students freeze.
A few pieces of paper drift to the floor.
Ms. Vance's pupils dilate, pushing past the rims of her blue irises.
Jennifer twists around in her seat, "Did I just hear a horse?"
"Holy shit," Sam says. "No way."
Ms.Vance's head slowly pivots toward Sam, hitching a bit as if on rusty hinges. The corners of her lips pull back, revealing clenched teeth.
"I know what we're doing!" Candice cries. "Substantive writing, right? Like we reviewed yesterday? Please, Ms. Vance."
"I have paper, now," Tyron says, waving the white sheet in the air. Ms.Vance turns her black eyes to him and the paper bursts into flames. Shrieking, Tyron drops the paper. "Crap. Justin, can I have another piece?"
Deedee closes her eyes and sighs, "I tried to warn you guys."
Ms. Vance's arms begin to lower, rigid and pulsing, until they extend straight out in front of her. Fingers fan out. "It's too late," she says.
The tips of her fingers split open, the skin peeling and curling back. A thin, black tentacle slithers out of each one--twisting, coiling. Students' jaws drop, as they pull back in their seats, clasping their hands beneath their chins.
Each tentacle splits in half, strikes outward, lengthening. A few screams pop from students' mouths. And then each tentacle splits again: forty tentacles; forty students.
Bending at the elbows, Ms. Vance draws them her sides. Tentacles dance in the air, rising up and forming shiny black hooks. Suddenly, they dive into laps, slither into pockets, split the fabric of backpacks. Students scream and beat them with their fists,
Laughing, Ms. Vance begins reeling in the tentacles--each one is curled around a student's cellphone.
"No!" Jennifer screams, grabbing her phone as it whips by her face. She is yanked from her desk and lands on the floor. Wrapping her body around the phone, she is dragged with it across the floor, toward the podium. Toward Ms. Vance. Other students snap into action, scrambling to catch up with the retracting tentacles, trying to pry away their most prized possessions. They crash into each other, shove each other out of the way, claw and scratch. Heads bang into desks, feet entangle on computer cords and backpack straps.
The tentacle rips Jennifer's phone from her hands, taking a few of her fingers with it. Jennifer jams the stubs into her mouth and bloods seeps out, down her chin.
The tentacle coils back, rising up. Ms. Vance follows it with her eyes, smiling. And then, it strikes out and down toward the floor and with a crack shatters Jennifer's phone into pieces.
There's no stopping it.
The Apocalypse.
Me (glancing at the clock): I'd like to start this assignment before the Apocalypse.
Jennifer: OMG, you believe in 2012?
Sam: What if the Apocalypse doesn't happen?
Me: Oh, it's gonna happen in about a minute.
Tyron: Wait, why is everyone getting paper out?
Sam: We're writing something.
Candice (who sits in front of Sam): What's going on?
Tyron (looking to Justin who has just opened a notebook full of paper): Dude, do you have any paper for me to borrow?
Justin (holding up his own piece and tilting his notebook so Tyron can see his "stash"): No.
Jennifer: Ms. Vance, you think the Apocalypse is coming soon? Why?
Deedee (who sits behind Jennifer): Because she's going to bring it.
Jennifer: Ha! I love it when I'm dumb.
As a writer, how do I turn this real event into a work of horror?
It's easy. All I have to do is remind you that this is the generation that is going to be in charge of taking care of ours.
But, the point of this blog is to display my creative talent, so here's the element of fiction:
Ms. Vance raises her arms above her head, forming a sharp V. Outside, dark clouds swarm over her classroom. Thunder roars. Students freeze.
A few pieces of paper drift to the floor.
Ms. Vance's pupils dilate, pushing past the rims of her blue irises.
Jennifer twists around in her seat, "Did I just hear a horse?"
"Holy shit," Sam says. "No way."
Ms.Vance's head slowly pivots toward Sam, hitching a bit as if on rusty hinges. The corners of her lips pull back, revealing clenched teeth.
"I know what we're doing!" Candice cries. "Substantive writing, right? Like we reviewed yesterday? Please, Ms. Vance."
"I have paper, now," Tyron says, waving the white sheet in the air. Ms.Vance turns her black eyes to him and the paper bursts into flames. Shrieking, Tyron drops the paper. "Crap. Justin, can I have another piece?"
Deedee closes her eyes and sighs, "I tried to warn you guys."
Ms. Vance's arms begin to lower, rigid and pulsing, until they extend straight out in front of her. Fingers fan out. "It's too late," she says.
The tips of her fingers split open, the skin peeling and curling back. A thin, black tentacle slithers out of each one--twisting, coiling. Students' jaws drop, as they pull back in their seats, clasping their hands beneath their chins.
Each tentacle splits in half, strikes outward, lengthening. A few screams pop from students' mouths. And then each tentacle splits again: forty tentacles; forty students.
Bending at the elbows, Ms. Vance draws them her sides. Tentacles dance in the air, rising up and forming shiny black hooks. Suddenly, they dive into laps, slither into pockets, split the fabric of backpacks. Students scream and beat them with their fists,
Laughing, Ms. Vance begins reeling in the tentacles--each one is curled around a student's cellphone.
"No!" Jennifer screams, grabbing her phone as it whips by her face. She is yanked from her desk and lands on the floor. Wrapping her body around the phone, she is dragged with it across the floor, toward the podium. Toward Ms. Vance. Other students snap into action, scrambling to catch up with the retracting tentacles, trying to pry away their most prized possessions. They crash into each other, shove each other out of the way, claw and scratch. Heads bang into desks, feet entangle on computer cords and backpack straps.
The tentacle rips Jennifer's phone from her hands, taking a few of her fingers with it. Jennifer jams the stubs into her mouth and bloods seeps out, down her chin.
The tentacle coils back, rising up. Ms. Vance follows it with her eyes, smiling. And then, it strikes out and down toward the floor and with a crack shatters Jennifer's phone into pieces.
There's no stopping it.
The Apocalypse.
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