Dangerous Profession, Part II

I wore snow boots to work this morning, bringing my regular shoes in my bag. I went up to my room, turned on my computer and did a few things, then got up and went downstairs to the computer lab to get ready for Creative Writing. I sat down at the teacher desk there and realized that I’d forgotten to change my shoes, so I leaned over and pried off one snow boot.

And next to my foot was a little grayish-blue canister, the sort that you know instantly is in some way military or military-ish even without reading it. About 5-6 inches long, maybe 2 inches in diameter, with threads at the end to be screwed into something. Something about it screamed “incendiary” to me – maybe there was a smell or something. I can’t honestly tell you at this point.

I leaned over and began reading the boxy letters:

LEFT HAND THREAD
ETS
MODEL 7290T
FLASH BANG

For a moment I just sat there, wondering if this was for real. Then I reached for the phone and called security, but no one answered, so I pulled my boot back on, picked up my bag, locked the door behind me and hightailed it for the cafeteria where security would be hanging out. (Not eating donuts – the kids come through the cafeteria as they leave the buses, and eat breakfast.)

The security guy who came back with me is a really nice guy, but he didn’t have the faintest notion what he was looking at. And to be honest, neither did I. My brain was fixating on the ETS logo and trying to come up with a rationale explanation for why this item would be sitting there in the computer lab. Yesterday had been a snow day, and the day before, I’d been the last person in that lab other than a few yearbook kids. I got it into my mind that it might be some sort of highpowered model rocket engine (in retrospect, that’s ESTES, not ETS, but it made sense to me at the time) and told the security guy my theory, not especially buying it.

He tapped it gently with his toe, mumbling something about asking a science teacher if they knew what it was. At this point, I’m wondering why the SRO – or even the outside cops – hasn’t been called in. I’m wondering why we’re not talking evacuation and bomb squads.

And at this point, Security Man declares that “we’re all right” and kicks the damned thing several feet across the room. He then proceeds to pick it up and leave with it.

Okay, if you haven’t already Googled it, I’ll save you the trouble. The item in my room was a flash-bang grenade training system – or, I guess, a cartridge for said system. You’re not supposed to be able to purchase one unless you’re a cop, a soldier, or someone who trains those two groups of people.

Up until a few minutes ago, I thought that flash-bangs JUST made a bright light and loud sound to disorient, for example, hostage-takers. Wikipedia tells me that they’re also called “stun grenades,” that they’re so loud and bright that they temporarily blind people and mess up their ear fluids, and that they can cause serious burns and fires.  

THIS WAS INSIDE MY CLASSROOM.

And the best part of all this? The last I’ve heard of anything was Security Man picking it up and strolling away. I emailed him and the SRO to let them know what the device really was, once I’d Googled it myself, but have heard nothing in response. No emails to the school telling teachers to check for anything else that shouldn’t be here. No bomb-sniffing dogs or even bomb-looking-for security officers. No evacuation (not that I want that, particularly after losing a curriculum day yesterday, but seriously).

I don’t think they’re taking this the least bit seriously, and it makes me kind of cranky.

Needless to say, I spent the first several minutes of class searching every desk drawer and nook/cranny of that room for anything else suspicious, and have tapping my pencil like a chain smoker all morning. Makes me nervous. I really, seriously don’t believe there’s a thing behind it. I think some kid found it, brought it to school to show his friends, and then dropped it. BUT. Maybe not, right?

And it just feels wrong, and perhaps a little disrespectful, that I’m the only person worrying about it.

Unacceptable Behavior

Today, we did the legendary Play-Doh Writing Process activity – an extended metaphor through manipulatives that I’ve found works long-lasting wonders for a certain section of my students, and gives us all a common vocabulary throughout the year – followed up by a short reading comprehension activity. It was a fun day, a good day. A nice way to spend class two weeks into the school year.

My 4A is a rough class, I can tell already. One kid spent the first two weeks of school – the first two weeks – suspended for gang activity. I’ve got a kid who has some sort of self-inflicted, highly specialized Tourettes and announces “strawberry!” in response to any query. Crap like that. And there’s a kid who I can tell is likely going to be trouble, but who hadn’t hit my radar yet – until today.

His first transgression was, as sophomores go, a minor one. Put Play-Doh into the hands of sophomore boys (or seventh grade boys, as I discovered two years ago) and you will inevitably get a phallus or two. Trouble Boy was trying to hide his Play-Doh penis by sitting on it (no, I’m not even going to go there) and I used my infinite charm and humor to persuade/slightly embarrass him into reattributing the clay to different projects.

While the class worked on their reading assignment, Trouble Boy was one of several who were completely screwing off and distracting others. I’d repeatedly tried to get them on task, to no avail; finally I announced that no one was allowed to leave for the day until they turned in their completed assignment. That did the trick for most of the goof-offs, but not Trouble Boy or his friend, Junior (he’s a junior in my sophomore English). They just kept right on their merry little way, refusing to do the work.

The bell rang, and I stood by the door to collect each student’s work. Most of the class had cleared out when Junior – a strapping young Latino who probably weighs 250 pounds and is taller than I am – came up to the door.

I asked for his work. He said he didn’t have it. I repeated that he was not leaving until he turned it in; he replied that he “was too” leaving, and proceeded to physically shove past me and out the door. Had I not stepped back, he would have knocked me on my butt. (I’m kind of wishing I’d let him – it would have been so much more dramatic!)

Still reeling from the sheer rudeness and non-acceptableness of Junior’s behavior, I collected a few more assignments and then confronted Trouble, who seemed to think he could leave without his work as well. Now, Trouble is a small guy, the sort who probably suffers from a Napoleon complex because he hasn’t hit his early high school growth spurt yet. He wasn’t going to be physically shoving past anyone.

I told him that he had to turn in his work, at which point he cursed, returned to his desk, and scribbled on a sheet of paper for a minute without even opening his textbook to get the questions. I refused to accept it on the basis that A) he obviously didn’t even read the questions and therefore couldn’t have gotten correct answers and B) even if he had opened his book, it was unlikely that “suck my dick” had anything to do with Greek mythology. Well, at least not the kind we study in high school.

At this point he got up in my face and began yelling about how I had just said it had to be done, not that it had to be correct, and that I would too accept it, and he was too leaving, and that I couldn’t make him do a good job on the work….

And sensing that I was in a far more touchy situation than I’d been in with the kid who was willing to walk through me, I stepped back and watched him flounce off down the hallway before retrieving his lame attempt at the assignment from the garbage and marching off to find the Dean.

Turns out that Junior is a good guy who hasn’t ever done anything like this before; I spoke to parents and they were horrified. He’ll get two days suspension, and I should get an apology note out of it. Trouble, on the other hand, is on a behavior contract after being expelled last year. He had one chance, and he just blew it over a ten question reading assignment.

It’s hard to know how to feel about all this, other than shaken up and infuriated and slightly unhappy that “I just got a kid expelled,” even though it wasn’t me but he who did the expelling. I’m glad I don’t live in the neighborhood, though. Trouble was seeing red, and I can just imagine how ticked he’s going to be when or if he gets booted.

I’m glad, though, that the Dean is backing me up for once on something. He’s taking it very seriously and allowing me to have input into Junior’s consequences. Having spoken to the Dean and to Junior’s parents, I feel confident that this was an out-of-character “snap” moment that won’t be repeated. (The Dean and SRO did ask if I wanted to press charges for assault, but seemed relieved when I declinedMy concern with him is that he did it in front of my class, and I can’t have this particular group of hoodlums thinking that it’s okay to act like that in my room (or anywhere else for that matter).

In Which My Head Explodes

Before school on Tuesday, I was told that my sophomores and juniors would be pulled out of English class on Thursday and Friday of this week, in order to register for their 2010-11 classes. I stressed about losing one day of our increasingly-precious time for the Shakespeare unit, and thought it was kind of lousy to have given us only two days notice, but rolled with it.

Knowing that I now wouldn’t be starting an activity until Monday, I back-burnered the handouts and whatnot for that activity to work on other things.

All day Wednesday I emailed various people, trying to find out exactly how long registration would take – would they be in there the entire period, or did I need to plan a short mini-activity? The response I received was that my students would probably be in registration for almost the entire period.

After school on Wednesday, I got another email. This one told me that on Thursday and Friday, sophomores would be pulled out of history class to vote for ASB officers, and juniors would be pulled out of their English class to do the same. Additionally, sophomores would be pulled out of their speech classes on Thursday/Friday to register.

That cartoonish sound you heard was me screeching to a halt and doing the world’s biggest doubletake.

Keep in mind that it is after school on Wednesday. After being told for two days that I would NOT have any students on Thursday and Friday, I’m now being told that I will have most of them after all.

I emailed immediately, asking if there was some mistake – and if not, what was going on? I won’t receive my absolutely-necessary photocopies from the print center until Monday; without them, I can’t just move forward with my original schedule. Not only that, but I’d spent the past two days stressing out and completely rearranging my unit calendar to make up for the loss of the day. (We’re on block, so one day is two days of instruction.)

This is the response I received – word for word, nothing left out:

It was changed late yesterday.
Sorry for the inconvenience.

I’m SORRY?!?!? It was changed YESTERDAY? Then why in God’s name didn’t the sophomore English teachers know yesterday? You’re sorry for the INCONVENIENCE? This isn’t inconvenient – this is unexcusable and unprofessional.

It’s 3 PM the day before. I can’t do the lesson I would have done, so I have to start completely from scratch with a new lesson that will fit in with what we’re doing. Did I mention that we’re under accreditation review, so I have to have a really awesome lesson that 100% meets the curriculum standards, along with a printed lesson plan and justification ready to go? Without belabouring the point, let’s just say that I didn’t leave work until 7 PM that day – and I probably shouldn’t have left then.

Then, yesterday, I get the other email. You know, the one saying that my juniors will be pulled out of their English class on Monday for their registration. Because it makes so much sense for the juniors to be pulled out of 174 minutes of instruction in the same class, back-to-back. And because two days notice is OBVIOUSLY enough for a teacher, since, y’know, we’re not professionals or anything. Certainly we haven’t been fighting tooth and nail for a computer lab period that day, that our juniors desperately need, and that will now be totally wasted BECAUSE THEY WON’T EVEN BE THERE.

If you noticed a mushroom cloud in the northwestern sky in the past 48 hours, that was my head exploding. Sorry ’bout that.

Rage and Redemption

I figure every teacher has pet peeves. For example, I was recently shocked to learn that an entire table full of teachers I’d met prohibited the slang usage of “cool,” “sucks,” and “awesome” in their classrooms. The prohibition was unanimous, myself excluded. (Not only do I not forbid these words, but I use them myself! The only speech I forbid in my high school classroom, other than your obvious profanity, is using language of gender/sexual orientation as hate speech.)

But I digress.

My kids know that my second-biggest hot-button issues is plagiarism and cheating. (For the first biggest, see above.) It’s one of my first big lectures of the year. They know – have often seen – that I will pick up both the copier’s and the provider’s papers and tear them both up. They know that I will confiscate homework that I suspect is being copied for another class and give it to that teacher, to be handled however that teacher sees fit.

And this week, some of them know that I will give zeroes and call home for plagiarized papers.

You may be wondering why this warrants a blog entry. After all, plagiarism and cheating is just something that teachers have to deal with from time to time, right?

NOT NEWS: Students are lazy. NEWS: Students plagiarize simple half-page chapter summaries. FARK: Multiple students each turn in 10+ assignments copied word-for-word off of SparkNotes.com.

Kiddo #1 (we’ll call him Jesse) turned in four of his assignments stapled together, and another six stapled together, all late. I graded the four first – or rather, I glanced at the four and realized immediately that Jesse had no more written those summaries than flown to the moon for breakfast. An excerpt from his summary of chapter 13 of To Kill a Mockingbird:

Various ladies bake her cakes and invite her over for some coffee. She soon becomes an integral part of the town’s social life. Aunt Alexandra explains that she should stay with the children for a while to give them a feminine influence. Jem and Scout lack the pride that Aunt Alexandra considers commensurate with being a Finch.

And the corresponding sentences from SparkNotes:

Various ladies in the town bake her cakes and have her over for some coffee, and she soon becomes an integral part of the town’s social life. Aunt Alexandra explains that she should stay with the children for a while, to give them a “feminine influence.” However, Jem and Scout lack the pride that Aunt Alexandra considers commensurate with being a Finch.

After discovering that these four had been blatantly plagiarized, I went to the stack of six summaries. These, too, had been plagiarized, although he’d been a little smarter (or sloppier?) about it.

Jesse’s version:

In Chapter 8 Maycomb endures its first real winter, enough to close school. Jem and scout took as much snow as they could from Miss Maudies yard and put it in their yard. There wasn’t quite enough snow to make a snowman, they made a figure out of mud and covered it with snow to make it look like it is a real snowman.

SparkNotes’s version:

For the first time in years, Maycomb endures a real winter. There is even light snowfall, an event rare enough for school to be closed. Jem and Scout haul as much snow as they could from Miss Maudie’s yard to their own. Since there is not enough snow to make a real snowman, they build a small figure out of dirt and cover it with snow.

I ended up calling his mom at work, because I couldn’t reach her at home. Then, because it was ten assignments and not just one, I “had to” write Jesse up. That’s in quotes because I wanted Jesse to have some administrative consequences, in addition to the zeroes he’d receive on the homework. I didn’t want him expelled or anything, but an hour or two scrubbing lunch tables seemed like it might convince him not to do it again.

(Of course, I’d forgotten that CHS refuses to actually penalize students for anything, and that I’d have to argue with the dean to get him to even meet with the kid – but that’s nothing I want to write about, if only for the sake of my blood pressure.)

Then, today, I came across another student who had done the same damned thing. This came after finding 2-3 students who had plagiarized a single chapter summary, so my irritation level was already riding high. And then I realize that Kiddo #2 – he can be Simon – had channeled SparkNotes on one assignment, so I go back to his previous ones and realize that they’ve all been plagiarized, too. (Boys and girls, if you’re going to plagiarize, be good at it. Slip up once, and your teacher will suspect EVERYTHING and will go back to find out what she missed.)

Anyway, I called his mom, left a calm explanatory message on her cell phone, entered in the zeroes, and wrote Simon up. (It’s a teacher work day today, so no students.)

I was fuming. When a student plagiarizes like this, I’m not just disappointed and frustrated – I’m insulted and angry. It says to me that the student not only thought my assignment was a waste of time, but that they consider me too stupid to catch on. It feels like a slap in the face. Of course, I’m a professional, so I don’t let the kids know that I’m taking it personally – anger is a tool that must be used with surgical precision, if at all, in this profession. So my phone call to mom, and my referral slip, and my notes in the gradebook are all cool and calm. But under the surface, my anger, it is angry.

And then Simon walked into my classroom.

Three things are immediately clear. First, his mom got my message, and she has spoken to him. Second, he is trying really hard not to cry. Three, he’s either coming from or going to some sort of athletic practice.

I sit down with him at a table and we begin to talk. He tells me that with basketball, and some family trouble, that he started getting behind and thought that copying off the internet was the only solution. I ask him if he couldn’t think of any other solution, and he says he should have come and talked to me. I talk to him about why I take plagiarism so seriously, and how I could have helped him if he’d come to talk to me instead of resorting to dishonesty. He is crying and I fall victim to the laws of physics, specifically that it is impossible to stay hard-hearted toward a sixteen-year-old boy in tears. The Hulk recedes and I find myself reassuring him that he’s not going to get expelled, that he’s not even going to get suspended, that he’s probably going to get two lunch detentions at the worst, and that he’s not even going to fail my class. I hand him a kleenex. He asks me, between sniffs, if he’s going to get kicked off the track team. I assure him that I hadn’t even considered talking to his coach, that I figured this was a “dumb kid mistake” and not done maliciously, that I was definitely wanting him to stay on the track team. It turns out he has track practice in five minutes. I tell him to go wash his face and have a good weekend. It is an act of sheer willpower not to hug him as he stands to leave.

The funny thing is, I’m not even angry about Jesse’s plagiarism now, even though he hasn’t apologized and has only talked to me to ask if he can redo them for partial credit. All I needed, it seems, was for someone to show some remorse. And now I don’t feel angry. I feel a little sad and sick, but maybe I deserve that.

Sans Guidelines

At my student teaching school, I never saw a referral slip. I presume that we had them, but we never used them.

At LMS, I tried to avoid writing kids up. No one wants to be the new teacher who deals with classroom management by sending all her trouble to the principal’s office, and some of my colleagues prided themselves on the fact that they had never used a referral form. Turns out I don’t have that kind of patience or management skills – or maybe I didn’t have that kind of students. I did end up filling out my fair share of referral forms before the year was up – things like kids hitting each other or stealing things off my desk or flagrantly cheating.

Then I came here, to CHS, and the discipline issues are like nothing I’ve dealt with before. And all I’ve really been given, in terms of advice for management, is that “You’ve got a really good support system here.”

Discipline here is all over the map. Some teachers kick kids out into the hall if they act up and leave them there, unsupervised, for the entire period. Some teachers put them in a corner of their room. Some give up their lunches for lunch detentions, and others stay after school for afternoon detentions. And the main word I hear is “referral form.” Since it seems to be the primary thing that teachers do, I started doing it, too.

And then I got fussed at by the Dean for writing kids up. I guess he thought that, in that particular case, I should have dealt with it in-house. If the infraction had been X degrees more severe, then I should have written him up – but in this case, it didn’t need to be taken to the Dean.

Okay, fine. I didn’t take offense. It’s just that it’s so hard to figure out what this particular school wants done, what SOP for CHS discipline issues really is. Each school has different unwritten policy – will someone PLEASE tell me what CHS’s is?!?

So I emailed him with a suggestion. I asked if we could maybe make a sheet with examples of infractions and suggested consequences. Like, “Copying another student’s assignment – first infraction –> call home. Cheating on test –> referral form.” Stuff like that. It seems to me to be a terrific idea. Teachers new to the school need to know what’s expected of them, what the appropriate thing to do here really is. And frankly, teachers not new to the school might out to have some guidelines, too – there’s some (IMHO) highly inappropriate classroom management going around. One of my neighbors locks his door at the bell, and if a kid – keep in mind, we’re talking high school here – is late, s/he has to sit out in the hall and miss 87 minutes of instruction. I didn’t tell the Dean that stuff, but I really made a strong case for creating a list of issue/consequence guidelines.

He didn’t respond.

Today I have a report from Monday’s sub that I had students leaving class without permission, roaming the halls, sitting on each other, and sleeping on my couch. I caught a student getting into my personal cabinet and suspect him of stealing supplies. I confiscated a note passed between two male students that consisted of a pornographic drawing of them having sex with a female student, her name labeled.

So what do I do? Is it a demeaning act of sexual harrassment, or is it just the eleventh grade equivalent of schoolboys drawing penises on their desktops? (I mean, I know what I think, but what does my school think?)

Sans requested guidelines, I’ve decided to email and ask him about each of these infractions, in the hopes that his direction on them will get me on the right page – and that maybe he’ll get a little irritated and realize that my list of guidelines is a good idea after all. After all, one of the things that we were taught was highly important about classroom management is that consequences be clear and consistent…

More about Hyde

Several people commented on my post about “Hyde,” my junior for whom the best metaphor (thus far) seems to be a hand grenade tossed into my class. I wanted to respond to those comments, but decided that it would be better to do so as its own post.

Resources and Assistance

Molly suggested, wisely, that some of Hyde’s other teachers might have insight that would be helpful. Since the first day he came to my class, I’ve been trying to find anything that works. Unfortunately, it seems like Hyde has burned every bridge and every shred of teacher and administrator patience. Everyone is still pushing him, encouraging him… but he refuses to take any responsibility for himself or his behavior.

Last year I had a student who threw his desk around the room, threw things, and injured himself while in class. It was bad, but then again, he was 12. You can look at a 12-year-old with this sort of behavior and think that there’s hope, that he’ll grow out of it or find the right combination of meds or something. When that kid is 17, like Hyde, you begin to wonder what’s going to become of him.

Are some kids not teachable? I don’t like to think so, but Hyde makes me question it.

Hyde’s Diagnosis

Teachin’ asked about Hyde’s diagnosis. This is a point of contention for me. This district will give teachers accomodations (although we have to go hunting for them – they’re in our computerized grading system, and not handed to us as a separate folder or file) but usually will not give us the diagnosis unless we schedule a full IEP/504 meeting. So, technically speaking, I don’t know what Hyde’s diagnosis is. I have been told that he has “an alphabet soup of problems,” and that ADHD is one of them. From my own limited expertise, I would emphatically agree that Hyde is suffering from an emotional or behavioral disorder. He certainly exhibits symptoms that I’ve seen in confirmed SED students.

Accomodations and Legal Concerns

Teachin’ also raised concern about my legal situation as Hyde’s teacher if I can’t meet his accomodations. I’ll admit, it was one of my first concerns. I’ve been in touch with counselors, my department chair, and his case worker, and have kept copies of every email. I am a member of the NEA, but I haven’t brought up this particular issue to my building reps yet. Thus far, I’ve been doing everything that is asked of me. Hyde isn’t suffering from my actions in class – but the rest of my class is suffering as a result of his actions.

Hyde’s Future

Hyde ended up in ISS after our altercation. I spoke with the Dean to try to find out what’s going on with him.

Apparently Hyde is now on meds; his case worker says that the meds “turn him into a zombie” – which isn’t at all good for him, but will help those around him, I guess. (This is a point when I really wish I understood what his diagnosis was, so that I could understand what – on a chemical level – he’s dealing with. I mean, I know it’s not essential information since I’m not his nurse or counselor, but I am trying to teach “the whole child” – and IMHO, more information is better.)

Additionally, he’s put in paperwork to be transfered to an alternative school where he’d be in very small classrooms with lots of guidance and support. I wish I could say that I think he’ll thrive in that environment, but at least I can say that he certainly isn’t thriving in THIS environment, so perhaps a change will help.

The Dean, who has known Hyde since he was in elementary school, is at his wit’s end trying to convince Hyde to take his behavior and performance seriously. Hyde’s mom, meanwhile, is convinced that he’s headed for prison and has told the Dean that she would support Hyde being sent to juvenile detention. It’s not just me, I guess.

When I met Hyde, I wanted to be his champion. I wanted to take him under my wing and give him, if not success, then at least a chance. That lasted about a week before he made it clear that he doesn’t want a chance – at least, not from me. I can only hope that there is someone, somewhere, who will be able to reach him… before it is much, much too late…

PTC – A Halloween Story?

Yesterday and today are Parent-Teacher Conferences. Yesterday we taught for a full day and then had conferences until 8 PM in the cafeteria. Things went well; I had about 25 families come in, almost all with their student. That’s better than I had some days in my more affluent schools, and definitely better in terms of having the kids present. I think that’s incredibly valuable – I don’t like the feeling of talking behind the kids’ backs, and I’m not sure how much good it does in most cases. With middle school students it wasn’t as big a deal to me, because they’re children – but high schoolers are old enough to be taking responsibility for their own success.

In order to explain why this subject even deserves a blog post, I need to rewind to last Friday. We had an in-service day, and several of us went to lunch together. While eating, we talked about conferences.

Our school has three “sessions” of PTCs at a go. There’s the evening session on Wednesday that lasts three hours. Then there’s a full-day session, from 8:30-4, on Thursday. Finally, there’s a third evening session from 5-8 on Thursday. The evening sessions take place in the cafeteria, where we’re lined up at tables in alphabetical order and families mill around like they’re registering for college classes on a pre-internet campus. The day session takes place in our individual classrooms.

The idea of having conferences in our classrooms is kind of nice. We don’t have an Open House/Back-to-School Night, so this is a parent’s first opportunity to see my classroom. (And I have a nice one, so I like to show it off.) Even better, in between conferences I can get work done. I’ve got a lovely list of to-do items today, including reorganizing my desk and putting together my file cabinet. I couldn’t do that if I was stuck in the cafeteria.

At lunch last Friday, though, it came out that there’s a flip side to the situation. My department head warned me that I might – or would – encounter the following situations while alone in my room:

• drunken parents
• irrationally angry parents
• dangerously violent parents
• parents deliberately coming during the day so that they’ll find it easier to try to bully the isolated teacher
• parents in their pajamas
• parents in… uhm… school-inappropriate attire
• parents looking for other teachers and deciding that I look like a likely receptacle for their off-base personal attacks of said teachers
• parents strung out on meth (see bullets 2 & 3)

I was advised to leave my door open, to open up the doors of the teacher work area so that there’s a straight path between my room and those on the other side of the wing, to have a plan for enlisting the help of either of the able-bodied men whose classrooms adjoin mine, and to have the admin/security’s number memorized. In what may have been a coincidence, we got a district-wide email the day before PTC reminding us that you have to punch 9 before dialing 911 on our classroom phones.

I’m… flabbergasted. And curious. I wonder if it will really happen? A couple of the teachers I ate with claimed to have had any number of the above walk into their classrooms over the years, but I don’t know how exaggerated it all is. I mean, yes – the Rural School District is “tougher” than most of the Urban SD, and much more so than most of the Suburban SD.

I’ve set up my conference area by the door. Visitors will sit in student desks, which means that they have to slide out of their seats sideways. I’ve got a moveable chair on the other side of the student desks, and I wore sensible shoes. I don’t think anything is going to happen today – all of my parents yesterday were super nice, even those whose kids were failing. But if something does, I don’t want to have to use my ninja skills on them.

Awful

My junior class makes me miss my seventh graders so much.

Probably I handled this entirely wrongly. I’m not sure I care.

Remember Noisy Boy? Well, he’s going to need a real name, I think, because I suspect we’re going to get to talk about him a lot. I’m told that there’s a softer side to him, so for now, let’s call him Hyde – maybe eventually I’ll meet Jekyll.

Hyde has issues. Let’s not forget that. Hypothetically, his behavior is not his fault. He’s supposed to have severe ADHD. He’s adopted, and I don’t know what the story is behind that. If I had to guess, based on his behavior, I’d say there’s some trauma there – some sort of “my parents didn’t want me, so who the hell cares who I am or how I act” feeling.

He’s angry, and he’s irritated, and he’s bored, and he could give a damn.

Yesterday we were reading Act II of “The Crucible.” A couple of talented student readers were reading the main roles, and doing a great job at it. It was interesting, understandable, and even – as junior English goes – enjoyable. Most of the kids were into it. Hyde, however, was refusing to look at a book, rocking his chair to the point where it almost fell over several times, and disrupting his cousin. I quietly told him to put his chair down and read along; he physically resisted me.

Later, he put his head down and went to sleep. I might would have ignored it – probably every teacher occasionally makes the decision that a sleeping kid is better than a disruptive one – but he was showing so much underwear that I couldn’t let it go. Without interrupting the reading, I woke him and told him he needed to pull up his pants. He told me (loudly) that there was nothing wrong with his pants, and put his head back down. At that point, I recognized that continuing the conversation would definitely disrupt class, so I waited.

After the reading was done, he immediately came to life and began bugging another student, taking her things and rooting through her bag. I pulled him aside and tried to talk to him about his attitude. He threw himself onto a desk, began twisting back and forth, rolling his eyes and making faces at me. He told me that the reading was boring and stupid, that he didn’t know or care what was going on, and that my entire class was boring and stupid.

I asked him what his goals were, what he wanted. He told me that I wasn’t allowed to talk to him, that he didn’t have to answer any of my questions. I told him that he should, because I was trying to respect him and talk to him like an adult. I asked the question again. He began saying “I dunno” over and over and over again, like a six year old having a tantrum. I finally told him that I was going to have to write him up if he couldn’t behave any better than this, and he told me that I didn’t have the right to write him up for not answering a question. I walked away and called security.

While waiting for security to show up, I tried to wrangle my class back under control. They’d had ten minutes to begin working on the assignment, and had taken that ten minutes to pack up, walk around the room, move desks around, and throw all the cushions off of the sofa. I stood in front of the door and told them that no one was leaving until I saw people in their desks working on the classwork.

The bell rang, and – knowing I meant business – the class remained seated. I said that anyone who had 5 or more of the questions answered could show me their work and go; two students did. Challenging Boy (Hyde’s cousin) tried to sneak past me and was sent back to his seat. As the halls filled, I let those with 4 questions done go, then 3 questions. Several kids, figuring I’d eventually let everyone go, just sat there. I stopped before the 2 question release and told them that no one was allowed to go without showing me at least one completed question. Backpacks flew open.

Hyde tried to storm out of the room. I blocked the door and told him he had to show me one answer. A few kids came by with an answered question and I let them go. Hyde came up with a one-word, incorrect answer scrawled on a sheet of paper. I told him it was wrong, and asked if he could tell me what the question was. (He hadn’t even opened the book.) He went over to his cousin’s desk and began loudly commenting on the stupidity of it all. Most of the class correctly answered the first question and was released. My next class was waiting in the hall to enter.

Meanwhile, security still hadn’t shown up.

Hyde went over to my printer and jerked out a sheet of paper. (I realized later that he nearly broke the paper tray in the process.) A moment later he came up to the door with an incomprehensible scrawl, covering the entire page in one-inch-high letters. I looked at him. “Hyde, I’m not accepting this. You’re a young adult and you can’t turn in work that looks like this. You need to do this correctly.”

At this point he began yelling at me.

“YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF,” he yelled.

“You’re not exactly making me very happy, either,” I responded.

“Well, that’s just great. You want a cookie?” he snarled. “What’s the big deal? I’m just going to throw it away the minute I leave this stupid room anyway.”

He crumpled up the sheet of paper, threw it across the room, and stomped back to my desk. He took another sheet of paper out of the printer, sat down, and rewrote his answer, this time making some approximation at correct assignment format. He shoved it under my face, and I took a moment to read it. It was close enough.

“I’ll accept that,” I said, “but for now, you need to take a seat.”

“Well that’s just great. I’m having fun now,” he said.

He threw himself into a seat. I ignored him and called security again. There’d been a miscommunication; they thought he just needed to go to the bathroom. (He’s on a hall freeze list.) Then they got confused when I said he was still in my room. They tried to tell me just to send him down the hall and they’d meet him; I refused, knowing he’d never show up.

Finally a security guard arrived, with apologies about the confusion. I explained the situation and handed him the hastily written referral slip that I’d been working on, off and on, for the past fifteen minutes. Hyde saw the guard and stood up, throwing his crumpled-up assignment across the room as he went. My classroom full of sophomores tried not to stare.

God, a third period like that makes me appreciate my fourth period so much. I wanted to cry, but they were smiling and joking, and I just smiled at them and was so happy that I had some nice kids to balance out the deeply troubled (and troubling) ones. They began writing spooky stories for our end-of-October formal writing assignment, and I played “Monster Mash” and “Thriller” and “I Put a Spell on You.”

I don’t know what to do with Hyde. I really don’t.

Juniors

I’m so very badly behind on all of this. I always have the best intentions about edublogging during the school year, but it seems like they always collapse. My mental energy just gets all used up!

My juniors are tough – real tough. There are some really good kids in there. But, see, at CHS we have academies – specialized in-school mini-schools where students with specific interests can tailor their classes. All the kids who think they might want to be teachers are in a teaching academy. All the kids who think they might want to go into medical fields are in a medical academy. All the kids who are interested in technology are in a tech academy. So all of the juniors and seniors who have any sort of plan, goal, or intrinsic motivation have already split off into more specialized English classes, leaving me with… well, my junior class. A handful of great kids who want to learn, buffered by a thick wall of kids who want to sleep, goof off, disrupt, drop out, and otherwise drive me crazy.

I had a bad day a few weeks ago. I’d been warned that one of my students was going to be a challenge, and he was. Things blew up when he confronted me and tried to fight with me, in the library, in front of the class. I had to send him out of the room without a referral slip or anything – and while I didn’t feel physically threatened or anything, my fight-or-flight reflexes were definitely jumping into high gear. I’d never been treated like that by a student. It really made me quite nostalgic for my shorter kids.

Then he came back a week later, and was a much better kid. May have had something to do with having a bad cold. But I’ll take it.

And then they transferred his cousin into that class. His cousin is the sort of kid I’d like to like. He’s the sort of kid I’d like to save. He’s (apparently) got the worst case of unmedicated ADHD I’ve ever seen. Remember the kid last year who made monkey noises and threw himself out of his chair all the time? Well, at least that was kind of cute. This kid CANNOT SHUT HIS MOUTH. During silent reading, he’s talking. During my lessons, he’s talking. He’s out of his seat, bugging other kids, taking things off peoples’ desks – including mine – running his mouth, making inappropriate drug references. It’s to the point where I begin to suspect that he’s long since passed the ADHD line and is now firmly in the category of “seeing what I can get away with because I have an IEP.” I hate to say it, but if you saw this kid, you’d say it, too.

So Noisy Boy is transferred into my junior class, which is over-full, and stuffed with disruptive, noisy kids. His accommodations include minimizing auditory distractions and giving him constant attention. I can’t do it. There is no place and no time in that particular class when I can cut down auditory distractions. I can’t give him constant attention, because I’m so busy trying to keep the rest of the class from mutiny.

And he’s cousins with Challenging Boy, and ever since he transferred into my class, it’s recess time at the family reunion.

Gah.

Okay, I have to go put on my big girl shoes and go to school now. I’m working with IT to get access to WordPress again – I think I’ve convinced them that it’s a valid form of professional development. They granted me access two days ago, but yesterday it was gone again. We’ll see. Hopefully I can start posting more regularly again, and get caught up on everything that has been going on in the first month of school.

Lunch Club

The two boys sat there and wasted time in class last week, time that was sufficient to finish the assignment. They already have failing grades due to missing work – three weeks into the school year. I told them that they’d better get it done as homework, that they’d better be ready to turn it in, or that they’d be spending lunch with me on Friday.

When they walked in to class today, I asked them. Sure enough, no homework – just abashed grins and dumb excuses.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you at lunch, huh, Mrs. Bees.”

“Yep.” I handed them lunch passes, already filled out. “You’ve got five minutes to get your lunch and bring it up here.”

There are ten minutes left in lunch when they come in, laughing and jostling each other. I ask what took them so long, and they acknowledge that they forgot to come up. (I’d call bull, but at least one is severely ADHD and probably has the capacity to be holding a reminder note and STILL forget about lunch detention five minutes after being assigned it.) They look genuinely sorry, and hand me a drink they brought me. I ask if they spit in it first, and they think that’s awful – and awfully funny. I trust them.

“You’ve got ten minutes, guys. You need to get to work.”

Nine minutes later, despite my every-minute warnings, they’ve accomplished the following:

• one book open
• a name on a sheet of paper
• eight minutes of stupid jokes

I’m cool as I tell them that I’m going to be talking to their parents. Boy 1 tells me – not seriously, thank goodness – that I’m putting him in a body bag. I advise him that it wasn’t my decision to waste an entire week, including the final chance during lunch, to do a four-problem assignment.

“I expect better of you guys,” I say as they stand to leave.

“Okay, Mrs. Bees.”

“No, seriously. I do. You know why?”

Eye-roll, grin, then in mocking voice, “Because you believe in us.”

“Actually,” I reply, “I wasn’t going to be quite that cheesy. I’m not going to say that I believe in you, because one thing I believe in is our infinite ability to screw up our own lives.”

“Oh my gosh,” they laugh.

“I’ve always got some teacher saying, ‘I believe in you,’” Boy 2 says, rolling his eyes. “I hate that.”

“I hate it when they say that,” agrees Boy 1. 

“I hate it that you know it’s cheesy,” adds Boy 2, to me, laughing. 

I go on. “What I was going to say, is that I know you can do better than this. You have to.”

“Dude,” says one of the boys as they head for the door. “I hate that you know that.”

Me? I hate that you don’t even try… and that you’re building the kind of habit that is going to absolutely hogtie you in college or the workplace or your day-to-day life. But I love that you laugh and bring me a drink to apologize for forgetting to come in. You’re good kids, but you’ve got a ways to go before you’ll be good men.