Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.

Chalkboards vs. Whiteboards

I was spoiled by the whiteboards at the affluent private school last year. My chisel-tipped Expo pens glided across the boards like a sharpened knife through a peeled banana. Though there was some expense in buying those pens, they were consistent for me: the ink flowed abundant or it didn't. I found comfort in the efficiency of that binary.

But the chalk boards on the East Side are a breeding ground for debauchery. The frail sticks of chalk irrationally break mid-sentence. The pieces roll into the corners of the room, forcing me to bend over and expose my unflattering angles. The friction between pasty chalk and mealy board sends tremors through my whole body. I write the word "warmth" on the board, yet I quiver from an involuntary orgasm induced by chills.

When erasing them, the boards become stubborn palimpsests, unwilling to relinquish the past. I stand in a blizzard of chalk, blinded by shards of diamond dust irritating my eyes. Turning away, my students bluntly state, "You have chalk all over your pants." I look down. White, faded hand prints cover my black slacks. It's as if a phantom fondled me from my blind side, leaving behind a whisper of the one-sided romance we shared.

I cannot have these moments of weakness; I have a fiancée to think about.

The First, Last Day of School

As long as one is not getting fired or laid off, the last day of work is supposed to be empowering because few things give the all-around satisfaction of quitting a job and moving on to bigger and better things.

I remember quitting my first in corporate America. I walked into my boss's office knowing, for once, I held the trump card. "I'd like to give my 2 weeks notice." It felt like unlocking my own prison cell from within. The useless projects and unending meetings dissolved away. "Well, I'm going to need it in writing," my boss replied, still trying to dominate me. But it didn't work; I slapped down my letter of resignation like a Draw Four card in Uno. I didn't care about burning bridges.

But on Friday, the last day of my first teaching job, I found myself trying build bridges with my now-former boss. The principal and I hugged; surprisingly, it was a real hug, one where our chests actually touched a little bit.

And, oh, the students. They smiled, imbibed with summer ecstasy, but I could only look at them in a eulogistic fashion. Though they are still alive, it felt almost like a funeral because I would never see them again in the same context. The "academic year 2009-2010" versions of themselves died last Friday. I snapped pictures and inhaled the sadness of the moment; is this what birds feel like when the fledglings take off for better pursuits?

Dead Frogs

I'm not exactly sure why, but there is a box of dead frogs in my classroom. In my storage cabinet, on the shelf just below the American-Literature anthologies rests a cardboard coffin holding 10 plastic-wrapped frogs.

"We think the students will be too excited and eager to see the frogs, so we thought it best to hide the frogs until Friday, the day of the dissection." Of course. That sounds logical: Hide the formaldehyde pickled frogs in my Literature cabinets.

I stood outside my cabinets, imagining the frogs belly up with "X" marks instead of eyes. I had to look at them. There was some force compelling me to look at the corpses. Even though I knew it would be unpleasant, I pushed forward, opened the cabinet, and removed the Fedex frog box.

I unfolded the cardboard flaps and peered in over the edge. My body was tense, preparing for a possible strike from a zombie frog breaking for freedom.

But there was no escape attempt: just speckled frogs vacuum packed and stiff from latex injected into the veins. I got close to one of the frog's faces. The lids were closed over the dehydrated pebble-sized eyes, and his head seemed flatter than I thought it would be.

I feared the idea of the dead frogs at first. But sharing a moment with them, alone in my classroom, I felt somewhat like an accessory to murder. Though their blood was replaced with chemicals, and their lives probably taken months ago, the dissection seemed more like an execution.

My cabinet feels like death row.

I Hate Protractors

I'm not a math fellow, but I think even math teachers will agree with me that protractors are ridiculous. They are useless!

Now before all you SOHCAHTOA lovers write me hate mail, let me clarify that I know protractors are immensely useful in real world situations like architecture and astronomy...but in middle school?

Protractors are just weirdly shaped. They don't really fit in pencil boxes and they end up cluttering backpack pouches. Seriously, who has a semicircular slot just for their protractor?

And though I haven't verified this with one of my math teacher colleagues, I'm fairly certain protractors are only used for, at most, half a textbook math chapter, hardly necessitating a specific tool for angle drawing. I graduated 8th grade: I don't remember using my protractor for anything academic related.

Through this school year, I've had to confiscate over five protractors. Boys are using them as fake brass knuckles. Girls are using the raised tick marks to file their nails. Aspiring circus folk are spinning them on their pencils.

I got so mad at a protractor/Frisbee distraction today that, when I was alone, I snapped that thin plastic in half. I did it slowly. The blue protractor discolored along the lines where I folded it. And the moment I brought its two opposite edges together, I heard and felt its spine crack. Then I imagined its angle-measuring voice screaming. One of the blue shards almost hit me in the eye, but, even with that, it was damn worth it.

Public Versus Private School

Being in both the public and private school settings, I've learned one unwavering fact: kids of all ages make me laugh.



Things I heard while teaching at a private school:

You know what movie scared me recently? I am Legend. That was the first scary movie I've seen since Titanic.
—Jason, 9th grade, on whether or not movies have the capacity to evoke emotions in their viewers.

Who's Brad Pitt?
—Jenny, 7th grade, during a lecture about how famous politicians and icons can use their celebrity for the betterment of society.

Like, maybe if my savings account ran out of money, so I couldn't buy DS games.
—Kisha, 8th grade, extemporaneously responding to my request, "Think about a time when you would feel or have felt totally lost and hopeless like the characters in the novel."



Things I heard while student teaching at a public school:

Fuck man, what's the matter with you? Nacho Doritos smell hella good.
—Julio, 11th grade, rebutting the contention that Nacho Doritos make your breath smell bad.

Can we please stop talking about whether or not Irvin is going to steal a car?
—Ms. Morgan, Freshman English teacher, after asking her students to describe current social problems.

Maybe, like, the Tooth Fairy? You know? It's, like, a lot of gifts.
—Jeremy, 9th grade, responding to the To Kill a Mockingbird question of "Who do you think is leaving gifts for Scout and Jem in the tree trunk?"

Social Mutilation

Usually Pizza Friday isn't a problem, but today, apparently, all the grease, all the cheese, all the wonderfully melded tastes disagreed with one of my students.

During a lecture on Past Perfect Tense, the students had numerous questions. Hands shot up left and right regarding time, grammar, and usage. But out of the haphazard shotgun of hands, Beth raised her hand slowly.

“Yes, Beth? Your question?” Silence. Only a desperate look was in her eye, her mouth barely wide enough to sip a straw. She looked like some had just run over her dog with a truck. But in the context of class, I understood this face. And with my recent experiences with “food pressures,” I understood the issue. “It's fine. Go.” I tried to remain as discreet as possible, but with boorish yet astute students, poor Beth was doomed.

She jogged out of class stiffly, like she was holding an orange between her thighs. But she didn't make it. Half way to the door, the entire class was clouded by the smell of half digested pizza, grease, and feces. Beth quickly looked back into the room, praying we didn't notice, but we all did.

The horror and defeat on her face.

She didn't cry on her way out of the room, but she didn't come back either. I took her bag to her after class. She apologized for missing the end of my lecture.

Dazed, Beth sat on the crinkling white paper of the Nurse's table, her head bowed under the weight of her social mutilation. False platitudes were not fitting, but how do you comfort someone in that state? “I'm not going to lie. What happened can be embarrassing.” At that point, my candor wasn't working as she started to cry, tears tracking down her face like the smooth mozzarella cheese off the pizza we had for lunch. “But everyone in life faces these setbacks.”

Between staccato inhales, she whispered, “No one will forget.” She phrased it perfectly. Her tone, thicker than granite. For such a simple event, so much gravity.

“Yeah.” Defeated as well, I sat with her at the crossroads of her social life. “I know life right now is measured by how many friends you have, but in the future, it's the quality of friends that matter. This will show who your real friends are.”

“I guess so. But it still sucks.”

“Yeah.” At least it's a Friday.

Bartering to Feel Young Again

The rainy season has brought more than grayness to my life; it has brought youth.

Forced inside the cafeteria by the misty January afternoons, teachers and students from all grades have no choice but to shed the hierarchy and eat in close quarters. Some teachers grumble, but I don't mind the occasional student screaming.

This new seating arrangement has reminded me of a very important part of being young: food bartering. It started with one boy looking longingly at my ziplock of kettle corn. Though the corn tasted good, I started feeling guilty as I cracked the sugary kernels in my mouth. So I offered him some, and he was grateful.

The next day, the same thing happened, only this time, out of his mature sense of equality and fairness, he offered me a vanilla Oreo in return. This wasn't so much of an economic exchange as it was a respectful food handshake between gentlemen.

The system grew. More kids joined in. Ten potato chips for a Chip Ahoy? That's too many. How about six? Okay, eight it is.

So, after several days of diplomatic practice, three-way trades are commonplace: I gave some veggie straws to David, who gave half a granola bar to Mark, who then gave me three fruit snacks.

The bartering probably isn't the most ethical and some might see it as taking advantage of the youth, but it's all in good nature. There is an intellectual excitement and mutual respect in our system. I assure you, dear reader, I am generous with my side of the offers. And, most importantly, we are all happy.

Once the rains stop, I'll go back to my secluded, adults-only lunchtime, slowly eating food from my own home. But for now, it's fun to feel young again. As an adult, how often do you really get to barter for and earn your food?

Itchy Toes and Wet Socks

Everyday he takes off his shoes in my class. I'll glance up from my pile of vocab tests to see shoes strewn about. During the warmer months, he'd take off his shoes because the socks "itched" his toes. And now, with daily deluges, he complains of wet socks that wrinkle his feet.

With my teacher's intuition, I think that maybe he's exaggerating, but measuring sock wetness sounds unhygienic and potentially illegal if another adult walked in at the wrong moment.

At first, I told him that someone could trip on the loose shoes. I thought that would be the end of it. But as a bright young man, he started kicking off his shoes and neatly lining them up under his desk. He wasn't being disobedient; he was accommodating my concerns.

So I had to just come out with it: Please leave your shoes on. But like many social norms, there wasn't a logical reason for me to use as evidence. He was genuinely confused. His face contorted as he processed the information.

I imagine there is a giant index of how kids' faces look when they are truly confused. Right between "Mommy doesn't love Daddy anymore" and "There is no tooth fairy" would be "You can't take your shoes off in public."

To be honest, I really don't understand the rule myself. I hate wearing shoes. They are the first thing off when I get home from work, and sometimes, I take my shoes off so haphazardly that my feet accidentally pull down my pants.

I have no real reason for my student. His feet don't smell. His shoes are not intrusive. He's an academically sound student. I always try to explain my classroom rules, give a philosophy behind the limitations, but this time I found myself silenced. I begrudgingly uttered the words, "Just do it because I asked you to."

I'm a sell-out shoe hater.

Please Leave My Classroom, Mr. Bird

With the mildewy winter making my classroom smell like feet, I decided to open my classroom's back door inviting in some crisp sunshine. But my open invitation was accepted by a party crasher: a swallow.

Now, I've seen wild birds indoors before. Costco often has a pigeons eating hotdog scraps, and I've even seen a duck in a Walmart. But reader, I was unprepared for a fast-flying, panicked swallow in the middle of my composition lecture.

And of course, my usually reserved students went berserk. A few girls ran out of the room blatantly violating the hall-pass policy. Some boys climbed on their seats in celebration. Most of the students, however, ran around the room in a chaotic and tomfoolerish effort to corner the helpless bird. One of my multi-lingual students shouted "I eat him!" but I think he was trying to say, "I want to keep him!" At least I hope so.

But the bird was, of course, a bird. Flying from corner to corner like an acrobat and flagpole to top of whiteboard like a gymnast, the students' rampage probably caused more harm to each other than the visitor.

It's strange that seagulls on the soccer field are a nuisance, and pigeons around the lunch tables are invisible. Put one bird in a classroom, and it's pandemonium. I'll have to admit, when the bird did, what I interpreted was, a pecking dive bomb at my head, I screamed. But it was a very manish scream.

So, even I, the teacher, liaison of learning, got caught up in the bird escapades. Eventually with some shouting and my thin vocabulary textbook flexing as I made shooing motions, I calmed my students and helped our unruly visitor leave my classroom.

Despite the bird taking class time, there was no real lesson in the event. It was simply mayhem at its best. Unpredictable and wonderful. The kind of event no words could capture, but we try.

I would have taken a picture. But with the screaming, injuries, pushing, shoving, and birds...I didn't have time. It was a great day.

Coaching In Field Trips? It Is Curriculum?

My school has started their annual ad campaign to attract new parents. Part of this plan includes dressing up the school so when tours pass through, our mission statement, statistics, and philosophies are posted on well-placed plaques.

And by well-placed plaques, I mean 8.5"x11" paper on a stucco wall near a door that opens outwardly.

I don't need a super chic, snazzy ad campaign, but black and white paper flapping in the wind doesn't exactly scream high-end education. I don't need $1000 ad agency witticisms, but maybe signs that make sense would be a good idea. And shouldn't the un-laminated, outdoor advertisements be put out on Monday, when the open house occurs, rather than the rainy Friday before?

I love my school; I bought a polo designed for a large middle-school girl just so I can rock the school insignia. So the instant I saw these signs, I rushed back into the school to alert my principal tactfully. But sadly, they had already left for the day.

So here I am, cautiously warning you, dear reader, that ad campaigns are devastatingly important. Please proof read. Please bounce ideas off different people. And please, for the love of God, no scotch tape.

Bad Words

Even though it was Friday, I decided to stay late at school and help the short-handed tutoring program. My tutee was a tiny girl with hair straight like a filly's mane and soft like a freshly baked gingersnap. Her smile was dear, and while it was over-burdened with her adult teeth pushing through, I could tell she would one day smile her way out of speeding tickets. Her name was Chaitali.

My task was simple: take her through her second-grade vocabulary book. And with words like 'badge' and 'tread,' it was going to be an easy session. I sat quietly in the undersized chair across from her and read her workbook upside-down. Her handwriting was bubbly like a child's, but one day, her curvaceous swoops and curls would write notes to break boy's hearts.

And then the word 'separate' came up. "What's this?" she asked. "It's when things come apart." I used my hands, increasing the distance between my palms. "Is it like divorce?" she asked.

The only way a girl who didn't know 'corner' would know 'divorce' is by experience. I could see her father and mother sitting her down on their pristine white couch. Chaitali on the far right, parents—with palpable distance between them—on the left. It's not your fault. We love you the same. It's a problem between us.

"My parents are getting a divorce," she said. It was like hearing her swear, only worse. Words like 'ass' and 'shit' and 'damn' all have a context. Kids will hear these words eventually, even internalize and personalize their meanings. But their lives don't change when they learn how to use 'fuck' as a noun, verb, or adjective. To be so young, to have a discussion with a second grader about divorce was the real bad word.

She swore using a socially acceptable word. She showed no disrespect, and yet her word showed a brutality of life and a loss of faith. Forever will Chaitali's comfort in the family unit and the undying power of love be separated from her childhood. With her smile and with her charm, I'm sure she'll regain the lost faith one day...but it's that much harder.

Most times a child cries, I know better than to humor them. I know a pinched finger in a door will heal, and the tears are magnified by naivete. But when she started to cry in front of me, her tears were salted by experience. I remembered my past and hugged Chaitali, my sister of divorced parents.

Slow Progress

I have a multi-lingual student in sixth period. He has only been in the States for about four months, and he is struggling to keep up with the language. The private school for which I work is his only education, meaning he is not getting any outside help with learning to speak English.

My private school is pretty fabulous except that it doesn't have multi-lingual program. That means that this student first encounters words like "love" and "desire" in esoteric Romantic poems.

Despite his grades, he quite intelligent. His comments are thoughtful but stunted in vocabulary. I made an impromptu visit to his math teacher, and she agreed with my assessment. The student excelled at the algebra because it is only numbers, but word problems posed a huge challenge.

I've been meeting with him during lunch about three times a week to try to help him. We read from Kindergarten phonics books while we slowly chew our peanut butter sandwiches; it's nice to know that a Russian national and Asian American can find common ground in PB&J.

Then, during sixth period, we jump forward about eight years into high-brow literature like Beowulf and Shakespearean Sonnets. In class though, it's much more difficult to devote so much time. Some students are aching to move faster while my Russian apprentice dissects every word, slowly leafing through his $60 Russian to English tome.

"Mr. Judo, what 'occur'?"

"Like 'happen.' When did it happen? When did it occur? The same." I find myself using an English I've never spoken before. My sentences are terse, and simple in their brevity. It's as if we've come to have a special language between us; a rhetoric somewhere between Russian and English.

He's challenging me in ways I never expected. I often ask him to look up the words, but many times I try to give him real-context examples to help solidify the impersonal text from the dictionaries. Sometimes, words are easily reduced to a simpler form. "What 'frenzy'?" "Like really angry."

The challenge comes when the words have no reduction. Today, "leaflet" really stumped me. I didn't want to concede a Merriam-Webster sterile response, but he didn't know what was "pamphlet" either. After about 30 seconds of rhetorical dancing, and my other native English-speaking students giggling, he finally understood.

Progress is slow, but enjoyable. Today, he read "once" correctly. Just three weeks ago, over lunch, when reading "Once upon a time," he said aloud "Awn-kay ee-pon a tim." Slow progress is still powerful.

Untapped

Literaure? Beouwulf? Spell check?











It would be one thing if this student was at his intellectual limit. If he truly gave his best efforts, I could look upon his works as sweat-soaked proof of his genuine mental exertion. Even if these imperfect works were riddled with errors, I could still bask in the warmth that both he and I were at our outer boundaries.

But this is not the case.

This student is smarter than this assignment depicts. When he does the reading, his comments are trenchant and lucid. When he actually tries on the homework, it often sets the standards for the class. He is smart, but he rarely shows consistent passion.

Learning to be autonomous within the structures of school is part of the educational process. Though very bright, this student is just eking by grade-wise in my class. His homework is late, and assignments, like the one above, are bloated with careless typos and apathetic formatting. Being smart is not enough to be a gifted student. A gifted student uses all their resources: intellect, time management, effort, manners, creativity, accountability.

Getting "F" papers isn't the most disheartening thing; seeing untapped potential sinks me even lower.

Whiteboards and Toilet Seats

Two weeks ago, the principal approached me and asked if the Extended Care Program (ECP) could use my classroom twice a week after school. Of course, this is her subtle way of telling me that she'd already made the decision, and it was now my job to deal with it and vacate twice a week at the tolling of 3:30.

And of course, I get one of those ECP teachers who lets the kids eat chips and sit at my desk, use my precious pens and rearrange the desks. I tried reasoning with the ECP teacher. Tried logic. Tried pleading. Tried getting angry. My fellow teacher promised change, but nothing happened. Where is the educator solidarity?

Wednesday and Thursday mornings have devolved into moving desks out of "Fort Formation," erasing stars and Spanish words from the board, and cleaning my desk of FritoLay grease.

I never had sisters. I grew up sharing a bathroom only with an older brother. Putting the toilet seat down was never etched into my muscle memory. In a world where angry women bellow wet-butted through the bathroom to PUT THE SEAT DOWN, I never, until now, understood why the women, the ones needing the seat to be down, couldn't accomplish such a simple task on their own.

The ECP teacher may be a bad teacher, but she did teach me one thing: what it's like to be woman plopping down on the cold porcelain instead of the welcoming seat. The menial, maintenance tasks aren't hard, but it's the overall lack of interpersonal consideration that creates the screamable infraction.

To all my past cohabitants: I'm sorry for forgetting, and I'm sorry for arguing with you. I was wrong. You were right. And unlike my ECP fellow, I promise to change for real.

Lost Duckling

I'd sit on the dock and let my feet dangle two inches above water, kissed by the surface only when a gust of wind crested a wave beneath me. The water is more green than blue, but emeralds shine as tempting as sapphires. My hometown house sits on the artificial shore of a man-made lake, and even though my lake was carved into earth by a mortal, I feel nature's sublimity.

I'd eat wheat toast in the Spring. And always only in the Spring, mother ducks parade their goslings to the bandstands at my feet. I'd take two slices outside with me for breakfast. Most days I ate both slices, but if I was lucky, I would be privileged to feed my toast to the fledgling family.

Every Spring was the same. Eight puffs of wispy down bob passively on the waves as the mother hesitantly approached and gathered torn strips of bread. Two weeks later, the same family, reduced to six siblings, had wisps of brown highlights in their coats. And, at the end of Spring, only four adolescents, rough in textured brown feathers, survived the brutality of nature to accompany their mother.

The family numbers dwindle every year. Maybe a foul-mouth bass swallowed one. Maybe one drowned. Maybe one got run over by a car. I never see the dead ones: only the ones who survived. The dangers of nature took the ducklings swiftly, and I could only mourn by feeding their portions to their siblings.

Today, in the first color changes of Autumn, I felt the cruelty of April. One of my students from third period was expelled. I got the notice from the front office this morning. In response to my lunch-time inquiry, the principal simply stated that the mother of the student was not "on the same page as another teacher at the school." The math teacher.

I knew the student and the math teacher were having issues, but I had no idea the problems were brutal enough to result in an expulsion. The student was not an angel, but he wasn't a devil either. I felt like I failed the student. I was unable to save him from becoming collateral damage in the battle between his mother and the math teacher.

Third period felt noticeably smaller. I made 14 copies of a worksheet as usual, but had one left over. It was then I felt Spring: third period only has 13 ducklings in it.

The Simple Answers

At the end of every period, while the students are zipping their bags and rustling their papers, I ask them, "What's my philosophy?"

"Leave the room cleaner than we found it," they all reply in mantra-like dirge. They may sound apathetic, but truly, they understand this principle.

The "It" girl, the soccer star, the class clown—they all crouch down, equalized by the custodial task at hand. The jock may have dropped the cheeto, but the prom queen stoops down and paints her fingers with carpet grit and cheesy powder. Even I, the teacher, am not above the policy. I too use my bare hands picking up shattered potato chips and edges of paper torn from unsuspecting corners.

The students roam the classroom; no one loyal to their own territory. Trash, regardless of origin, is collected and disposed.

But every day, there is one student, Jay, huddled around his desk at clean-up time. While the others travel the room like nomads, he stays home at his desk picking up pencils.

Jay, like all the students his age, has trouble keeping his pencil on his desk. When he scrutinizes a passage from his textbook, or when he twists to access his backpack, his pencil rolls onto the floor.

All the students drop their pencils at least three times during class, so this isn't a unique problem. But Jay has taken this common pencil problem and created a wildly unique (and hilarious) solution.

Every time he drops a pencil, he simply reaches into his Naruto pencil box and pulls out a new pencil. At first, I thought he was lazy for not standing up and reclaiming his writing utensil. But after careful study, I've noticed that it is more efficient. In the middle of an essay, he would need to push out his chair, crouch down, find his pencil, stand back up, sit back down, scoot his chair back in; grabbing a new pencil circumvents the whole tedious procedure.

And so, by the end of the 50 minute period, Jay is ankle deep in pencils. Then, when it comes time to enact my philosophy, he springs out of his chair and relines his box with 10+ pencils. Of course I've told him that this particular solution is inefficient, and that it makes a mess. But inside, I secretly applaud him. I envy his youthful problem-solving abilities, unmolded by the "right way" of doing things. How can I punish him? He leaves his area in better condition than he found it.

Even if it is silly...it's a simple, simply charming answer.

Evolving Knowledge

Apes are large animals that are related to...elephants?











I think I'm developing a teaching-induced phobia of paper. There are just so many assignments to grade. I'm organized, to be sure. I have colored coded paper clips (thank you Office Max) and all the papers are in discrete piles per grade. But even the most organized mounds still cause chills.

So when a second-grade teacher sat down next to me at lunch, flustered by a pile of vocab tests, I offered to help correct the exams. "Do you have an extra copy of the answer key?" I asked. She laughed as she slid me half the stack. "What's so funny?"

I unsheathed my red pen and went down to business, and I was soon in on the joke. The test was deliciously easy for me, an adult. Cavern. Torch. Spear. Planet. If only the GRE in Literature was this easy!

Most of the kids got over 90%. But one student really struggled. Spears have blades on the end, not hooks. Torches are used for light, not climbing. And apes are related to monkeys, not elephants.

I remember distinct times in my life where I thought, "I know everything there is to know." I always knew there were random facts outside my grasp, but I thought my main intellectual prowess was complete at, say, age 10. Again at 16. And yet again at 21. It's hard to realize that becoming smarter is not just about facts rattling around in your brain; it's about the actual process of manipulating those facts in intellectual situations.

I looked down at this young second-grader's test. There was once a time when I was unknowingly capped by such a ceiling: a ceiling where simple animal nomenclature challenged the very limits of my knowledge.

We often disregard children as unknowledgeable, but we should cherish that ignorance. Students are microcosms in which teachers have the good fortune to witness, first hand, knowledge in its primordial state: full potential waiting to burst forth into destiny.

Maybe he should have studied harder. Maybe he should have practiced his test taking skills. But really, I have no worries for this student. He's just a mentally clumsy kid waiting to evolve into a genius.

Viewing the Storm

Today was the first big rain of the season, and the world seemed to kowtow to its power. The drive to work was interminable. Traffic splashed along at 35 mph down the 880, and hydroplaning cars geysered leaves and twigs onto my windshield.

My classroom, constructed in the 1950s, provided little shelter from the storm. The roof leaks about 2 feet from my desk, which is just far enough that the school won't immediately rectify the situation but just close enough that tiny beads of splashing water pepper my desk papers.

With every gust of wind outside, the joints of the classroom creaked like an arthritic man easing into a rocking chair. Because there's a hole in the side of the building, the Lucite light coverings flap up and down with each exhaled puff of wind. The lights flickered on and off as the decrepit wiring in the building struggled to keep pace with the vigorous storm.

"Mr. Judo, I can't work on grammar. I feel like I'm in a haunted house." Firetruck sirens from two blocks away alluded to a rain-caused crash. I was safe from the dangers of the slick roads, but even I could not escape the vengeful ghosts who patrol the school.

"Just focus. The storm will be over soon." Nature never misses a chance to make a fool of me.

The wind gained courage and screamed at me to open the door. The thin wooden plank rattled in the door frame like in a Boogie-Man dream. The rain shouted at my students, soaking the windows in its tempest spit.

The students couldn't help themselves. They dropped their grammar books and ran to the window to watch the spectacle unfold. I had to raise my voice to its peak to make myself heard over the cacophony outside. "GET TO YOUR SEATS. YOU'VE ALL SEEN RAIN BEFORE." I had to reprimand them; I can't have students running and gawking at every little hiccup of nature. I felt in control. I felt authoritative.

When the bell rang, the kids armored up in their water-proof coats. Some kids even used my grammar textbook as an umbrella. In the empty classroom, I walked over the window and saw the rain coming in from the side. I imagined myself standing in the horizontal torrent: half my body pelted by slivers of water, half my body dry. I could see the bursts of wind, speckled with rain droplets, pulse and expand like ocean currents across the grass. The amazing powers of nature.

It was a sight worth seeing, and, yet, I had robbed my students just minutes before. My job title has stolen the memories of what it was to be a student: eager, excited, and, sometimes, uncontrollable. In the reign of being a teacher, the unexpected pleasures of students are rarely tolerated.

Gang Violence

Like all things that start wars, it was beautiful. This was no ordinary soccer ball. The tessellation of metallic silver and luxurious purple hexagons begged to be corner kicked. And every day, during the mid-morning and lunch breaks, students play with this wondrous ball on the soccer field adjacent to my classroom.

Now, by soccer field, I mean a 20' x 20' patch of grass that flanks the side of my classroom. The kids go out there and take turns kicking the ball at the side of the building: their imaginary goal. They always use this Helen of Troy of soccer balls.

Today, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, and the seven students politely knocked on my window asking if they could play soccer. I waved them through like usual. But minutes later, something was amiss. They were missing their ball. Apparently, it had be left outside during the mid-morning break. But where was it now?

I helped them search, and at the exact same moment, like an over-dramatic movie scene, the seven students and I spotted it. The neighboring school, with whom we share the large open field, had our ball. Between the five boys, a ray of purple metallic essence attracted my eye.

At this point, my seven students were pissed. They were itching to bum rush these rivals. But I quickly shepherded my kids back inside, telling them "it's just a ball."

I should have taken my own advice, but I just had to be the heroic leader.

Without my posse of seven, I walked alone to the other school leaving behind the safety of my own turf. At first, the hooligans were only about two inches tall on the horizon, but as I approached, my nervousness and their height grew. One boy, no more than 12 years old, towered over me.

"Excuse me fellas," I said, unable to see their faces back lit by the sun, "but I think that's my ball."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"Because that's my silver and purple ball." I was trying to defend myself from mere children.

"Nah, man. It's ours."

What a bold-faced lie! That was my fucking ball! And they stole it, and were now lying to a teacher.

"It's my ball. Please return it. You took it from outside my classroom." I could feel my face flushing red from the sunlight and the pressure. I was behind enemy lines. My "teacher" status of privilege and power were worthless.

"Nah, man. It's ours." I saw his eyes drift down to my school crest on my shirt, and I saw the glint of disrespect. It was like were flashing our gang signs. I wanted to find a teacher and explain the situation. But there were no teachers to be found. Apparently I'm a teacher, but I didn't feel like it.

1:10. I had to get back to my class. I could keep arguing and maybe get fired for being tardy to my own class, I could grab it from them and risk having an all out gang lawsuit, or I could retreat. I chose to walk away defeated. I had let the five 12-year-old street toughs dominate me.

I know it would have been wrong to start a fight, but I dragged my feet through the dirt on the way back, nursing the bruises on my ego. I felt inadequate as the leader of my gang. I had let my homies down, and I have to live with that.

Gangs are one scary mother.