The Best Invention EVER.

Electricity’s good. And I’m glad that I have indoor plumbing instead of a pit toilet. Computers are pretty clever, and anything that plays music gets a thumbs up in my book. But, there is one invention, that as a student teacher, I cannot live without.

You ready for this?

Ladies and gentlemen... I present.... the paperclip!

Oh yeah. Indoor plumbing be damned. I'll take paperclips any day, and pee in the woods. What? Your pencil lead broke off in your sharpener, and now it won’t work? Hold on a sec. I’ll uncurl my handy dandy paperclip and poke the lead back through. Your button fell off and your skirt won’t stay up without one? Well, well, well. Don't worry about mooning the world, Madeline. All you have to do is twist a paperclip through and cinch the opening shut. Hair coming undone on picture day? Paperclip! Your wrist-wrap won't stay on? Paperclip! Your student teacher's a maniac? Paperclip! See? Problem solved!

It's my magic wand, my dexterous organizer, my new favorite tool. Of course, I probably shouldn't speak too loudly about my love affair with that sexy little twist of metal... the duct tape people will probably come after me. Bunch of fanatics. They'll chase me into the boonies, and then I probably will be peeing in the woods.

Of course then I'll be needing another fabulous invention: toilet paper.

They call her "The Troll"

Her nose is a skier's dream. It stretches for what seems like miles, curving back and forth. Moguls upon mogules. And at the end? A perfectly pointed jump. A skier's dream.
She’s got a mass of curly brownish-blackish hair that somehow, despite its curls, looks anything but bouncy. It sits there like sludge. Thick, brackish tendrils of head sludge.

She follows me around, too closely. Invading my bubble. I can smell her. She hints of kitty litter. Day old tuna sitting in the garbage can. Pickle brine. I am polite. I smile, offer things for her to do, things that involve moving away from me. She sticks like a leech. If I turn around too quickly, I’ll run right into her, I just know it, so I move slowly, inching down the board, away from her, as I write.

Finally, she tires of me and away she wanders. I start my science lesson. Across the room, she sits there, staring into space. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Minutes pass. The lesson continues. She’s still not doing anything! I drop a few hints, hoping to edge her into productivity, but it doesn’t work. Instead, she does something else. She falls asleep.

What?! She’s fallen asleep during my science lesson! Here I am, bouncing around the room, drawing pictures on the board, singing about chemical weathering for the love of pants, and she’s asleep! I can’t believe it. Am I that boring? Am I? Am I failing? Oh god, I’m a failure. I’m a failure and she’s sleeping.

The class starts to giggle. They’ve noticed her, sleeping over there in the corner. Her head does the little bob-jerk thing, and she wakes up. Peers around like “did I miss anything?” Blinks slowly.

In my head, I purse my lips. I want to shoot The Look of Total Disapproval at her, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be nice. Or professional. So I continue teaching. Hopping around like a flea on speed. And the kids are shouting out answers! Hands and voices fill the air! They sing my song, do my dance. Hurray! They get it! They’re learning!

I glance over.

Damn it!

She’s ASLEEP AGAIN!

The bell rings. Class is over. The kids gather their things and make for the door, shouting and carousing like only 6^th graders know how.

She scoops up her things and follows them along, taking quick little steps to the door. Like a penguin. An excited penguin. Before exiting she looks up at me briefly, eyes sparkling and alive.

“Good day,” she comments.

The substitute teacher.

One of Life's Great Mysteries... SOLVED!

Can somebody explain to me why 8^th grade boys are gargantuan human beings… but high school freshmen are, well... tiny? One year, they’re lumbering sharks, the next they’re slippery little minnows. How does that happen?

It’s like Puberty’s on some time-is-money kick and is trying to get the job done as quickly as possible. Then, smack dab in the middle of the whole messy ordeal, it just stops. Puberty looks down at the poor kid.

The rubber soles of his gym shoes have almost completely separated from the rest of the shoe. Pants are baggy, hair’s too long. Probably to cover up what looks like Olympus Mons in the middle of his forehead. In fact, all the boys are stooping like a bunch of Quasimodos, and none of them look even the slightest bit happy.

Puberty feels rather sheepish.

“Heh. You know, I think I took that a little too quickly. Your voice is cracking all over the place, and your feet are popping right out of your shoes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you. I can tell you’re uncomfortable, so I’m gonna do this recoil thing and bring you back to where you were circa 5 years ago. You seemed pretty happy back then! But, hey, no hard feelings—I’ll leave you with the acne and the body odor. Think of it as a consolation gift. Okay?”

Gee, thanks Puberty. Now Cute-Girl-with-the-Blossoming-Breasts will definitely go out with me. So, the boys rewind and have to start all over again.

This is why, I surmise, it takes boys ages longer than girls to mature—they’ve got to go through the whole blasted process twice. Midlife crisis, nothin’. They’re just finally getting there. Girls on the other hand, keep riding the train straight on through until they’re in their 50s and feeling hot flashes. There’s no such thing as reverse in the girl universe.

This, of course, solves another one of life’s great mysteries. Why is it that I have such a terrible time driving backwards, but my favorite boy can do so with a disgusting amount of finesse? It’s the puberty recoil, folks. I’d bet my weight in minnows on it.

Greetings! Nice to meet you... who are you again?

My name is not Mesothelioma Jones.

But, for the purpose of this journal, that’s precisely what I’m going to call myself. Why? The answer is two-prong. Partially, it’s to protect the students that I write about, and partially because I think “Mesothelioma” is an awesome word. Rolls off the tongue. Of course, it’s basically the disease you get when you inhale too much asbestos and your lungs start to rot away… nothing funny about that… but still a great word. Besides, I tend to identify a bit with asbestos. It’s the type of material that sticks. If asbestos could talk, it’d tell you that it doesn’t give up. It’s ruthless. It’s a stubborn little fighter. And, even better, it’s fire retardant.

Even when I want to knock their heads together, I still love my little varmints and want them to learn, to be excited, and even to ask ridiculous questions that don’t relate to the current discussion (Example. Today, we were talking about congruent versus similar shapes, and one of my students said with great enthusiasm “Hey, if you leapt off the Statue of Liberty, how long would it take you to hit the ground?” …where did that come from? Anyone??). I don’t plan on giving up on them, even if they’ve given up on themselves. Hence, stubborn little fighter.

On my sorry excuse for a desk, attached to my tape dispenser, is a note. It simply says “calm.” Sometimes, out of frustration and anger, it’s easy to free one’s inner banshee. But I don’t want to do that. For so many teachers, it becomes a crutch. Start off nice, end up screaming by the end of class. Sometimes some serious disapproval is warranted, but I can’t see letting the kids know they’re getting to you. Once they figure out how to push your buttons, you’re toast. Delicious, crispy toast. So, show no buttons, and they learn they can’t inflame you. Fire retardant. Of course, this doesn’t mean I plan to be an icy-hearted dragon lady with no warmth at all…

I’ll just tell them that I am in cold grey tones, and laugh when they discover I’m lying. Coolness on the outside, with warmth and all sorts of silliness bubbling up from within.

Lately, I’ve taken to telling them that I’m a “totally serious individual” and that I have “absolutely no sense of humor.” Of course, by saying this, they have the intense desire to prove me wrong… and make me smile. But, they don’t realize I’ve tricked them. If they win, I’m smiling. If they win, I win. Because they’ve done something right. Said something clever. Completed the first math homework assignment in a month. They’re proud that they proved me wrong, and I’m proud that they worked for something. No sir, you can’t put egg on my face. Course, this technique will only work for so long. But call me Daisy Lou, and give me a short three-legged stool, for I plan on milkin’ this baby for as long as I can.

But there I go again, off on a tangent. To get back on track: in this blog, I tend to write about all of my adventures in student teaching. The good, the bad, and the smelly. I invite you to share your thoughts and stories with me. Hopefully we’ll all learn a little and maybe, just maybe, even smile.

There's Always a Brutus

There’s going to be a smelly kid. And he’s going to sit right by your desk.

But, you’re not going to notice it. Not right away. For the first couple of days, you’re going to sit there; eyebrows furrowed wondering “Where is that smell coming from?” And then “Is that me? Do I smell?” The nose will dip down toward the armpit, and the furrow between the brows will turn into a crevasse not unlike the Mariana Trench. I thought I put deodorant on… I haven’t even been in front of the class yet, and I’m not THAT nervous… God, what is that smell?

The first days are brutal. The kids make more ruckus than an army of baboons, and there are always more of them than you expect. You glance up, and before your eyes they seem to multiply. Like bacteria. So before they split again, you memorize their names, their best friends (for the moment), and the members of the opposite sex that they like to stare longingly at. And, right in the middle of all the hubbub, there it is again. That smell, wafting through the air, headed straight for your nose.

And suddenly, the light bulb goes on. It’s not you, its Brutus (lets call him Brutus, shall we?). It’s been Brutus all along! Joy! You feel like dancing in the ocean, or skipping through fields of flowers. It’s not me! It’s not me! The stench isn’t me!

Then, you realize why he’s by your desk. None of the other students want to sit by him. He disgusts them. They won’t even sit in his chair if he’s absent. So, the poor student sits by you, his only friend. And herein lies part II of the problem: Brutus is the type of student who wants to be by the teacher. Close to the teacher. As close to the teacher as the rules of school would allow. He brings you gifts. He wants to do things for you. You, his only friend.

As his only friend, don’t you have an obligation to tell him that, well, he smells? But how do you do that? How do you tell a kid that he reeks like he’s been swimming in the sewers without offending him? Brutus is a hard working student, and a nice young lad after all. You don’t want to upset him. You just don’t want him, or his fetid stench, clinging to you. You just want him to learn. To bathe.

Of course, you haven’t begun teaching yet. You may need Brutus as the weeks go on. Because it’s possible, that just as Brutus isn’t aware of his ghastly aroma, you aren’t aware of yours. As a person, you’re fantastic, but as a teacher—you stink.