Type 1 Personality

We are studying the digestive system, which as it turns out, is one of my favorite things to teach. If someone would have told me a decade ago that I'd be standing in front of 32 11-year-olds talking about poop, I would have blushed crimson and vehemently disagreed. I am dainty! Dignified! Distinguished!

At the age of 10 I stubbornly informed my grandmother that if one had to describe one bodily function, one was to say "passed gas." Fart? What a horrid word! How repulsive. Uncouth! Neanderthal. Besides, girls don't break wind OR poop. Didn't you know?

Today? I find myself awfully potty-mouthed.
The other day, however, one kids tried to prematurely one-up me.

Boy 1: Poop! HEH HEH HEH! POOP!
Me: Seriously? That's the BEST you've got? Am I supposed to be grossed out? Pfft.

( Come on. Do you not know who I am? Have I not already educated you about penis-dwelling parasites? Have we not talked about possible jellyfish remedies? Have I not grotesquely described my various dissections? The flight of vitreous humor? The formaldehyde-inducing eye tearing and gag reflex?)

Okay, so you think poop is hilarious? Fine. I'll tell you all about constipation. I will draw the descending colon on the board. We will talk about water absorption. What is that?
You think repeating the word diarrhea over and over again is riotous? Okay, Bevis (or is it... Butthead?). Let me talk about that too.
What? You don't know about BOWEL OBSTRUCTIONS? How can you say you've LIVED if you haven't talked about BOWEL OBSTRUCTIONS?
Okay. Let's see if you think THAT'S funny. Let the party BEGIN!
Wait, what is this? The giggling... is now nervous? What? You don't WANT to hear about your own bowel movements? But... why ever not? I thought that's what you wanted....

And, let's be honest. While I do have some fantastic students, I have a handful of real...shitty ones... as well.

I think I will start referring them by classification according to this chart: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Bristol_Stool_Chart.png

Some days, don't you just wish you could point to this chart and say to a coworker, student, daughter of a friend or so on....

"Cindy Lou, today, you've got a Type 1 personality. A real, how do I say, pain in my ass?"

25

My kids... threw me a surprise party. They invited my favorite 7th graders. They had crepe decorations, balloons, copious amounts of sugar, and stacks of presents.

I was stunned.
So, there are 2 options to consider:

The Optimist
They don't hate my guts!

The Realist?
Any excuse to get out of class and party is a good one....

Thoughts?

Redemption

100 pounds of chocolate-eyed fury, 62 inches of brunette dynamo, twelve and three quarter years of experience bursts into the room. The time: 11:55. The place: room 615. The spectacle: three ring.

Words ignite and flow like lava bursting from a cindercone.

"Who is disrespecting my Miss J? I've been hearing that THIS class be disrespecting MY Miss J!"

A handful of 7th grade cronies follow, arms crossed, eyes glaring. They surround a square of students, eyes narrowed and lips stern.

"Yeah," they echo. "Who's disrespecting Miss J?"

The fiery assault continues:
"Donchu know? Donchu know that Miss J is the best teacher you will ever have? Donchu know that Miss J cares more about you than anything? Why you gotta be disrespectin' that? Huh?!"

Fists pump, as her face reddens. Her eyes gleam, a mixture of ice chips and torch flame.
She turns to me, eyes still ablaze, long dark hair like a curtain angrily whipped back from a window.

"So, who's doin' it, Miss J? Be specific. I need to talk some sense into them."

Fingers point. Nervous laughter emits. Its him! No its not! You are!

For 15 minutes, Monica interrogates various suspects, making them stand and, in turn, apologise to me.

At one point, I stop her.
"Mon, did you like me when you first met me?"
"Awww heck no. You get that? I DOGGED her for DAYS. I treated her like CRAP. I though, pfft, what does this chick know?...."

She pauses, looks at me a second, gaze softening miraculously, then glares back at the class.

"Miss J made me realize I had to change my attitude, my perspective. And I did. And then I had the best year of my life. You gotta trust her. Miss J? She knows whats up."

Mon nods in my direction. "Gotta go. You need me, Miss J, you call me."

One final dagger stare, and the team walks out the door.

Redemption.

The Blimp Lies

The truth is... nothing has changed. My low class stares at me with puzzled expressions as I wait patiently for lightbulbs to flicker on. They don't.

My average class shouts and bullies. Insult after insult piercing the air as if shish-kabobed on a javelin. Never ending. (And not even creative. Couldn't they at least call each other paramecium? That, at least, would be an intelligent insult.)

Their cruelty tires me.

We do class bonding activities, work together, try to say "yes, I can" more often. We have a "shout out box" and a laminated poster they can write happy messages on. The room drips with color and creativity and positivity, and yet... they aren't getting the message. What is it that makes them so mean? I'm not being mean.



In my partner teacher's class, one special education student shouts to another "YOU FUCKING RETARD!"

What is this? Who allows these children to speak this way to each other? We write them up if its bad enough, and the principal (who refers to herself as my "friend." Gag me.) ignores the disciplinary request. But only if its written up by my partner. If I do it, then maybe, just maybe, something will get done.

Every day, I walk in hoping that I will have a good day. Slap that smile on my face. Every day I leave feeling like a total failure. I think if only I just work a little more tonight... things will get better.
If only I create one more project, then they'll get it. One more power point, then they'll see. One more try, another go. More money spent, less z's kept.

I am miserable.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like this, which should make me feel less miserable, but it doesn't. Morale is sinking. Something is slinking, squeezing the life out of the school. I feels like I'm stuck in a pool of quicksand rimmed by a hundred-pound anaconda. There's this terrible fear, this cloud of stench in the air, this feeling. Something bad is going to happen.


Stress, stress, stress. I try to breathe through it all, try to take moments for myself, afternoons that I devote to writing, drawing, walking, petting the cat.

And then? Disaster. Last Tuesday, I found myself shrieking on the floor of the teacher's restroom. There was no Miss J. No personality. No me in that chrysalis, face sweating, forehead puckering, convulsing on the floor (the joys of being female).

Pure, unbridled pain. Toe-curling, hair-pulling, teeth-clenching pain. The type of pain where you frantically think I might lose control of my bowels and then, as you howl in agony, all you can do is pray that you do not. Most embarassment fades when pain is strong, but dignity can still be wounded, even when pain's at its worst.



The paramedics (stone faced, like hup-two soldiers, man-made emotionless robots of their job's design) took me away. After an ambulance ride (the man in the backseat looked past me, bored, as tears streamed down my face) and 45 minutes of total agony in the hospital (IV, catheter, blood leeched from my veins) morphine in all its lovliness dripped into me, and finally my screaming stopped. I fell into a quiet, dreamless sleep.


That night?
Exhausted.
I slept on and off until 8:30 pm, when I finally hit the sack.

I went back to work the next day.
The kids treated me like shit.

Why am I killing myself for you?
Why am I working so damn hard?

Because, awful as they can be... I still care about them, their futures.
And I don't know how to stop.