Steve Jobs is a better teacher than me.

If I had any kind of access to vital learning tools, like internets or computers, I would use this Apple commercial when I teach 1984 to this year's group of seniors.



Because:

a. My students only respond to visuals, and only learn from pictures, and
b. We could discuss the irony of a mega-corporation assuring us "1984 won't be like '1984.'"

But on the bright side, at least my job affords me the necessary free time to indulge in profound existential despair.

Children come (to the gym for indefinite holding periods) first.

.
Quandary: What should you do when it's August 23, you are a guidance counselor in a public school system, and 8,000 of the 41,000 high school students in your county still don't have class schedules?

Apparently, if you work for PGCPS, the answer is 'nothing at all.' Even if school starts on August 24. Chillax, baby!

.

And then, when it's September 1, and the problem hasn't magically fixed itself over the course of several nights while you're at home watching Everybody Hates Chris -- give yourself the day off.

.

And on September 2 -- leave work early. I don't mean 'early' like 4:00. School's over at 2:30, so go ahead and leave at noon. You're worth it. Who wouldn't agree that after waiting the entire summer to address a known problem that has prevented you from completing the most important part of your job -- which should have been done months ago, with or without "flaws in the new computer system --" and then making minimal progress over the course of almost two full weeks, that you've earned this time off?

And while we're on the subject -- what does 'new' really mean, anyway? Because SchoolMax, the demonized computer program you've been publicly blaming for the total exposure of your stunning incompetence, has been up and running for over a year. A year. I mean, is a one year-old still a newborn, then? I feel like we're not even speaking the same language.

And should you even bother to tell the teachers what's going on? Fuck, no! They're only the most important people in the school -- keep them on a need-to-know basis, because it's not like they need to know anything about, you know, students or classes. Continually stall them in the weeks before school with ambiguous half-answers and glaring omissions when they express concern over the obvious red flags popping up everywhere.

Remember all those times last year when you demanded they block out instructional time so you could come in and talk to their classes about various items of banal minutiae -- and then didn't show up at all? These people love surprises. Remember their looks of unadulterated joy when they walked into work on August 24 and gazed upon a sea of pissed off adolescents herded into the gym like cattle?

It was like Christmas for them. The only thing better was when you started putting 50 freshmen in 11th grade history classrooms with 35 desks just to get a few kids out of the gym. What the hell? I mean, they'd get to 11th grade eventually, right? Standing against cinderblock walls in poorly-ventilated rooms for 90 minutes at a time like Jews at Dachau will improve everyone's posture. And maybe they'll learn about that this year.

I'm really pleased with my new leadership.

Rolled into school for my first of four mandatory days of "professional development," before the students show up to "learn," at 8:00 this morning. On my way there, I kept thinking about how lucky I was last year because I was only asked to write one recommendation letter. And, I thought, I should try to be positive about the new administration -- we have two new assistant principals (Hot Pocket Enforcer is gone), and a new principal. I allowed myself to think the one thing you should never, ever verbalize in these types of situations: How much worse can it get?


I was pounding my fists into the wall of my classroom, trying to get posters to stick, when M, an 11th grader from last year ambled in and asked for a recommendation. I don't recommend M for anything, aside from maybe a few rounds of electroshock therapy, but, I asked, "When do you need it?"

That was after I read Hot Pocket Enforcer's jaunty email about his transfer; it was rife with unconcealed glee, and said something to the effect of Peace out ... bitches.

The one assistant principal remaining from last year informed me, bluntly, that I owe him a favor because he wrote me a recommendation; apparently, the former principal's email got forwarded to him when she got promoted for being completely ineffectual. So now I probably have to chair a committee or something.

My favorite part about working here has always been watching the scum rise to the top of the quagmire with meteoric speed. So, I feel really good about my new leadership now that they've called a meeting about Procedure X without first bothering to find out what we did last year -- or deciding how Procedure X will be handled this year. I especially appreciated that after waiting around for three hours -- during which time it was impossible to do anything productive because the class schedule, apparently, is best kept a clandestine secret until the last possible second -- to attend this mandatory meeting that was only scheduled to take 15 minutes, and probably took less time because no one had any idea what was going on. But we started late.

Generation Worst.

As much as I dislike teacher kitsch, such as crafty holiday sweaters, or the keychain I found in my mailbox today ("5 Reasons Why I Became a Teacher: 1. weekends; 2. snow days; 3. Easter vacation; 4. Christmas vacation; 5. summer vacation"), two facepalm-inducing events today have forced me to consider purchasing one of those ceramic jars labelled Ashes of former students.

Colleagues: drink the pain away.

1. The huge number of female 11th graders who thought it was a good idea to turn in a final portfolio with a picture of themselves posed semi-provocatively on the cover page astounds and disturbs me. To be fair, I never said not to do this. To be fairer, it ought to go without saying that the world is not Myspace; your English teacher knows what you look like, and she would prefer not to be saddled with 90 softcore child pornfolios.

2. And then there's "Cloud 9," a haiku homage not written for Caryl Churchill:

Cloud 9

High up in the sky

Sitting on cloud 9 is fly

I am really high

This author did not include a picture of himself (because I'll see him again next year), but he did title his project "A Poem to Share is a Poem that Cares." I hesitate to even assume he used personification intentionally, but at least he gets rhyming. And it's not like the only thing he consistently excelled in this year was being a huge waste of time and space -- he also inspired me to write a haiku of my own.

Cloudy, With a Chance of FAIL

This is why you got
ninety out of two-forty.
How fly is that, bitch?

Meta-licious.

A Spanish teacher/ Nice White Man at my school sent me this video today, along with a photo of four of the NWLs together in adorable white-lady clothes at last Friday's graduation.



I will find a way to work this video into a lesson plan.

"I'd love to, but you're intolerable."

Last Friday, I had a really good time with another teacher's co-workers. I never hang out with my co-workers because they are all either old, or live in Virginia. So, here's a problem: the school librarian keeps trying to hang out with me. And now, here are some reasons why that absolutely cannot happen:

1. She is a Close Talker
2. with occasionally foul breath.
3. She has something rude to say about everyone
4. which she somehow makes irritating, rather than funny.
5. Every time I've asked her a library-related question, it's "not her job" to tell me the answer, know the answer, or know who to ask for the answer.
6. Somehow, she has gotten the idea that her only job is to prevent students from ever using the library
7. and she walks around screaming at them.
8. In the library.
9. And now none of my students can do research projects,
10. effectively widening the achievement gap.
11. She has the voice of Bruce Willis's girlfriend in Pulp Fiction
12. with some sort of unidentifiable accent (Now, imagine that -- screaming. In the library).
13. She is in her 50s.
14. She is painfully stupid.

Exhibit A

15. She is already too chummy for my liking, and continues her one-sided conversations with me, even as I am plainly backing out the door, nodding silently.

I've never been good at hiding my disdain, and I'm not sure how I can be any ruder to this woman. Today, she got in my face, singing, asking me to identify the song. I said, "I have no idea. Because I was born in the 80s." I can only assume she keeps trying to hang out with me because of reason #14. Or because, despite reason #14, she has noticed my disdain and now she wants to talk to me about a close personal relationship with Jesus. I can't figure it out, but I'm running out of excuses. Today was my second successful dodge of a phone number request.

Last night, SMF told me a story about a co-worker who hangs out in the men's restroom trying to dip his elderly pe(e)n in the 20-something company ink. Is that what this is? It just occurred to me that I might have to find a diplomatic way to turn down an intolerable date with a socially retarded elderly lesbian because there is no way I can avoid the library, as it's the only place I can print or copy anything, because I don't work in a real school. If I did, I'd just give her the local Rejection Hotline number.

I have to give this some serious thought. Right now, I can't come up with anything other than, "Well, I would, but, you know, I can't stand you," or, "I'm sorry, I can't, because you remind me too much of the witch from Hansel and Gretel."

The Whitest Kids You Know.

I know where they won't be this weekend (here).

Now that I know my students were disqualified this year because too many of them don't meet the minimum GPA requirement and our choreographer told us to fuck off, I'll just keep watching this Alice in Wonderland montage from another school in the county.



I picked that one hoping to see pregnant catwalkers, because Bladensburg has a day care facility on site. For students' kids.

What would Miss J say? Is that elegant? I can't tell anymore.



Still, it's nice to see school spirit -- if only in YouTube comments:

dat white gurl did her shytt!!!

we shouldve got 1st an yall no it its iight doe my mova went to surratsville an i do now

oh korsi dey faken lyke shyt but whole tyme everytyme we do catwalk we place and for da dumb bytch we placed sec and everyone knows we shouldve came in 1st sucky ass oxon but we got them next year

And so will I.

Perhaps because he remembered my extemporaneous lecture about why it was probably a bad idea to go to the tattoo parlor down the road that advertises half-price tattoos on an old, spray-painted plank of wood, when I passed 12th grade Nick in the hallway before class today, he was really excited to tell me, with a newly acquired lisp, that he got his tongue pierced over spring break.

So, then I had him lead the discussion on Tolstoy's "How Much Land Does a Man Need?" because it was funny to me to hear him say 'much,' 'does,' and 'Tolstoy' over and over again.

12th grade Shantal and I continued arguing the merit of the Twilight series.

"Shantal," I said, "I'm on page 465 in the second book, and nothing has happened yet. Only one thing has happened so far in the entire series. What's the basis of its appeal?"

"Well," she said, "I know some people who read the whole series just to get to the sex scene in book four."

"It can't be that good. The author is a Mormon."

"A what?"

"I know, right? ... Mormons are a particular type of Christian. They're really into not having premarital sex."

"Oh..."

"Ok -- I never want to hear that The Iliad is boring again. Who would read 1,900 pages just to get to a sex scene that ends in conception?"

"I know some people."

"You did, didn't you, Shantal?"

"Yeah. I did."

Attention: Grown-Ass Women

Please stop peeing on the toilet seat in the teacher's lounge.

The Giggle Loop, or: How I Almost Got Fired Over a Hot Pocket

My friend, Chris, mooned me at school. It was lunch time. I’m sure I deserved it. I don’t remember what I said to him on the bleachers to make him get up abruptly and walk halfway across the football field before revealing two fluorescent white ass cheeks, then calmly walk to French class, but I do remember that I somehow ended up in the principal’s office for the incident, not him.

Perhaps it’s this memory, or my longstanding disdain for authority, that made my biggest fear about teaching high school that I wouldn’t be able to maintain a straight face in the middle of an absurd disciplinary situation.

Today, that fear was realized.

11th grade – we were all waiting for the guidance counselor to come in to talk about scheduling classes for next year. A raised her hand.

A: Can I go see Mrs. H and get a Hot Pocket?
Me: What?
A: A Hot Pocket. You know, with the dough, and they have that pizza filling inside.
C: Yeah, those joints are good!
Me: Yeah, I know what they are, and I still don’t understand the question.
J: Mrs. H sells Hot Pockets for $1.
Me: What?
C: And sandwiches, and cookies.
A: And sometimes, chips.
J: You should do it too. You could make a lot of money.

The enormously high percentage of students at my school who qualify for free lunch comes to mind. This is the only way I can make sense of what I’m hearing. We’re still a couple hours away from lunch, and I wonder whether A has eaten yet today.

Me: Ok, fine.
R: Can I get one, too?
Me: Sure. Why not?
A: You want one?
Me: No, thanks.

Less than five minutes later, one of the assistant principals – the one who’s seven feet tall – is at my door with A and R, livid. A is eating a Hot Pocket that smells like old broccoli. The AP is holding a clipboard and wearing a houndstooth blazer that I could wrap around my body three times. R is looking at me, expectantly.

AP: Have A and R been in your class at all today?
Me: Yes.
AP: Did you tell them they could leave to get a Hot Pocket?
Me: I did.
AP: Well, A is on a no-pass policy.
Me: I didn’t know that.
AP: Can I speak with you alone for a second?
Me: Sure.

I open the door for A and R and, from deep inside room 108, someone sings, “Hoooot Poocket,” and it begins: the Giggle Loop. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch slightly upward.

AP: Why would you do that? If this was some other class, maybe. But this is English. Come on.

And – there. There’s where it all went wrong. Because I don’t know how to talk to authority figures, I couldn’t decide whether there was any use trying to explain that I was concerned about whether A and R’s parents feed them. I assessed AP’s level of fury and concluded that I was going to get browbeaten either way, and any attempt to explain why I might have felt like it was ok for two students to leave class for a few minutes and buy contraband Hot Pockets in the middle of English class would be regarded as a flimsy excuse for my perceived negligence. And, of course, the absurdity of having to stand in the hallway defending my pedagogy over a black market Hot Pocket made the whole thing ludicrously funny. Eventually, I spoke again.

Me: Well, is there an official Hot Pocket policy?
AP: Pardon?
Me: I mean, would it have been ok for A and R to get a Hot Pocket from Mrs. H during lunch, or would R have to go get both of them because A is on a no-pass policy? Can you only buy Hot Pockets during elective classes?
AP: Look. We’re trying to help you, and we’re doing the best we can. We have a hard enough time keeping kids in class without you sending them out for Hot Pockets.

Hoooot Poocket.

Me: Ok.
AP: They need this class.
Me: I know. But I can turn my classroom into a concession stand, and you’ll look the other way?

Hoooot Poocket.

AP: No, I’m not telling you to do that.
Me: Right.
AP: I should write you up for this. But, I’m not going to.
Me: Thanks.

But now I wish he had written me up for this. I would highlight every mention of Hot Pockets, frame it, and put it on my wall.

Scenes from work.

.

Rejected album cover for Blood on the Tracks.

.

.

No opportunity to lower the bar left behind.

Welcome to my class.

Big Brother saw you do a half-assed job on your Beowulf drawing.

This outrageous act of teenage rebellion brought to you by Sharpie.

The kids aren't alright.

I found a note after school today.

Im pregnant by Lonnie dont tell nobody cause nobody really know Im like 2 weeks now! [sic]

And then I found this next to my car.

I'm a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude.

Even though parents have brought guns to my school to give to their kids -- so that they could shoot other kids -- yesterday was the first incident of violence that involved the successful implementation of weaponry.

I hate to brag, but we made it all the way through the winter break before someone tried to cut a bitch with a box cutter. Because no one actually got hurt, I'm willing to admit that this is somewhat humorous to me; I know you can hijack a plane with one, but it's still the world's lamest weapon. I remember using them in art class, in elementary school. That this one-sided knife fight happened in a Spanish class elevates the story's status to Hilarious in my eyes.

Ultimate Co-Worker, Conversations with the Third Reich, and the Wisdom of Woody Allen.

(December 7, 2006)

I am always glad to have the Ultimate Co-worker with me during close encounters with obvious lunatics. Since I've started slinging the coffee, steaming the milk, icing the chai, and so forth, I haven't met too many notable crazies. I mean, no one can keep up with Sam. However, this means that the crazies I do meet are all the more memorable.

Tuesday, for example, an Aryan gentleman came in for something other than tea. Still, something about the tea display compelled him to comment disdainfully: "Zen tea? You think Japanese people drink Christian tea?"

In these sorts of situations -- in which there is no correct answer -- I find it's best to go with something non-committal in the interest of sidestepping any potential outbreak of physical violence. Had I not been talking to a psycho, I could have said what I was thinking: "Nothing tastes better than a steamy cup of self-righteous hypocrisy." I think, instead, I went with something like, "Uh ... hmm" while Ultimate Co-Worker said, "Right, man."

Today, as I was mid-latte, a tall psycho thought it'd be really fun to lurk around over the espresso machine and then quiz me over the contents of his companion's drink.

Tall psycho: So, what -- you just steam milk?
Me: Yeah, and then blend it with espresso.
TP: Gross.
Me: Actually, it's kind of delicious.
TP: I bet you think it is.
Me: Ok. Fine. We're done here.

After today's tall psycho, I kept thinking about that scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is interviewing people on the street -- "I ask a psychopath, I get that kind of an answer." I've come to appreciate the Sorostitute consumer; at least they're too busy talking into their cell phones to engage me in conversation.