I did it!

I got my classroom cleaned up as of yesterday. I worked like the dickens this weekend. This is the earliest I have had my classroom cleaned up in my entire teaching career. I am so relieved.

This has got to be the dullest blog I have written and I cannot imagine that, other than my principal ,who was quite pleased, there is not one soul on the planet who would find this newsworthy or interesting, howver I have the momentum and am now ready to tackle some other big projects.

So there.

Look out sock drawer, here I come.

Be Careful What You Email; It Says Much More Than You Think

A dear friend of mine decided to get divorced after decades of an unhappy marriage. I never got to know her spouse so to comment on him would be unfair. When my friend decided to divorce her husband started writing her and emailing her very l-o-n-g and verbose letters. She shared them with close friends simply because she didn't know what to make of them. He didn't want to get divorced and I saw his letters as being very possessive. My friend didn't see this because she was so used to it.


Today another email arrived. They are difficult to read, not because of any real pain on his part but because they are so very tedious and all about him. It's as if, like a student, he mistakenly believes that the more he writes the clearer he makes himself. Wrong! The more words he writes the more he incriminates himself. I performed a little word analysis breakdown for her. It is as follows:


Dearest Friend,

I think what [his name] didn't know he said is more telling than his words. Look at the breakdown very, very carefully. I believe we know who he believes this is all about by a very clear margin. Again, you are doing the right thing.

I = 22
me = 13
myself = 1
man = 1
my = 12
.........................................
total = 49

...........................................

you = 12
your = 2
woman = 3
[friend'name] 1
............................................
total = 18


God = 3

us = 1

........................................................................................................

Love, Your Friend

DIVA / VICTIM / BULLY

One would think after having taught for twenty-nine years you’d have seen everything. Wrong. Yesterday, our last day of classes, Samuel was suspended within ten minutes of the beginning of the day.

Samuel was acting inappropriately. Nothing new with that. His behavior was always much worse when he was off his meds. This last week of school was not the week to be unmedicated. Even with his meds Samuel was one of the most hyper-active students I’ve ever had, but he could be funny and charming, and good-grief the kid was bright. Samuel could be delightful. Being hyper-active myself I have a pretty high tolerance level for high-energy children, but Samuel went far over the line yesterday.

Samuel will probably make a great actor, and yesterday’s re-run of his (future) Academy Award Winning Diva/Victim/Bully performance will go down in history. Each performance is a little different, with his lightning change from Diva to Victim to Bully. Samuel is dazzled by himself. It never loses its fascination.

The students had been advised earlier in the year that the worst and stupidest thing they can say to an adult is to use that sneering tone of voice and yell, “What? What? I didn’t do nothing!” The intention is to intimidate the adult. Yea. This, accompanied with by the gangsta-type arm gestures. Pul-eeze.

That was the act that Samuel decided to pull. I instructed him to go to another classroom. The rule is once you’re calmed down you can come back. All’s forgiven. However, Samuel’s performance continued with the kicking of a chair, the throwing of his back-pack, but the topper was cursing at me. The class sucked in their breath, and I said, “Nope, you’re going to the -” He cut me off, still swearing, and complaining that everyone was against him. Standard operating procedure for a full fledged Diva/Victim/Bully. The class wasn’t even upset because they had seen this act many, many times before, but today, the cherry on top was the cursing at me. He stormed off to the office where the drama stepped up a notch. The principal was not amused. Same verse, same as the first.

Samuel was suspended from school the last day of sixth grade, and he will always believe it’s my fault. That is the world of the Diva/Victim/Bully. Their handbook states very, very clearly that you never, ever take responsibility. Taking responsibility is never allowed by the Diva/Victim/Bully. To say, “I’m sorry”, or “I was wrong”, or “Please forgive me”, would cause them to melt away like the Wicked Witch in “The Wizard of Oz.”

Does any of this seem eerily familiar? Hint: Rosie O’Donnell as the Diva/Victim/Bully on this past week’s program, “The View”. Rosie is funny and charming, and good-grief, she is bright. She is a woman of amazing talent, marvelous wit, and famous generosity, but she said people would see her as a “big, fat lesbian.” That is not true. That’s not how I see her, and I’m sure most reasonable people would agree with me. But Rosie is pulling a Samuel and being a Diva/Victim/Bully. I half-expected Rosie to say, “You’ll be sorry if I die, and it’ll all be your fault!”

Earlier in the year when Samuel, unmedicated again, was having a tantrum, one my students said, “This is getting old.” Rosie, this is getting old.

But what do you do with a Diva/Victim/Bully? Please understand the Diva/Victim/Bully really, truly, in his or her heart of hearts absolutely, positively does not see anything wrong with his or her behavior. Nothing! It is everybody else. It is always somebody else. That is the D/V/B mantra. They believe that with every ounce of their being, and in the meantime, they make life unbearable for everyone who has to live or work or teach them. You will often hear them say, “Payback time,” only it’s not a joke.

What do you do? You don’t play with them anymore. Is that it? Yep. Don’t play. Don’t get mad. Don’t shout. Forgive them for they prefer to know not what they do. Remember the old saying about “negative attention is better than no attention”? No attention is death to a Diva/Victim/Bully. To be the star of your own drama is to be real and alive. Everyone MUST pay attention to you.

We all have Diva/Victim/Bullies in our lives and they can suck the life right out of you. Don’t feel sorry for them, because they win. Don’t respond to their drama, because they win. When you let them walk all over you, they win. The only way to win is to not play (kind of like the lottery.)

Don’t enable them. Diva/Victim/Bullies really need enablers, or sycophants, unless that is something that you choose to do. The Diva/Victim/Bully won’t love you for it. You must only love them. Remember they are the star.

To all the Diva/Victim/Bullies, this has gotten old. We don’t want to play anymore.

The Graduation Audience from Hell

Last night was our sixth grade graduation program. I’m not sure why this is done, but as with any custom, once started, it will continue unless something egregious enough happens to put it to a stop. I believe I witnessed it last night.

First, many of the girls dressed in outfits that were best described by one administrator as “hoochie mama” attire. She was being kind. The wolf whistles from the adult men in the audience were creepy.

Second, the barking, shouting, and screaming by the parents was beyond awful. The principal had said, in her introductory remarks, this was a formal occasion and to hold the applause until each class was finished. This seemed to be taken as a challenge to some. The audience’s crude behavior was better suited to WWF Wrestling. One teacher was repeatedly ridiculed for asking the audience to hold their applause. She finally said, “I give up.” That was greeted with riotous glee.

It was boorishness on a scale the likes of which I have never seen. It was so bad, in fact, that this morning the sixth graders were talking about the fact that they were embarrassed. Maybe the bad audience behavior has reached the “Tipping Point” and that, at least, is a good sign.

May Meltdown

Due to construction work at my school I can’t do my usual, casual, end-of-school clean up. I must have everything done by this coming Friday. I planned on a marathon work week on Mother’s Day weekend, but I came down with the stomach flu. So this weekend I knew I would have to make up for lost time.

I got up early and was getting ready when I discovered that my bottle of silicone-based hair smoother-down glop had leaked all over the cabinet, and everything in it. I had a melt-down. A volcanic melt-down. A break-your-heart melt-down. It was too much. I had one those horrible crying jags where you can’t stop sobbing and you have to gasp for breath. Haven’t had one of those in a long, long time. It was awful. The mess was awful. The gloppy stuff was like cleaning up greasy glue. I cried and gasped, and Gary kept trying to help, poor guy.

Years ago I read that crying releases a hormone that relieves stress. Once I finished my marathon cry and got the cabinet cleaned up and cleaned out, I felt a lot better. The cabinet had needed a roto-rootering anyway and looked pretty spiffy. By the time I got to school I was in a ruthless cleaning and tossing out mode. I actually got a lot done.

My daughter, Alexandra, has always been a merciless tosser. She is not especially sentimental about things and used to help me in my cleaning by being my cheerleader. Maybe that was part of my crying jag. But she would have been proud of me today, and I was proud of me, and, by gosh, I will be ready for vacation on the day school ends. That will be a first in nearly thirty years of teaching.

The Wild 6th Grade Broncos Broke Loose

The wild broncos broke loose. Wild-eyed. Fearful. Panicked. And that was me!

Ach! These poor sixth graders are leaving the comfort zone of elementary school. They are leaving recess. They will no longer be the big cheese. The will be pond-scum seventh-graders. Doormats to eighth and ninth graders. No wonder they are terrified.

Everything I planned for next week is pretty much out the door because they are not coming back into the corral. Where are the dreaded hygiene films that could make anybody comatose? This is the time of year when teachers get on their knees and thank God for videos. I am seriously considering an all video week. Educationally viable, of course, but I am desperate. They actually asked for “Old Yeller”. Hey, it was in our reading book.

If not videos, then worksheets. No. No. That would be too much. After all, they would have to be graded.

The toughest job in the world; actually attempting to teach the last week of school.

Seven Days To Go and a Small Miracle

Being a teacher means you have to be an optimist. There really isn’t any alternative. You have to believe in the kids, especially when they don’t believe in themselves. You must dig and root around for something realistically positive to say to even the most hopeless child. There are miracles just waiting to be discovered, and just when you begin to question yourself those miracles happen. The break-through comes, and it always takes your breath away. Those are the things that make teaching magical. I had one of those today. Lord, I dance in gratitude.

Lester has been an angry kid all year. Angry. Cynical. Mean. Sneaky. Yes, he has had a tough year. Yes, his parents are divorcing. Yes, he did admit, “I have an anger management problem.” But every once in a while he would let down his guard and I would see the vulnerable child. He was in there but really hidden behind the barbed wire. Today he broke out.

As an end of book project for Johnny Tremain I have my students write letters (to be mailed or not) rather than the dreaded book report. They have to write a summary, tell their favorite and least favorite parts and explain their answers. The last part is where they explain whether they think the book might affect someone’s life, or might affect their own lives. Lester’s words were not out of the ordinary, he hated the part where Rab died he wrote, but as I read through his rough draft Lester’s whole demeanor had changed.

His face was thoughtful. “You liked this book?” I asked.

He paused a long time, and looked off at something unseen, “I didn’t like it when Rab had to die.”

“No,” I agreed. He understood. Rab did have to die. I looked at Lester. “You get it, you know. You understand what the book is about.”

He nodded, still in that far away place. “Yea,” he inspected his hands, “I know.” The power of a book to change a life; wondrous.

Maybe Lester can give up his anger and cynicism for good. For today, he understood, and that was a miracle.

Eight Days Left, But Who's Counting?

We are getting down to the wire and I feel very much like the woman in the picture to the left. My sixth graders are in a tizzy. They want to be out for the summer, but “It gets boring pretty quick.” They are nervous about junior high, especially the showers. Ach! Remember that? How awful! Nobody does actually die from embarrassment, you just think you will.

We just finished reading my beloved Johnny Tremain and I showed the ghastly old Disney film. (My principal said, “Quit torturing those kids!) They were properly outraged at how the movie ravaged the book. Years ago one boy said in righteous indignation, “They made Johnny a wimp!” There are always a couple of students who’ll claim they like the movie better just to be pills. I have learned not to respond to this. They are probably planning a career in politics. I advise the kids to use Rab as a role model, but not to get themselves killed. This book always seems to help a few kids make the leap to 7th grade with some dignity.

Sixth graders are some-what human, at least for most of the year, but they really need love and patience now. Someone needs to do that and that seems to be my job in life. These last few days I will try to be a horse whisperer to these wild broncos.

Please send me your prayers and any extra patience you can spare.

BARF!!!

I hate being sick.( I think that is probably why I’m not a big fan of TV. I only watch it when I’m sick. Most television makes you feel sick anyway.) Teachers are exposed to more contagious diseases than anyone, and I have probably built up a pretty good immunity, but this stomach flu just lays you out flat! Ugh and double ugh.

I had my weekend all planned. It was going to be a marathon clean out and toss out at school. My plan was not to come back and do the final cleaning up after school was officially out, which is what I normally do. Now I found out that since there is major repair work being done at school I have to be done by the 25th, and now I lost two work days to being ill. Not to mention it being Mother’s Day weekend.

The good thing, and there is always a good thing hidden in the bad things, is that now I am ready to seriously toss out rather than pensively sort and file. If the room burned down everything in it is replaceable.

Now I can throw out, not throw up, without any guilt.

Tattoo and Barbeque for Rudy

Rudy is my sixth grade student who, I believe, is autistic. No, he hasn’t been tested. Mom had never agreed to have him diagnosed. “He is just shy,” she claimed. . It is heart-wrenching to have to tell a parent that his or her child’s behavior is not normal.

Last fall Rudy and I clashed. The other students were used to Rudy’s outbursts, but I wasn’t. When we switched from one subject to another his loud groans of protest and statements of, “This sucks!” or, “I hate this!” or “This is stupid!” were grating, to say the least. Most confounding was the fact that Rudy would deny saying these things. Also, Rudy would never look at me. He was like a mini –Rainman. It finally dawned on me that Rudy couldn’t distinguish between what he thought and what he said out loud. Mom finally agreed that yes, he did that at home. I felt that that was progress. It was her first acknowledgement of his problems. This was just prior to our winter (Christmas) break.

When school resumed in January there was a dramatic change in Rudy’s behavior. Each day there were fewer outbursts. I took him aside and told him how proud I was of him. He seemed very pleased and finally one day after one of these compliments he spontaneously hugged me. It was all I could do to keep from crying.

I wish I could take credit for Rudy’s new awareness but it was actually something his parents did. They set up a tape recorder at home and Rudy finally heard himself saying all the things that he thought were thoughts. I was astounded and thrilled. Who would have thought something that simple would work?

I decided not to push for Rudy’s testing because, I was told, he would surely have been placed in a self-contained classroom in junior high. In my heart I just didn’t feel that this was best for him. He was making progress and mainstreaming is almost always best for kids.

In the classroom Rudy struggled with figurative language. Metaphors especially were just mind-boggling to him. Metaphors are tricky for nearly everyone, but for someone like Rudy, whose world was literal, they were always out of his, literal and figurative, grasp. Metaphors are like learning to look at those hidden pictures; you stare and stare and suddenly you see the little teapot or pair of scissors. Rudy tried but figurative language always seemed to elude him, until this past Wednesday.

Twenty percent of the students in my class are on meds for ADHD (Hyper Activity/ Attention-Deficit Disorder.) Having been diagnosed with this myself, although I choose not to do meds, I have a pretty high tolerance for this high-energy type of student. I have advised my students, having taught junior high myself, that when they get to junior high they will have to make more of an effort to keep a lid on the talking. “They will tattoo and barbecue you for that in junior high,” I warned.

“Is that a metaphor?” asked Rudy.

“Yes! Yes! Yes, it is, Rudy! You got it!” The class burst into applause.

What a huge step. Rudy will make it.

Blogs that are dogs (with apologies to dogs)

I am looking for a pattern as to which blogs get comments, and which get "O" comments.

Please share your thoughts. Which one of your blogs got the most comments?
Do you take it personally when no one comments? (I do. I pout. I hold my breath. I quit bathing. How's that for revenge?)

If that doesn't get any comments then I plan on doing something drastic, which I will write about in an upcoming witty blog.

No, these are not my beagles. My beagles have no training whatsoever and could not possibly sit for a group portrait.

So our new lives begin.

Alexandra and her family are settling into their home in the prairie. It has been raining there, something Tom and Lily rarely saw here in the desert. Their toys are still on the shelves in the rec room. They are, I know, quoting Carol King (again) just "time away".

So our new lives begin.

I automatically make sure the scissors are out of reach. I double-check that the iron is unplugged, even though it is the automatic shut off kind. Tom never really got into things here, but his sister, whose hobby, according to her grandpa in "naughty", had radar for what she wasn't supposed to be into. We watched her like a hawk. We were complacent when
Alexandra was little because, if we told her not to do something, she wouldn't. Yes, she was the oldest. Lily's temperament is much like mine. I know that I was into everything, but that is in the handbook for second-children-after-really-well-behaved-first-children. It's a cosmic law.

So our new lives begin,

but I will miss our dinners. I will especially miss the walks around the neighborhood to visit the horses, but I promise, Tom and Lily, I will tell them hello and wave good-bye just as you did.

So our new lives begin.