Thanks for the Alcohol, Mr Gardner! and Teeth Marks Fade (old livejournal posts. Remember those days?)

Thanks for the Alcohol, Mr. Gardner!

One of my students certainly picks up new vocabulary with enthusiasm.  Before lunch, I always line my kids up at the door and give them a squirt of sanitizer.  One of my students was upset that it burned a small cut on his hand.  I told him that it's the alcohol in the sanitizer, and that it's good for the cut.  It helps clean it, which is why it burns.  Not thinking anything of it, we continued with our day.

The next day, I followed the same procedure.  Line them up at the door.  Recite our "Line Time" poem, and gave out the sanitizer.  We then just starting walking out the door, when my vocabulary astute student yells out at the top of his lungs, "Thanks for the alcohol, Mr. Gardner!"

I'm pretty sure my face took up gymnastics.  “Sanitizer!  Let’s call it Sanitizer!”

Ugh:

That was a stressful.

I felt like taking a hot frying pan to the face.  It's so frustrating trying to do writing with them at this stage.  I have two people come in to help, and it's still hair-pulling.  They just can't do it.  Yet.  But, I don't know why in God's name they should be expected to. We're still teaching them their letters!

"Here's the letter 'A'.  That's right.  'A'.  Now give me a five to seven word sentence about what your favorite animal is and why.

As you master the Venn diagram.  And cutting and pasting."

They have their writing test on Thursday.

And all of the rushing around trying to figure in Holiday activities and projects is also driving me crazy. This morning it felt like Wednesday. This evening it feels like Thursday.  It's still only Tuesday.

Still wouldn't trade it in, though. 

Highlights:

- Suddenly realizing I have a sticker on my hand from a student, with no memory of them putting it there.

- A student telling me he's changed his name to Kris. When I ask him what's wrong with his old name, I get a long stare into space, then, "I can shoot baskets now."  He's a fun one.  One of my two white students in the class, he's in a world apart.  Not because of race, he just resides elsewhere.  Very involved with intensely studying and memorizing anything to do with bugs or dinosaurs, and very smart, but barely registers that he's surrounded by students in a classroom.  Occasionally, he'll break out in a country love song for a few seconds.  Once, after coming up to ask me a question, he slow danced back to his seat.

Teeth marks fade:

I've been half-assing it this week at work.  I'm sure it shows.

           On the other hand, I was informed that I had a "GQ" look going on today, which I found amusing.  Apparently, I make half-assed look good.  Don't worry, I took pictures with my digital camera and uploaded them onto my websites.  Oh, wait, that would require my having a digital camera...and websites….  You'll just have to trust me that, for a day, I was a hottie. ::nods head::

I'm not doing enough with my students in the phonics department. I also need to improve classroom management and transitions.  It's preventing me from getting to everything that I need to.

Bah.

But, with kindergarten, every time you're feeling kind of poopy, one of the kids says something really sweet to you.

That, or they bite another student.

Batman, Pink Underwear, and The End of Everything.

I like to think most Walmart stories have a happy ending.

On the way to work this morning I found myself behind a Ford 150 truck that had "Vote NoBama" and "Choose Rick Scott" stickers. As I'm following behind him, he runs through a puddle, heedlessly splashing a fourth grade girl who was walking to school. At first I thought, "You asshole."  But then I paused to reflect, and further thought, "Well, at least you're demonstrating the strength of your convictions."

I hear snippets from the teachers.  A student stuck a crayon in their ear and proceeded to color their inner ear blue.  In another class that was previously a sauna, they came to fix the system and it’s now growing progressively colder.  Students peek out from turtle shells of shirts, heads and arms withdrawn.  As apparently it can’t immediately be fixed, and will only grow colder, the teacher sent home notes asking for sweaters, jackets, parkas, and possible snow shoes.  Also in this class, twenty-four students engage in elated farting parties, or while in line, hold hands and jump up and down in down in gleeful circles.  No one’s really sure yet what school is about, other than breaking wind, experiencing frost-bite, and that when the maestro speaks strange words in English and gestures, she must be signaling a fiesta.  She signals a lot of fiestas.

After work I spoke with a friend who I haven’t heard from in a while.  During this conversation the visuals in my head were going off like fireworks after closing time at Disney.  I’m not even sure what to start with.  She’s a guidance counselor at an elementary school, and this one conversation encapsulated Walmart scooter fights between elderly, heavy-set married couples, the future of American society, and an inadvertent hot-pink undergarment flashing.  All in all it was a pretty image-filled conversation.  In said order:

She recently moved near a Walmart, and finds herself frequenting the place much more often than she should like, and not half as long as she should desire to like.  Thanks to http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/photos, many are familiar with the joys of Walmart people-watching.  Really, anyone who has ever set foot in this magical realm has formed a special place in their heart for its traditional charm and pull. You can’t but seem to want to go local once you enter its sacred halls.  Shun those shoes, roll those cigarette cases in yon sleeves, wear those leotards and moo-moos, it’s Walmart!  Everything’s magical at Walmart.  Are you drunk, high, currently ODing, or running from the law?  Walmart!  Do you suffer chronic itch, a sense of fashion not legal in the eighties, or have no sense of actual body weight?  Walmart!  Do you live in a trailer, possess sixteen children, and your wife can beat you at horseshoes and arm-wrestling?  Walmart!  It’s the magical place to be! 

In an attempt to go native, I have no less than three times dressed in costume to better study these indigenous shoppers.  Once I arrived decked in full eighties gear – chains, tight black ladies’ jeans, cut-off jean jacket, studded red fingerless gloves, cow-bell earring.  On this particular occasion I was teaching high school, and saw a student with her parents enter.  I hastily spun my back around, but was informed by my companions as the parents did a double-take, stared at my visage, and walked backwards into the door.  Sorry, parents.  Another time I walked in with midriff Eyore shirt, blue-flamed board shorts, pink headband over a white man’s fro, and a superman cape.  I was just trying to be unremarkable.

I need a quarter!  You! Random Homeless man! Spare some change?

And last I entered in a red jumpsuit complete with American jacket, sunglasses, and bike helmet.  My favorite bit from this, besides posing for dare-devil pictures on a tricycle, was driving back with two friends, the driver in a Batman suit, and being pulled over.

Batman, who nailed the outfit so completely a kid had previously asked for his autograph, sat calmly in his regalia, facing forward, until the cop approached.  When the cop stepped up to the window, he lowered the window with a touch, turned abruptly, and asked in a darkly husky voice, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

I come in Fun Size!

So much for my history with Walmart.  Now on to the conversation.  My friend has noted that she cannot seem to step foot inside without witnessing a fight amongst couples.  But her last trip took the cake, ate it, and then still tried to return it for store credit.  Walmart accepted.  There was a couple, both equally elderly, equally overweight, and equally struggling for supremacy on their shopping scooters.  My friend’s not certain as to what caused the altercation.  She only stood witness to its result.  Perhaps there was some couponed item left behind.  Or mayhap the old man had made a snide comment on aisle eight.  Or he had turned a deaf ear to her wishes for a nice chicken pot-pie dinner for once.

Whatever the cause, the old man in his scooter was waiting in line, when his wife came scooter charging towards him, yelling her pain, and crashing her scooter into his own, forcing him away from the line.  There was much shouting, and a slight scooter war unfolded.  In my mind it involved long, slow charges incorporating cue sticks as lances.  The wife won, to no one’s surprise, but the thought of a scooter war between elderly, overweight, locals immediately brought me back to college, where we once decided it most prudent to have a bike jousting in our overly-long hallway.  Though the pool sticks that were used in this endeavor were most probably not in our wisest of choices, the inference and background knowledge it lent to this story is most appreciated.  And to these wizened warriors I advise them, even if you are wearing two thick sweaters, your ribs will still hurt in the morning. 

This is my roommate Mark from college. He's wiry but fierce.

My counselor friend then uttered the prophetic warning that America will end in Walmart.  There is a multitude of ways to look at this, and I invite you to find your own.  I fear the truth of it.  More, I fear Walmart.  There was a night, in particular, that I condescended to frequent this store though I had no local attire.  It was midnight.  This particular store, though I didn’t know it at the time, was under  reconstruction.  More than half of it was emptied and blocked off with wooden blockades, while the entirety of the store was constrained to its central.

Walking around a Walmart at midnight, which was completely emptied at its edges, gave one a complete, utter, and terrifying sense of pure entropy.  This is what the end of America will look like.  An empty Walmart at midnight. 

And as to education?  Well, my friend, step right up, and watch Walmart slash those demands!  Two years ago I experienced a concerned parent telling me at the beginning of the year that she had heard that it didn’t really matter how her child did in Kindergarten, that he would be passed on regardless.  Guess what?  She’s right!  We’re slashing expectations!  We have a new progress report online to experiment with this year.  There are absolutely zero comments that we can type in which would indicate to a parent that their child needs to work on a subject or behavior.  We’re slashing expectations!  The amount of work for the teacher is on the rise, and they’re being judged, but every student gets a happy face!  We might be tripling expectations upon the profession of teaching, and channeling pay based on student test results, but guess what!  We’re slashing teacher’s pay and slashing student expectations!  Everyone passes, and everyone’s doing just fine!  This is more elementary based at the moment, but it’s starting to entrench into middle, high, and college.  We’re putting out a baseline and expecting everyone to fall in suit, and if they don’t make it, why, send them on, anyway!  What’s that, you say?  Johnny’s hitting Sue and Brenda’s sniffing glue?  Steve has bitten Mike and Matthew didn’t learn to write?  Send them on, anyway!  We’ll expect the best from teachers, and pay them next to nil, make them teach sixteen hours a day, but if a student doesn’t make the cut, send them on, anyway!

 

But perhaps this is too harsh, to cold and drab a picture of our future.  Perhaps we need some brightness in our lives.  Some neon pink glow on a rainy day to give us heart.  Perhaps even a bright pink with “H-O-T-T” written across it.  And that’s where a guidance counselor comes in.  She’s there to provide whatever support and encouragement we need.  Even if it means an inadvertent hot-pink flashing of her underwear for everyone in the parking lot to see.

My friend was making a phone call to the school board when she realized she had a meeting downtown in thirty minutes that she had forgotten about.  She immediately grabs her stacks of files and rushes to the car.  It was storming heavily along the way.  To the point that the rain was actually coming in sideways.  But then, just as she parks, the clouds give way to the sun.  It’s a good sign.  God must be looking out for the rushed and the weather beaten.  Filled with renewed faith and hope and goodwill, my friend gathers her substantial stack of papers and her Starbucks coffee, and proceeded to hurry through the parking lot.

Let me pause, as she did, and point out that she was wearing a wrap-around dress.  A dress, for the less-informed, that is essentially made up of two parts.  I believe they wrap around.  So as she’s hurrying across the wet pavement, hands full, she makes it to the breezeway just as a gale force wind rushes in, snags part of her dress, and spins it up and over to land affectionately on her shoulder.  Exposing, to the parking lot, her bright pink undies.  And, with a hot cup of coffee, a multitude of papers, and a wet ground, she has no recourse but to keep walking, as her dress magically stays atop her shoulder, defying natural gravity and physics.

After at least a full minute she’s able to rectify the situation, but in the meantime she noticed at least four other people in the school board parking lot.  Fully clothed again, she attempted to ascertain whether anyone bore witness to her cheery good-morning.  Attempting to make eye-contact with one individual and ask them an off-topic question, the person refused eye-contact and blushed.  That would be an affirmative.  Her ‘Good morning!” was heard clear across the parking lot.  Announced all the louder for the “H-O-T-T” in typeface across the back of her knickers.  It may have only been one “T”.  I always feel there’s an acronym out there that I’m not cool enough to know about.  Anyway, here’s to cheerful, hot-pink “Good mornings!”  We salute you.

This is Sue. Sue was very helpful. Thanks, Sue!

I’ve got pukies in my mouth.

(This is from the beginning of this year, as opposed to the others)

A first grader was walking determinedly down the hallway.  Our reading coach stopped him and asked him where he was going.  “The clinic.”  “Oh, what’s the matter?”  “I’ve got pukies in my mouth.”  “Okay. Carry on.”

We’ve had an epidemic.  Custodial cleaned up ten “Code V’s” in one day.  Only five students made it to the clinic.  The other five?  Unknown.  But they’re presumed to be primed and extremely dangerous.  Do not prod them.  Keep your distance.

My morning pretty much started out in a similar vein.  A mom brought her daughter in, who was crying, yelling, and clinging.  The mom did as she should; basically brought her in the classroom with a few positive words, and tried to escape as her daughter clung to her belt loop.  I intercepted, and tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t having it.  She was throwing a fit, hyperventilating, and fighting for the door.  Hard.  I tried to get her to talk, and managed to get an “I want to play with mommy” from her, which was a start.  Luckily my aide came in, because I needed help.  I mean, this kid was fighting strong.  She could be a contender.  And my class this year is right next to the exit.  Mom would have been gone by this point, and I’m pretty sure this girl would have taken off through the exit trying to find her.  I had to physically restrain her from opening the door (fingers and thumbs lightly pinched together over wrists.  She can’t break out, but little risk of hurting her.  A trick I learned in V.E.  Plus the getting her to start talking – less chance of putting herself into a tizzy of hyperventilation).   After a brief trade-off with the aide, I call the assistant principal for assistance, and then go back to the student.  Meanwhile, the class is stirring quite a bit, and the aide comes up to me, as I’m still trying to calm the student down and keep her from breaking for the door, to inform me that another student has just vomited all over the table.

There’s a morning for you.

As a whole, this class is nothing like what I’m accustomed to.  That last bit notwithstanding, I have the high class for the first time, and it’s a completely different animal.  There’s way less hair pulling in the beginning, and the kids are still sweet, so the only stress I’m dealing with is how to be a better teacher.  Reflecting on what I’m doing that I don’t like, what I want to see change, and then try to figure out how to change it.  I have an idea of the first two, still working on the last.  There’s a lot of balancing and figuring out at this point.  I have to cut down on my talk-time, a lot, and streamline myself, so the students are doing more.  I have to determine where exactly everyone is so I can move forward from where they are, as opposed to just following the standard curriculum timetable.  I still want resources and structure in place, so I have to make it work for me as well as for them, and though I definitely need to cut back on ‘me’ time (my talking, my stating, my doing) I also don’t want to have chaos in the room.  So I’m walking that balancing act.  And trying to keep the pukies out of my mouth.

It's Not A Carrot! It's Not A Carrot!

During the first week of kindergarten, recess somewhat resembles that old seventies football board game with all the little metal players sitting on a tin field.  You turn it on and herds of little painted men oscillate forward in commingling groupings of collapsing confusion.  Into this melee throw basketballs, six students at a time climbing up the wrong ends of slides, and students with no English running around in glee as unheard teachers chase after with waving arms and unheeded pleas.  I spent my own time plucking dangling five-year olds from the tops of slides, chanting out phrases as mantras, “bumper not tummy, feet first not behind, look before going, one at a time, don’t jump from that thing keep your feet on the ground, where did that come from please put it down.”  One student went wandering right out of the playground, right through the gate near the back car lot.  Then we saw Arnold Schwartzenegger come running across the grass, shouting, “I’ve got a ferret!  I’ve got a ferret!”  Or so we first thought.  Turned out to be a rather tall, chunky kindergartner holding something of orangeish hue in his hands and yelling, “It’s not a carrot!  It’s not a carrot!”  None of us felt like investigating. 

Yet all of this is a cake walk compared to dismissal.  What exactly does “cake walk” mean?  Do people take strolls along cake alleyways?  Do they take a beloved cake for an afternoon saunter?  Do daring adventurers canter across icing covered boston-cream pies?  Is a boston cream pie indeed a pie and not a cake?  Whatever the case may be, I’ve heard Vietnam veterans shudder in fear over the first week of dismissal for the Kindergarten Year.  Armies of students might trample afoot, and adults think they’re safe, with shoulders aloof.  Busses lined up, all ready to go.  What could go wrong? Oh, wait, there’re kinders along.  Grab hold of those backpacks, snatch hands and don’t wait, but please, oh, please, don’t they know where they belong?  No?  Oh, dear.  Rush back to the rooms.  Call one teacher, another.  Who is this, and where do they go?  Oh, please, but please, don’t they know what they’re called?  A name?  A nickname?  A brother or sister?  Don’t they know their teacher, or for the love of God a preacher?  I don’t know where to go, I don’t know who to call, now they’ve taken off one shoe and are scampering down a hall.  I’d chase after the one, but another kinder’s crying, that one’s tripped over their laces and I do believe she’s flying.  Whatever the case may be, I’ve heard Vietnam vets shudder in fear, over the first week of dismissal for the Kindergarten Year.