Teachermare.
I want my dreams back.
How often does one take a 4 hour nap on a Friday night? After a full week of teaching, planning, grading, and too many late nights spent attempting to court a girl (and it could very well be going nowhere, if fact I'm sure it is), I'm right exhausted.
But in my sleep I'm still at school, trapped in room 631 with the class from hell. In fact, it's worse. In my dream I'm telling Victor that he needs to sit down, collecting J's test he's cheating on, and trying to raise the spirits of pulse-less students, all in my underwear. While I'm grappling my sweaty pillow, I've curled myself on my desk, kicking staplers and papers and 5x3 notecards on the floor with my feet - and all the students are laughing. What you doin', Mister? Yo, teacher think he funny. You got a wife, Mr. Lean?
I almost misheard that one at "you got a life," but no, it was the "w" word. And it came from one of my better students. He thinks I like him so he screws around during my Research (study hall) class by wrapping tape around his fingers. The truth is I don't like him at all. I dislike all of my students equally. I'm just less unhappy to see some of them each day. That way I don't show favoritism. But it doesn't matter. "Why you always pick on me," shouts Rob as he snaps the elastic waist-band of my BVDs. I flinch and whip the covers from my body. "Why you gotta be like that, always yellin' at me?" I wasn't yelling. You were. But it's not worth arguing about. I can't sleep with these unresolved issues.
As they rise out of their seats (without permission) I whirl around in class and turn over in bed. For each disrespectful, heinous, and distracting comment, I ward off the spiritual heartburn I've felt for 3 weeks now; in bed it's the equivalent of those dreams where your worst fears confront you and you wake up terrified, sweating, and crying for no reason. I'm reminded of a dream I had in the Periwinkle house. I was in a house, just a normal house, and looked out the back window. There, driving over the hills of a green grass yard, was a rogue school bus. And all I could hear from this bus was the most horrific blood-curdling scream one can imagine. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever witnessed. I awoke, truly fearing the work of demons. Note the presence of a school bus in this dream.
So for some reason my mind can't slow down, even though my body is finished. I'm reaching out for creative methods. I need to keep them seated. I need them to participate. And I need them to do it without the slanderous remarks (Examples: "This is bullshit," "Who the fuck this guy think he is," or "You need to go somewhere and shut up."). So far conferences, phone calls, and detentions are barely working. I can only have conferences with so many kids per day. I'm getting in the habit of keeping at least one student after EACH class - this way I can give them one on one attention and guidance that I can't do when the rest of the class is listening in and passing verbal judgement on my actions, without raising their hands, of course.
Whatever happened to the fear? I mean, what happened to that fear I felt as a student, the my-mother-will-crucify-me-if-I-mess-up fear? And what happened to the motivation? I mean, the motivation I felt as a student, the I-am-going-to-kick-the-world's-ass motivation? Some of them have it, of course. They are my honors students. And some of my regular students are motivated, but not smart. Some of my regular students are smart, but not motivated. So it goes.
And some of them are neither smart nor motivated. When it comes to these little pearls, I have to pray that they are quiet, like Jamad. I called Jamad's mother. Her answer: "Oh, he don't do nothin'. Just sit on the computer all day. But you can't git him to do nothin'." Thanks for the help, ma'am. I'll go ahead and butter my bagel with that.
We have a saying: Don't TIP (Take It Personal). Damn right. I'm busting my ass right now for 150 students and getting play from less than half. I'm delivering structure and boundaries to a class that has been without for 4 months. They are bound to hate me. But five days of being constantly reviled and disobeyed and ignored and mocked has worn on me in the same way walking into the wind does. These insignificant young men and women are finally invading my sleep with their whining, irresponsible voices. "I lost my textbook," Richy says, no remorse in his voice. "Somebody took it, I think." No. Just stop. There is no mysterious textbook thief, Richy. There is no unmarked grave for lost textbooks.
But don't worry, Richy. I'm proud of you. You have successfully acted your age. You have fulfilled the expectations society has for you, and done precisely what consumerism has commanded you. You are a black teenager who doesn't give a damn about learning, being respectful, disciplining yourself, or making something precious of yourself. I am not surprised at you, and you shouldn't be surprised at yourself either. Be proud, young man, be proud.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
(Blood curdling scream)
How often does one take a 4 hour nap on a Friday night? After a full week of teaching, planning, grading, and too many late nights spent attempting to court a girl (and it could very well be going nowhere, if fact I'm sure it is), I'm right exhausted.
But in my sleep I'm still at school, trapped in room 631 with the class from hell. In fact, it's worse. In my dream I'm telling Victor that he needs to sit down, collecting J's test he's cheating on, and trying to raise the spirits of pulse-less students, all in my underwear. While I'm grappling my sweaty pillow, I've curled myself on my desk, kicking staplers and papers and 5x3 notecards on the floor with my feet - and all the students are laughing. What you doin', Mister? Yo, teacher think he funny. You got a wife, Mr. Lean?
I almost misheard that one at "you got a life," but no, it was the "w" word. And it came from one of my better students. He thinks I like him so he screws around during my Research (study hall) class by wrapping tape around his fingers. The truth is I don't like him at all. I dislike all of my students equally. I'm just less unhappy to see some of them each day. That way I don't show favoritism. But it doesn't matter. "Why you always pick on me," shouts Rob as he snaps the elastic waist-band of my BVDs. I flinch and whip the covers from my body. "Why you gotta be like that, always yellin' at me?" I wasn't yelling. You were. But it's not worth arguing about. I can't sleep with these unresolved issues.
As they rise out of their seats (without permission) I whirl around in class and turn over in bed. For each disrespectful, heinous, and distracting comment, I ward off the spiritual heartburn I've felt for 3 weeks now; in bed it's the equivalent of those dreams where your worst fears confront you and you wake up terrified, sweating, and crying for no reason. I'm reminded of a dream I had in the Periwinkle house. I was in a house, just a normal house, and looked out the back window. There, driving over the hills of a green grass yard, was a rogue school bus. And all I could hear from this bus was the most horrific blood-curdling scream one can imagine. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever witnessed. I awoke, truly fearing the work of demons. Note the presence of a school bus in this dream.
So for some reason my mind can't slow down, even though my body is finished. I'm reaching out for creative methods. I need to keep them seated. I need them to participate. And I need them to do it without the slanderous remarks (Examples: "This is bullshit," "Who the fuck this guy think he is," or "You need to go somewhere and shut up."). So far conferences, phone calls, and detentions are barely working. I can only have conferences with so many kids per day. I'm getting in the habit of keeping at least one student after EACH class - this way I can give them one on one attention and guidance that I can't do when the rest of the class is listening in and passing verbal judgement on my actions, without raising their hands, of course.
Whatever happened to the fear? I mean, what happened to that fear I felt as a student, the my-mother-will-crucify-me-if-I-mess-up fear? And what happened to the motivation? I mean, the motivation I felt as a student, the I-am-going-to-kick-the-world's-ass motivation? Some of them have it, of course. They are my honors students. And some of my regular students are motivated, but not smart. Some of my regular students are smart, but not motivated. So it goes.
And some of them are neither smart nor motivated. When it comes to these little pearls, I have to pray that they are quiet, like Jamad. I called Jamad's mother. Her answer: "Oh, he don't do nothin'. Just sit on the computer all day. But you can't git him to do nothin'." Thanks for the help, ma'am. I'll go ahead and butter my bagel with that.
We have a saying: Don't TIP (Take It Personal). Damn right. I'm busting my ass right now for 150 students and getting play from less than half. I'm delivering structure and boundaries to a class that has been without for 4 months. They are bound to hate me. But five days of being constantly reviled and disobeyed and ignored and mocked has worn on me in the same way walking into the wind does. These insignificant young men and women are finally invading my sleep with their whining, irresponsible voices. "I lost my textbook," Richy says, no remorse in his voice. "Somebody took it, I think." No. Just stop. There is no mysterious textbook thief, Richy. There is no unmarked grave for lost textbooks.
But don't worry, Richy. I'm proud of you. You have successfully acted your age. You have fulfilled the expectations society has for you, and done precisely what consumerism has commanded you. You are a black teenager who doesn't give a damn about learning, being respectful, disciplining yourself, or making something precious of yourself. I am not surprised at you, and you shouldn't be surprised at yourself either. Be proud, young man, be proud.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
(Blood curdling scream)