M______
M______, from now on known as M., was one of the sharper kids in my FP3B. I recently upped her to FP3A. This is the second time I did this. Bumped a kid up, that is. In the larger scheme of things, this "bumping up" business really amounts to very little. However, in the context of my job, it's a big deal insofar as it gives me the sense of taking responsibility for the education of a child. It's a pretty good feeling. Most people don't feel it that often in my line of work.
Of course the ideal is that you make that your watchword: I am responsible for this child's development. But that gets old quick. And when you've got a spastic seven year old reeking of urine and attempting a table dance to deal with, you'd rather be responsible for his expulsion or severe beating at the hands of his Taiwanese/psychotic mother.
So someone needed to get upped and it was M.. Now I've heard a lot about M., from Cindy and other, less reliable, sources. Personally, I thought she was by the third day of class and on just about every subsequent day.
She was really thin and tall. Bearing an utter lack of grace or eloquence. Really quiet. From what I hear, she had a hard time expressing herself earlier on. In K3 she had a blue security chair. A little toy chair that was falling to pieces. She couldn't be separated from it. Her first words were "Car bomb."
Later on, she had a hard time keeping her shit together, in class. She frequently break into tears. I bitched her out once, for taking forever to read a fucking short-vowelled verb ending in 'ing.' She just sat there, staring at the page, and then staring at me, and then staring at the page . . . going back and forth between the two points for at least two minutes. Other children were groaning and I wasn't getting stonewalled. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she went back to the book. Then she looked back up at me. And then she opened her mouth and cycle repeated itself for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, her eyes narrowed to mine, and they seemed to say "Hey, I have a question for you. How would you like cookuh you steak?" And then she opened her mouth. . .
So I threw my head back, closed my eyes, went limp, and then started snoring. Snoring like that monster from Sesame Street. The one who goes >snore< woop-woop-woop-woop!
And then she started crying. That was the second day. She'd been reading for me steadily ever since. Until she left.
By her new teacher's account, she's doing great. I'd pushed for her getting upped because I knew she could handle the workload and because I thought it would do more for her confidence, in general. At the very least, she's got a better shot at getting looked after in an A class.
She was talking to me, the other day. I was sitting in the office listening to the guys talk about television characters as if they were real people. She came in to say high, and one of her old teachers said something to her. I didn't quite catch it.
"Is he teasing you?" I asked her.
She didn't say anything. She just stared at him.
"What are you looking at?" I asked her.
"Personally, I think I see a very bitter, old man. He even smells like my grandpa."
See, I don't even know why she's even enrolled in our school.
Of course the ideal is that you make that your watchword: I am responsible for this child's development. But that gets old quick. And when you've got a spastic seven year old reeking of urine and attempting a table dance to deal with, you'd rather be responsible for his expulsion or severe beating at the hands of his Taiwanese/psychotic mother.
So someone needed to get upped and it was M.. Now I've heard a lot about M., from Cindy and other, less reliable, sources. Personally, I thought she was by the third day of class and on just about every subsequent day.
She was really thin and tall. Bearing an utter lack of grace or eloquence. Really quiet. From what I hear, she had a hard time expressing herself earlier on. In K3 she had a blue security chair. A little toy chair that was falling to pieces. She couldn't be separated from it. Her first words were "Car bomb."
Later on, she had a hard time keeping her shit together, in class. She frequently break into tears. I bitched her out once, for taking forever to read a fucking short-vowelled verb ending in 'ing.' She just sat there, staring at the page, and then staring at me, and then staring at the page . . . going back and forth between the two points for at least two minutes. Other children were groaning and I wasn't getting stonewalled. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she went back to the book. Then she looked back up at me. And then she opened her mouth and cycle repeated itself for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, her eyes narrowed to mine, and they seemed to say "Hey, I have a question for you. How would you like cookuh you steak?" And then she opened her mouth. . .
So I threw my head back, closed my eyes, went limp, and then started snoring. Snoring like that monster from Sesame Street. The one who goes >snore< woop-woop-woop-woop!
And then she started crying. That was the second day. She'd been reading for me steadily ever since. Until she left.
By her new teacher's account, she's doing great. I'd pushed for her getting upped because I knew she could handle the workload and because I thought it would do more for her confidence, in general. At the very least, she's got a better shot at getting looked after in an A class.
She was talking to me, the other day. I was sitting in the office listening to the guys talk about television characters as if they were real people. She came in to say high, and one of her old teachers said something to her. I didn't quite catch it.
"Is he teasing you?" I asked her.
She didn't say anything. She just stared at him.
"What are you looking at?" I asked her.
"Personally, I think I see a very bitter, old man. He even smells like my grandpa."
See, I don't even know why she's even enrolled in our school.