A Typical Monday Night

"Is it pretty quiet tonight?" I ask the campus monitor as I roll my portable classroom--my rolling cube cart--onto the sidewalk in front of my night school.

"Quiet," he replies with a note of relief, and perhaps a little surprise. "Very quiet."

"That's good," I say as I roll past him, hoping that my students would be somewhat calm and cooperative for our class that doesn't even start until 8:00 p.m.

As it turns out, my students are far from quiet. The writing lesson is lost on many of the students, particularly those who had not come to the prior class. Two tables are loud and unfocused. I hate not having regular desks in rows. I opt to ignore their requests for help when they are rude, and I spend my time with students who are genuinely interested. Added to that, the temperature in the classroom is as suffocating as the noise.

There is, of course, the typical drama which occurs with these at-risk students. Typical actually means you never know what to expect, but you should expect the drama of issues you may not think real people deal with outside of Jerry Springer or Maury.

One of my sassiest students thrusts her admit slip for me to sign--she is apparently excused from being absent from the last class because her son had been in the hospital. I'd left her make-up work in the office, yet she hadn't bothered to pick it up. She seems unconcerned that her teachers were concerned enough to leave her work for her--as she and her mother had requested. She is also blase about her son's illness--like it's no big deal that he had such a severe asthma attack he had to go to the hospital. She's raising her son to be "straight-up G", who at the age of two, is already man enough to not boob about anything--even the inability to breathe, I guess.

Two students appear to have fresh tattoos--one I see (it unfortunately looks like he'd done it himself), but the other I notice is the topic of the other student's journal entry. His close friend had died in a neighborhood shooting a few weeks back, so he had just had his memorial tattoo done. The way he writes about it, it's like everyone has memorial tattoos done when someone dies. I've seen people who have so many memorial tattoos I wonder if they have any living friends or families, but this kid doesn't seem like he's like that. Nevertheless, I understand how sacred the act is to him although it is bizarre to me. I treat his tattoo as though it is reverent to me, too.

I juggle answering the same questions over and over about what students should be doing--particularly for those students who had missed the previous class. I'm pretty sure one of the girls has missed enough days to be kicked out of the class, but I can't remember for sure and I can't log into the system to check her absences, so I say nothing. I'm such a chicken shit, but I don't feel like a confrontation, and she'll be gone soon enough because I had just submitted the paperwork for the students who had enough absences to be dropped. Fortunately, 80% of the class is producing the product I have assigned them to complete, but only a few have done it really well. These are all students who know how to write, but it's functional writing, not wonderful writing. What a slow process. These two hours at night school are often harder than the six hours at my day school.

"Thank goodness," I think when the bell rings for the end of class. For other students in the school, the bell means it is the end of the school day, but our class lasts for two full periods, so that bell is only for a break. But it is a welcome relief—even if it only lasts three minutes until class starts again.

Two students want to leave for the night. One student claims he has to leave to go home and care for younger siblings because his mother has an appointment with an attorney. What attorney has office hours that late at night perplexes me, but it is Las Vegas. I talk him out of leaving because he’s already missed too many days in the class. The other student, who had made a call on his cell phone during the break, tells me he needs to leave to go the hospital—it’s an emergency. I ask if someone is dying, afterall, I try to be a hard-ass. Nobody is dying, but someone is going to give birth. I try to discourage him because someone giving birth is not an emergency, but when he admits that it's his baby that is about to be born, what can I say?

The bell signaling the end of break rings, and fewer than half of the students have made their way back to class. We start without them, of course. But I am irritated. The counselor returns a student she has held during the break for a short meeting, and I thank her and ask her to usher any students she sees back to class. The last half of the class actually occurs after the regular school day ends for most students, so there are few students actually on campus at this time of day.

Fifteen minutes later half the class is still missing, but one of the students finally joins us with the news of a huge fight outside. At first, I thought she meant there was going to be a fight, but quickly as her story unfolded in jagged pieces and pantomime, I realize there had been a fight--a mob scene as she described it. A huge fight in the parking lot that included such exciting pieces as the principal rushing out into the parking to break it up, gunfire, and a prostrate body left in the middle of the road as the mob scatters from the scene.

I'm not afraid to hear this news as some might think. (Exactly how a small town girl like me is teaching at night in a bad neighborhood in Las Vegas seems rather surreal to me most of the time. I know it's a bad neighborhood, but usually when I am arriving or leaving, the streets are quiet and deserted.) I do wonder where my students are and how many of them were involved. I'm not fearful that the injured/dead gunshot victim is a student of mine because the student reporting to the class would have certainly known that detail if one of her classmates was bleeding on the street. I'm exhausted, though. I wonder if my car is okay. It seems so petty, but I don't want to be stuck at the school all night. And then I wonder if I'll be able to leave campus at all when the class is over.

I am useless in dealing with my students. I try to get them back on task, but who really cares about learning new vocabulary words? "Laconic...lackluster...blah..blah...blah..." The best I can do is to try to settle them down and convince them that leaving campus right then was not the best idea. The classroom door is locked and we are safer inside that standing outside. Plus, if they could hold out until the end of our class period, enough time would have passed for things to calm down outside. Some students bought this, but it seems more students than normal claim they needed to leave early to catch the bus.

The students who end up staying for the remainder of the class accomplish no work. After all, there are only six students left. They gather all together at one table and chat about whatever, of course including the events outside. I finally give up and pull up a chair to join them. They are an interesting combination of students, most of whom don’t normally associate with each other. It’s the longest 25 minutes as I wait for the final bell to ring. What compels us to stay, I am not sure. I suppose most of them had rides coming at the regular time and had no place else to be. A couple of them may even have felt compelled to stay in class because it is the right thing to do. As their fearless leader, my best idea was just to carry on a usual. As if this incident were usual.

After school is released, the short walk to the parking lot seemed almost normal except the block is lit with flashing lights and many people milling around the parking lot. Luckily, I am able to leave campus with relatively few problems except that I had to drive the long way around through an unfamiliar neighborhood to reach the freeway. The streets were quiet and unaware of the chaos that had occured a few blocks over.

As I am driving through deserted streets, I try to muster some feeling. Should I be afraid? Should I say, “Enough of this crap. Why should I come back to teach at this school at night, when I know this kind of stuff can happen?” I guess I assumed that kind of stuff could happen before I started teaching there. That, and I just don’t feel it in my heart that I might die a violent death from being a teacher. Even if I do teach in edgy neighborhoods. Should I feel remorse for the violence my students see or experience? I do feel remorse for environments most cannot control and anger for the environments they can control and choose to pollute with useless violence.

Mostly, I feel numb. And the numbness is what brings the tears as I drive onto the freeway ramp, heading toward the safety of my home. Safe only because I tell myself that it is. Violence happens everywhere. It happens all the time.

The realization of my indifference hurts more than anything.

I can handle the crazy lives my students live. They’ve seen death. They’ve brought new life into the world. Drug abuse is normal. Drunken weekend parties are a way are harmless recreation. Gangs mean friendship and family.

What I can’t handle is that all of this is typical.

"Miss! Patricia's Underwear Sings!"

Just when I think I've seen and heard it all--I dare you to make me laugh in class--some girl wears underwear that plays music. Is this some kind of new i-pod invention? Hey, now that would be cool! But no, I don't think it is. It must be some sort of novelty, like singing greeting cards. And probably some Valentine's Day gimmick.

All I know is that's the last thing I expected to disrupt my class today. And I expect plenty.

Flatulence? Sure.

Tripping over a backpack in the middle of the floor? Almost daily.

Accidently flinging your pen cap across the room? It happens.

But having your underwear start singing? Who expects that?

And who would have expected that it would make me take pause so I could laugh?

I'd like to see any of you keep your decorum with the announcement that one of your student's bloomers is playing a tune. Go ahead. Try it!

Overheard Conversations at the Teacher Inservice

(Names have been protected to save the guilty from detention in the principal's office. )

In whispered tone:

Gertrude: "Why does she only wear black?"
Viola: "Yea, a little color would be nice."
Betty: "And did you notice they have matching hairdos?"
Gertrude: "Yea, everyone in that office does."
Viola: "That's so weird!"
Betty: "Yea, and they all wear those dark suits."
Gloria: "Hmmm. It's like a cult or something."
Viola: "Do you think it's like their dress code or something?"
Betty: "Oh! I'm getting my hair cut this weekend."
Viola: "Why?"
Betty: "I can't stand it anymore. I'm cutting it all off."
Gertrude: "No! It's so nice long! I wish mine were that long."
Betty: "I'm tired of it."
Viola: "Ah."
Betty: "I saw this girl with really cute hair at the store. I wanted to stop and ask her if I could take a picture."
Gloria: "You should have!"
Betty: "It was shoulder length and the ends were kind, you know..."
Viola: "Ragedy."
Betty: "NO!"
Viola: "Jagged."
Betty: "Kind of."
Viola: "What's the term? I know, uhm...razor cut!"
Betty: "That's it!"
Gloria: "You might want to have a better description before you go in.
Betty: "Oh, my hair dresser is great!
Viola: "My hair is razor cut, but it doesn't have the right texture to look jagged.
Gloria: "Where do you go?
Viola: "Oh! What are we suppose to do? Shh!"


A little bit later...practicing a "new" reading strategy:
Viola: "Did you hear what he said? He said he predicted something was going to happen in the story! Sounds like our students! Excellent prediction! I HOPE something is going to happen for goodness sakes."
Gertrude: "I've already read the passage four times."
Viola: "Are you kidding? Don't be such an overachiever."
Gertrude: "I'm bored."
Viola: "Yea, no kidding."
Gertrude: "It's pretty good, but let's hurry. Is it lunch yet?
Betty: "What is she talking about Q1?"
Shrugs all around.
Gertrude: "Oh, I do that!"
Viola: "Yea, it's called Bloom's Taxonomy. They've just given it some other label."
Betty: "More jargon."
Viola: "Do they really think we don't know about Bloom's? Hheeeeellllo! Freshmen in the teacher program know this."
Betty: "Yea, no kidding!"
Betty: "The questions stems are pretty good though, I need a copy of this."
Gertrude: "I have these somewhere."
Viola: "Yea. Me, too. In a little flip book. Exact same format. Same order. Nobody made these up."
Gertrude: "Same old stuff. New name."
Gloria: "How lame.
Viola: "And the pendulum swings."
Betty: "Is it lunch yet?"

My Resolutions

Blah, blah, blah. Do I have to do this? It is, after all, January 7th already. I used to get really into making up resolutions for the new year, but the last few years I haven't even bothered. But then there's some guilt because, well, I'm not perfect. Shocking, isn't it? So, here's a list of improvements that I could make to be a SUPER HUMAN BEING.

1. Lose weight. Duh. Move more. Each more veggies and fruit. Each whole foods instead of processed. Drink more water. Crave less chocolate.
2. Be more finacially responsible. Save. Spend less. Clip more coupons.
3. Have more fun. Laugh. Do things. For cheap, of course.
4. Get organized. Has anyone seen...my desk? Either one?
5. Write in my blog more. Write more, period. But I might as well publish it.
6. Be a more exciting teacher. Create fewer eye rolls in the classroom. If that is at all possible. [eyeroll]
7. Stop stressing out. About everything.
8. Make preparations to go back to school. Need to make more money--who doesn't? Chris will finish his schooling this year. It's my turn.
9. Work less. Or more efficiently. I really can't work less because I'll get behind. That's stressful.
10. Love myself more despite my deficiencies. Duh.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    

December in Las Vegas

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Today we are taking off for Utah to spend a good old-fashioned Christmas with my family. Ha ha! It's not really old-fashioned at all, but we do have a lot of fun. In the last few weeks I've marveled a bit more about life in Las Vegas during the holiday season in December. Here are some observations:

• People have been very friendly in all the stores I've been to recently. Some of my co-workers begged to differ as they told of their own shopping horror stories last week, but in the places where I frequent, I've noticed workers and customers have been at the very least patient. Most seem even better tempered than that! I wish I could be positive about the endless lines everywhere...
• It had been terribly cold in my classroom and other places on campus--like the teacher's lounge. I finally took a lap blanket for times I was working at my desk. In the teacher's lounge the temperature had been observed at 56 degrees. Last week the breaking news on TV was that the temperature was going to go below freezing for the first time since a year ago. How can I complain about stuff like this is amazing to me. I can't help it if my blood is so thin from 100+ degrees for months at a time.
• Yesterday I walked down the street to run an errand. I had a fleece jacket on over a t-shirt. I hadn't even made it out the gate of the apartment when I regretted wearing a jacket. Seriously.
• I pulled into the driveway to my apartment complex today driving rather fast (to cross three lanes of traffic) and almost ran over the gardener who was--GET THIS--planting flowers!! Although the pansies are quite pretty, it does seem so unnatural. I wondered if we could have a normal looking grounds for the winter time with dead flowers and brown grass (yes, all the grass is green) if my rent could be lowered.
• I never saw a palm tree until about five years ago. Now they are so common place to me. (Although they are not indigenous to Las Vegas.) It totally amuses me how all the homes and business put lights on the palm trees! It looks really cool!
• It's unfortunate that when one gets used to the flashing lights of Las Vegas that pretty Christmas lights just don't inspire awe. That breaks my heart.

Well, off to run my last minute errands. Tomorrow I'll be cold in the toes, but warm in the heart with my family around me!

Happy Holidays everyone!!

Password Panic Redux: Leaping from the Edge

A few days ago I lost my breath and almost broke down in tears when I realized I couldn’t remember how to access one of the web-based programs my school uses. In the past month I have attended a total of 19 hours of training for various computer applications and programs. Okay? So using these programs is a big deal. I promised my supervisor that I would get the students right into them just as soon as we came back from Thanksgiving because they were up to their necks in projects. Big Brother is watching online and sends reports to the administration, so I needed to get with it.

So, first thing Monday, I found my way to a tutoring program called Skills Tutor that many of our students are actually being pulled out to use in preparation for the Testing Season. Any teacher can assign work from it, though, and I thought capitalization review could well be done on the program. So, I take out my little notebook full of tips on how to operate these all these programs, and I find my user name and password. I go to the site, which is actually called MYskillstutor.com—can’t forget that “my” or you’ll be lost. I type in my user name and password—and then I notice I have to enter something in a space called “Site Name.” Frantically I flip through my notes. What the hell is my site name? I get a sinking feeling in my stomach—that feeling of failure before you’ve even started. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I sat there wide-eyed, trying not to cry over something so lame, my mind racing with whom I can ask to find out what the last piece of the puzzle is to enter the site.

I remembered one of the Title I teachers who spends much of her time pulling students out of classes to tutor has the same prep that I do, so I rush across the campus. I’m humiliated as I enter her room that I have to ask such a dumb question that I should know the answer to. She easily answers my question—has it written on her board for the student to see. It’s the first name of our school (most middle schools in this area are named after people) and a number. Hearing it and seeing it did not trigger a memory at all. I’m convinced it’s been added since I was trained on the program. Sounds like a good excuse, aye?

I feel much better about my stupidity when I see that she was searching a crib sheet she has made of all the places she must remember for the user name and password to enter into the Renaissance (Accelerated Reader) online program we have just started using. She is as frantic and frustrated as I had just been. As teachers, we have only been recently able to access the program because the ECS kept us out while she was working out the bugs with the company, so when we trained on the program we didn’t even use our own site to practice. The ECS had sent us the password, but with the piles of e-mails we get each day, the Title One teacher could not find it. Tables turned, I found myself trying to calm her hysteria and promised that if she’d just let me get back to my room, I would find the Renaissance password for her—not hers exactly, but I promised once I figured out the secret pattern, I’d send a student over right away. As I dashed back across campus, I ran into a reading teacher and asked her if she knew the user name and password. This is a wonderful reading teacher who always has good answers to my questions, but she could not help either.

When I found the special codes, I couldn’t help but say some healthy expletives under breath. The user name was typical: first initial, last name. The password? Our classroom number. You’ve got to be $*&%! kidding me! That is not the password to any other thing I work with. What happens next year if I’m in a different classroom? I’m torn between being happy that I could help another password-panicked colleague, but irritated as hell about the stupid password I’ve been given to forget.

I’m convinced that I’m not the only one struggling with password issues as the very next day the science teacher on my team sent a quick message out to us, perplexed as to why he cannot enter yet another online program we use for writing called My Access. He wrote: “I was trying to get on to My Access, but my username didn't work it is supposed to be [last name initial, last name] and then the password is “teacher” right? I tried to do the password reminder and it said my username didn't exist. I wrote it down but is this the wrong one?” I was sure he was correct and was as perplexed as he was. I almost zipped off an e-mail to him to tell him he was right on, but decided to check my notes first. Just to confuse us even further we actually have to add the initials of our school to the end our username. Upon seeing this, I said another, “You’ve got to be $*&%! kidding me!”—only I said it aloud this time. Without those school initials at the end, it would have been the same user name as the My Skills Tutor program. So close! No prize.

After this week, I find I am feeling a lot less panic about all of this password paranoia I have. It’s not just me. As I ask around, the teachers at my school laugh with me about our woes—but they’re not laughs of joy. More like lunatics laughing. It sound jovial, but underneath if you listen closely, there are notes of despair. Hearing these notes feeds my anger of all the things I hate about teaching. These little bits of this and that stink of Chinese water torture. The little bits about which, on a bad day we say, “It’s just another damn thing.”

The Napoleon Character I'm Most Like

You are Deb and you could drink whole milk if you
wanted.


Uhm...okay. Don't even ask me how I stumbled on that that fact. Somewhere on http://quizilla.com. Where's that? Dunno. Just clicked on something accidently. Kind of amusing though.