Lost in Kids

Priorities

2011-07-09T09:38:00.004-04:00

Olivia was sitting next to me at the table saying out names of her kindergarten classmates. She was saying them slowly and pointedly, and I realized that she needed a playdate with them and I was being very remiss as a mother.

My school and student teaching ate up time voraciously, and I know that Olivia could use some good old-fashioned, stay-at-home momming. You know, the kind where you obsess over cupcake color and stacking the towels perfectly in alternating colors in the closet. I know how she feels: I am juuuuust beginning to reach out to old friends I have dearly missed, and throw away piles of unnecessary papers, and get life in some kind of order that doesn't include hours of studying a day. And, blinking from the bright light as an emerging hermit must do, I now realize with Olivia's chanting of long-lost names from May that I must make some school-friend calls for my daughter.

"Honey," I say to her. "Are you naming all the friends you are missing?"

"No," she said. "I am going through all the people in my class who have been to Sea World, and you can see my name is not on that list."

Tomorrow I Will Be Sporting Some Obnoxious Bumper Sticker

2011-05-20T19:44:00.014-04:00

I have been reveling in my kindergarten experience with Olivia: mainly, she doesn't despise it and every night is not spent in a horrific fight about homework. I have to admit, selfishly, that it is a great feeling.

Olivia does her homework without prompting and I consequently get to relax about what's due or upcoming tests. Case in point, this evening, as I cleaned out her backpack (because it always looks like an episode of the "Hoarders") I found an award for the spelling bee today in her class. I had forgotten that today was the big event; she had been looking over her words during the last few days.

I asked her if this award meant she had done well in the bee. Sure she shrugged, she had won.

Won? Won? Okay, you need to picture this--me, alone, in my room, having excused myself under the pretense of going to the bathroom--doing a simple dance that could let out my joy at having a child that seems to be a naturally-driven student that brings home awards!

Infantile? Certainly. Try to indulge me however; I have a lot of years of reaching into backpacks and pulling out detention slips.

The Blinding Sunlight, and, But This is Why I Had Her

2011-05-18T05:47:00.009-04:00

Update: I emerge from my cave of two years of school, dazed, and wondering if some of my friends' phone numbers are still reliable. I cannot believe I am finally educationally "whole", teaching certificate in hand, ready to--stop the presses! I have managed to come out into the teaching world at the only time in history when school districts aren't hiring! Oh tee-hee, isn't it hilarious?

Olivia, while I have been lost in kids student teaching, has been lost in ballet. She just had her Swan Lake "recital". She has been rather flippant about dancing and cannot figure out just exactly why ballet makes her mother wipe tears from her eyes, but I think she has had a change of heart due to limelight.

Her classes have been fun enough, but I think my daughter was struggling with visualizing a "pay off". Until Sunday, when she came skittering out to see an audience. And at class two days later I saw a new Olivia. She was practicing her positions prior to class, rather than needling me to buy her something from the vending machine. Not that I am a stage mom or anything. And I feel a LOT better even if I am, because I had a conversation about motivation with a mother there yesterday that is more blatant than I, what with naming her daughter Giselle and all.

THANK YOU FOR READING, AND GOODBYE

2011-03-05T16:59:00.003-05:00

I took a sabbatical from blogging on "Lost In Kids" from November, 2009 to June 2010. I needed some time to practice the piano and compose songs, do more Kung Fu, Tai Chi, and Chi Gung, and take a break from writing a blog entry on a daily basis.

This is not another sabbatical. I am taking my leave of blogging and focusing my efforts on other endeavors. I will continue to teach for a few more years, but my experiences and cherished memories in the classroom with children of whatever age will be private and not shared on the Internet. My writing efforts on this blog site lasted five years, and it has been very rewarding for me personally.

I am aware that this "Lost In Kids" doesn't receive a lot "hits," but to those of you who were frequent or occasional readers, I want to thank you very much for taking the time to read my stories of childhood memories, classroom escapades, and my deliberations and feelings of foreboding, anxiety and revelling I have attempted to convey when I am around children.

I send you my thoughts and prayers in all matters, especially those involving kids.

Thank you very much for listening by reading.

"Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from you heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them." Deuteronomy 4:9

"Children's children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children." Proverbs 17:6

".........Jesus said, 'I praise you Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children." Matthew 11:25

"At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, 'Who is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven?'

"He called a little child and had him stand among them. And he said, 'I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes a little child like this in my name welcomes me. But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea.' " Matthew 18: 1-6

How easy it is to forget we were once children and how hard it is to remain one.

Goodbye.
Walter

A STRANGE BRAIN FART, AND A STRANGE WAY TO GO OUT

2011-03-04T18:44:00.001-05:00

I am getting older - there's no doubt about it. I had something happen to me today that is a little disturbing, and I will mention it to my wife because it may warrant a medical diagnosis if it reoccurs.

I was teaching a math class how to calculate the percent of increase from one number to another. Suddenly, without warning, I started having unusual, dissociative thoughts. I never became frightened or emotional in any way, but it was just peculiar to have the strange thoughts enter my head at such an unusual time when I was so focused. The students may have noticed, for I stopped for a moment, but it was not disruptive to the flow of the learning process. Here are some of those strange, dissociative thoughts:

My name is Chuck. Chuck Wagon.

There are people dying in the world right now and their souls are leaving their bodies.

I don't want to see when I cry.

Tears going up my cheeks.

The last thought, "tears going up my cheeks," was a recurring dream I had about a year ago. In my dream I would be crying and tears would be flowing up my cheeks and back into my eyes. I asked a lot of people about it and no one could explain the meaning of such an odd dream, and now I'm having a thought about it right in the middle of class? And why Chuck Waggon (sp)?

Odd. I wonder what happened to my brain? I look back on the incident and think it's cool, which is a strange reaction to a slightly unsettling "brain fart," which is what a friend of mine, Dave, would call it.

This is also an unsettling way to end the "Lost in Kids" blog, for I am about to go on more than just a sabbatical. But that's the way it is.

ME VS. COMMON SENSE

2011-03-03T19:57:00.016-05:00

I was talking to a mother of one of my piano students today, and she informed me that her son, Dylan, did something pretty stupid. Dylan was in PE class at a local middle school here in our town, and one of the boys in a group of guys that were gathered around in a huddle had a cell phone with Internet hook-up which was being put to high tech usage by surfing for pornography, and having successfully found a website with some great photos, the owner of this cell phone was proudly and generously sharing it with his buddies.

The cell phone finally made its rounds and was passed to Dylan, who took a good hard look at the image of a woman that I am sure was naked and quite tantalizing for a young boy in the sixth grade, but Dylan, being a well-raised, proper young man, screamed out, "My God in Heaven! This is porn! Johnny has porn on his cell phone!"

Then he started running around screaming, "My eyes! My eyes! They just saw porno! My God in Heaven! Johnny has porno on his phone!"

The other boys tried to shush Dylan, who being either low on testosterone, more moral than the other boys, or wired in the brain very differently than the others, saw this as an affront to the school rules. (I choose the latter.)

The owner of the cell phone with the offensive site was severely punished, as he should be. However, Dylan's mother believes she has as serious a problem as the mother of the boy who is in trouble, and she is now concerned not only for Dylan's reputation as a normal, healthy boy, but for his safety as well. There is nothing more frustrated than a curious boy deprived of his visual, carnal knowledge. As any elementary teacher worth their salt can tell you, many boys are visual learners.

I think it is a wonderful story and reveals the private stupidity of boys that is not the common, public perspective. Dylan's mistake was a double-edged sword. He said the truth. That's good. On the other hand, he is now the Porno Narc of his middle school and will never be shown any dirty pictures in secret again. His eyes will only gaze at math problems, social studies dilemmas, progress reports, and cafeteria food trays. He will pay for his stupidity for years. First as a geek. Then as a shunned butt of jokes. Last, and worst of all, the bottom dredges of society's outcast, a morally upright young man.

However, the mother of my piano student has no idea what stupid is. Stupid is as stupid does, and your truly, namely me, can top that easily.

My first piece of evidence in the case of Me vs. Common Sense is as follows:

I was in the eighth grade, and one of the boys had a photograph and a real snapshot of a woman's vagina. I knew it was a vagina because everyone said so, and the boys in the huddle made racy comments as it was passed from eager face to eager face.

"Yep. There she is. Wow!"

"I'm roundin' third and headin' fer home plate, and there it is!"

"You got dat right! It's a beautiful sight."

"Wow! Who is this? I'm in love."

"Who cares? Look at that. Whoa baby."

"Bada bing. Bada boom!"

"Ooh-eee. Ooh la la. Bing bang, walla walla bing bang!"

"Sweet!"

I was then handed the warm, wet photo and took a look at it. To tell you the honest truth, I hadn't envisioned the vagina in its explicit state of reality. To me it was more of an unspoken, secret treasure of pleasure that I would eventually wait impatiently for for many, many, many more years. Then, when suddenly presented to me, I took a look at it and thought, "What in the hell is this? I can't tell what this is. Which end is up?"

That is when I made the terrible mistake of turning the photo upside down and taking a different view, a perspective if you will. That didn't make sense either, and I wondered if perhaps the cameraman had made a terrible mistake. "Was this a close-up? Yes, that's what it was. Wait a minute. This is a real, real close-up. Maybe it's upside down."

I turned the photo over again to take a different peek, and I was still confused. That's when the laughter and the hooting and hollering began. I realized that by turning the photo over and over again, I had exposed myself as the only one in the group who did not recognize the view.

To this day I blame the cameraman and his awful lens and his out of focus, close-up distortion of beauty. I learned that when I'm not sure about anything, it's best to just exclaim, "Sweet mother of pearl!" You''ll hear me say it a lot.

COMEDY SKIT REPEATED

2011-03-03T15:38:00.002-05:00

Many teachers copied a comedy skit I wrote based on lots of dumb jokes with all the humor and punch lines aimed at the teacher. My fourth grade class performed it at an all school event, the "Celebration of Children" assembly. It got a great reception.

Here it is again for all teachers to plagiarize. Plagiarism welcome.

Click on the link below:

Comedy Skit

MISCELLANEOUS COMMENTS

2011-03-02T07:28:00.006-05:00

Yesterday my wife commented that her one of her clients was a hen-pecked husband. The wife was a formidable, overly-demanding woman, and she added, "I am a rank amateur compared to Delores."

I said, "No way. That's impossible."

"Way," Peggy replied. "Frank is so hen-pecked he has to call Delores on her cell phone to get permission to pass gas.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I was conferencing with one of my students and told them they could raise their grade and pass the course if they chose to do so. She asked, "How do I do that?"

"Do everything I have told you. Complete all homework and do it all as carefully as possible. Pay attention in class. Ask questions."

There was a pause. "What if I don't want to do those things? Is there another way?"

THE SAGA OF SAGGIES AND FASHION

2011-03-01T18:47:00.002-05:00

Pants that are hanging down far below the normally accepted level of belt height are referred to at our middle school as "saggies." I have written about saggies before and find it an amazing phenomenon. I always wondered what young people would do to be different in their attire and fashion when I became older. Who would have known the longest running fashion statement was britches pulled down so low that it appeared you had dumped in your pants? There are a lot of things I would do if I was a teenager today and wearing saggies would never be one of them. Weird hair? You bet! Saggies? No way.

Yesterday as I was leaving school I witnessed the worst case of saggies I have ever witnessed, except for that time that my good friend Karl's son and I had a saggie contest in front of his house and we both wound up waddling around in the street with our pants at our ankles. I was willing to "cooperate" in such a foolish endeavor because at the time I was slightly inebriated, was in excellent shape, and was wearing some brand new underwear that my sweet wife, Peggy, referred to as "sexy and hot." It was a tie with both of us shuffling around with our pants gathered at the shoes. No arrests were made and Karl thought it was funny as hell, and that's one of the reasons he is my friend. I also think it is quite peculiar that I use the expression, "funny as hell." Surely there is no other expression that is inaccurate as that.

This eighth grade student was outside the building in the grassy area under some beautiful pine trees. They are Ponderosa pines, and they grow immense and beautiful here in New Mexico. The Ponderosa pine holds a secret. It smells like vanilla and if you sniff the bark, that's the fragrance that will come to mind. The sky was a deep blue, there was a gentle breeze, the temperature a wonderful 62 degrees, one of those days that makes the climate here what many consider perfect, and there, right in the middle of nature's splendor, was a boy's ass covered in very sheer underwear with the crack on display for all to see, and it was the entire crack, all the way from the top of the refrigerator repair man's peek-a-boo spot to the sea bottom cavity, and the owner of this unpleasant sight was teasing some girls who were giggling far more than normal due to the fact that this boy was bent over to accentuate this disgusting sight. I never thought I'd transfer to middle school and see a boy's sheer underwear and his bare ass underneath it, and as I look back on it, I can honestly say that if I had thought about it, I would have hoped I never would.

I was giving him a stern talking to and saying things like, "I don't want to come to school and see your butt!" and every kid in the school wanted to come by and say hello to this fellow. That was quite a distraction, and an irritating one too. No one came over to talk to me! Of course, I don't wear saggies.

When I asked him if he had noticed that I had warned him about his saggies twice that day in the hall, he amateurishly said too much and confessed, "Oh sure I know about the saggie rule. The assistant principal was talking about it to me just this morning."

That was all I needed to know. I have not written a referral before, but when I mentioned the incident to the assistant principal, he asked me to please write a referral for the boy. I'll have to find out what a referral means. It's all paperwork to me at this time.

Saggies. I can't wait until that fashion statement comes to an end and is replaced with something new. With just a little more effort and the right clown shoes, kids could dress like Emmett Kelly.

Or how about bras for boys? Manssiers or Bros.........take your choice of brands. How about ear flares? Ear flares would make your ears stick out like Mad Magazine's Alfred E. Newman.

From the back you'd look like a taxicab with the back doors open.

I can only hope for such change. It's got to be better than knowing first hand that a boy's underwear is gray in color.

SURRENDER AND ARMOR; THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW

2011-03-01T07:52:00.002-05:00

I have two students in my math classes that are brilliant boys, but both have serious issues and are infamous around the school with poor reputations that precede them.

One of them had been recently suspended for quite some time. Prior to his recent "conviction," he had brought a knife to school. Because of his horrendously disrespectful attitude towards authority and even his fellow classmates, a serious suspension followed. His most recent offense included "tagging" the school buildings and football goalposts. He was caught, "convicted," and the hearing/sentencing was held today at the main office in the Chief Muckity-Muck's palatial palace, and it was there that this hooligan was expelled and ordered to attend an "alternative" school.

I spoke to the boy's father prior to the hearing and told him that lawyers, rules, regulations, and fear of reprisals if no punitive measures were taken were going to make it very difficult for his son to get out of the situation.

I also added that we are more frightened of children than we used to be, and I believe it is because of our fear. What would happen to ME if this student repeats the assault on Columbine High School? What would happen to ME if someone was actually hurt because I failed to do anything? What would happen to ME if I didn't take precautions? What would happen to ME if I didn't do this or that?

We take care of ourselves, don't we. But do we take care of others? I didn't speak up for that boy, and I am condemning myself for failing to do so. I didn't call in sick and show up at the hearing to beg clemency and mercy for that boy. I didn't prevent his being expelled and his parents forced to drive him across town to an alternative school.

I am also being overly harsh on myself, because this boy and I once had this conversation:

"Elliot, you treat me very disrespectfully. You talk to me as if I am nothing, a worthless human being. Am I ever going to earn your respect and will you ever treat me respectfully?"

"Nah. I don't see any reason that I should." I will never forget the look on his face. I excel at poker; I would never call his bluff.

I didn't go to the hearing. I didn't help plead his case, but I don't think I would have made a difference. Did I do wrong?

There were two boys mentioned earlier. The other boy is also getting himself into trouble, but his offenses aren't as severe. He treats me with respect and listens to me. If he gets in over his head, I will call in sick and be there for his hearing/sentencing. I will fight the good fight for this boy. I will do anything to help this young man. He has recently been suspended. I must get ready for battle, and begin putting on my armor. I don't even want to go to battle in the Muckity-Muck's palatial palace. I want to win the war. I want this boy to turn around. He is in my sights and I am focused. He and I will win this battle.

WAITING FOR SUPERMAN

2011-02-28T18:38:00.003-05:00

I had mentioned earlier that when the documentary "Waiting for Superman" was released and inexpensively available, I would watch it and give my opinion. Last weekend it was at a Redbox in front of the the drugstore in my neighborhood and I paid my dollar, got a piece of paper and pencil to take notes, and watched this talked about film.

The entire premise of the documentary is built into the title, "Waiting for Superman," and that children and the schools in our country are waiting for someone, anyone, some group, or any group, to take control of our country's school system that is failing to educate children, make it succeed, and be proclaimed a hero as they fly away into the sky faster than a speeding bullet. We are waiting. And waiting. And waiting so long we get the feeling Superman isn't going to arrive in time to save the school bus from careening off the road and over the cliff.

The documentary maintains that the main reason for this inability of anyone or any group to fix the educational system is that they are ultimately faced with the inability to fire lousy teachers. This inability to fire teachers who fail to challenge their students, raise the expectations for all of them, and teach all the children is one of the main reasons our school systems are failing. The bottom ten percent of the teachers who are failing to raise test scores are dragging the entire system down, and yet they can't be fired.

The blame is then placed on teachers' unions, the National Educators' Association (NEA) and the American Federation of Teachers (AFT) for fighting the firing of incompetent teachers, resisting any elimination of tenure which makes it difficult if not impossible to fire teachers, and providing legal protection for teachers who never show up on time, sit and read newspapers and magazines instead of leading a learning community, or worse, molest children.

Successful charter schools are shown holding lottery drawings to allow public school students stuck in failing schools in another neighborhood to be allowed enrollment. Those whose names are not drawn are relegated to the failing school where their child will supposedly fall between the cracks of a crumbling, bureaucratic educational structure, be left behind, and ultimately fail to secure a good job. The entire neighborhood will fail because the school fails the children. In addition, our country's future is in jeopardy because the the future workers of our country are not being educated properly by a school system that is a bureaucratic mess controlled by unions who concern themselves only with adult affairs.

I agree with many of the facts. Students in the United States are behind other countries in reading, math, and science. Teachers who fail to improve their students' test scores and have poor classroom management skills (behavior control), or worse, are rarely fired. Tenure, originally intended to protect the freedom of speech of professors at the university level has degenerated into guaranteed jobs for under performing educators.

The unions are to blame. I am in a state where the unions are very weak, and I have stated before the fact that I make a decent wage due to a politician, rather than a union standing up to one of them. The unions are weak, and people are terminated if something tragic happens in the classroom. Otherwise, incompetence abounds. John Stossel has done television specials on strong teachers' unions, and I agree with his disapproval.

I can assure you that my students' test scores have always been high, and I would be rewarded by accountability for teachers and salaries based on my students' performance on tests. The few teachers whose students' test scores are as high as mine get a congratulatory remark from me and an acknowledgment for their effort. Many administrators fail to do so. I know. It's not a part of their job description to "label" teachers as "good" or "bad." I have had principals compliment me, and I once had a principal who would have done anything to get rid of, did do anything, and succeeded. If this principal had any influence or power over my salary, I would have lost thousands and taken a decade to get it all back. But that's life, and that's something teachers' unions do not want their constituents to undergo.

I completely disagree with the documentary's philosophy. I find it appalling that not once, not one single time, did the documentary mention one factor that affects students learning: the student themselves. There was not one mention of the importance of desire, dedication, or determination on the part of a student. Not not once did they mention a child's attentiveness in class, their work habits, their behavior, or their ambition and goal to distract. Not once was the thoroughness of their work turned in ever mentioned. I never heard the words "work completed promptly and neatly." Their attendance, tardiness, or attitude toward learning was never discussed. The student was not even considered as a factor in the outcome of their grades. What a shame that our country has declined so far that we can't hold a student responsible for their own learning, and their accomplishments are supposedly determined by which school they attend. Poor Abraham Lincoln. Based on this documentary, he should never have become a lawyer. He should have become stuck working in that general store and walking miles to return change.

We are afraid to hold our children accountable. We have become so dysfunctional as a nation that we believe a child who gets an F was given that grade rather than earned it. I never gave a child an F. The child earned it, and that's all they earned.

There were some wonderful quotes, and a few dynamic individuals were interviewed who have dedicated their lives to making a change and improving the system. Otherwise, the documentary was just as I expected, selling consumers the philosophy of fear and decline.

I am reminded of the song on the old television show, "Hee Haw" :

"Gloom, Despair, and Agony on me! Ahh!
Deep, Dark Depression. Excessive Misery! Aghh!
If it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all! Aww!
Gloom, Despair, and Agony on me!"

I don't want to hear it, especially from educators who are never, absolutely ever, willing to suggest that our students need to do at least one fourth of their homework. If you told them they were doing a quarter-ass job, they'd look at you and say, "Huh?"

SONG LYRICS ABOUT AN INFANT GIRL: TESS

2011-02-27T06:22:00.000-05:00

I was about twenty-two or twenty-three when my cousin Mary Ann had her first child. A celebration and family gathering was held and I went to visit with all my cousins, and the first family members I talked to were my Aunt Marian and Mary Ann. They were standing in the living room and talking, and I asked about the baby. It was a girl and had been named Tess. I asked where Tess was, and my aunt and cousin pointed to a crib they had been facing the whole time. I immediately went over to the crib and saw Tess for the first time.

Tess was a beautiful baby with large, shockingly beautiful eyes that were looking right at me. I felt this was a wonderful sign. My younger brother Jack had been the same way. Even as a baby Jack was looking right at you as if he was already starting to learn. He grew up a genius, a brilliant man. Immediately I felt the same way about Tess. Here was someone special and blessed.

I picked Tess up carefully for I had little experience picking up newborns, talked baby talk to her, then turned around to face the living room. Everyone had stopped their conversations and was staring at me, not in horror, but in dismay as if I had done something wrong. It was unsettling, but I am at times a hardy soul, so I swayed over to Aunt Marian and Mary Ann and asked what was the matter. Had I done something wrong?

Aunt Marian explained that Tess was having difficulties and would cry all the time. She had been crying all morning and had finally settled down, and if anyone held her, even her mother or her aunt, she would start crying again. I remember my Aunt Marian adding that she didn't like to be held. I replied, "Well, she's not crying for me," and probably sounded a little arrogant when I said it. I held Tess for a short while until I realized everyone was quiet. It must have been a long morning listening to Tess cry, so I put her back in her crib and she didn't make any sounds. Everyone slowly began talking again.

I will never forget holding Tess. It was at that moment I realized I wanted to have children, and now, because of Tess, I especially wanted a baby girl. It wasn't meant to be.

Shortly after holding her I composed a song on the guitar titled, "Tess."

Tess

Wiping the sleep from her eyes,
Daddy's little girl starts to cry.
A bottle of milk and she's fine.

Crawling on her hands and knees
all around,
trying to stand but she can't.
Her seat keeps a slappin' the ground.

Diapers to change day and night.
Mommy and I are a sight.
We barely have time for a fight.

A friend o' mine said,
"Hey man, don't you miss havin' fun?
Don't you wish that you'd looked out for ol' number one?"

And I said, "Look.

Tess is asleep in my arms."

A DIVERSION FROM KIDS: BAD FIRST SENTENCES

2011-02-25T20:33:00.002-05:00

As a celebration of the fifth anniversary of LOST IN KIDS, I will be spewing forth an explosively immense amount of material. Here is the first of many.

There is a contest held by Bulwer-Lytton that gives awards to the worst first sentence of a novel. The novel does not have to written.........just the first sentence, and it needs to be a hideous foretaste of what is to come. I entered the contest one year and quickly lost interest, mainly because of my indifference to the rules which clearly stated that bad sentences purely for humor's sake would not be tolerated. However, there was a category that allowed humor to be generated by grammatical error. I piddled around with that for a little while. Here are a few of my efforts at pitiful writing:

Humor cause by grammatical error:

Seven seconds after Frank entered the restaurant he knew there were two men packing heat in the booth to his left, a drunk having an argument with what would surely be his last date with a foxy brunette near the door leading into the kitchen, and a mechanic who recently had sex with his wife in the table near the front window.

Loretta was feeling great after hitting the three hundred dollar jackpot on the quarter slot, but while she served herself another helping of shrimp scampi from the casino buffet, she noticed a burly man staring at her in the dessert section.

The lonely, deserted stretch of road looked forbidding in the faint moonlight, especially with her car low on gas, and Brenda was aware that Jeffrey, a hitchhiker she had picked up just east of Texarkana, had awakened from his sleep and was staring at her gauges.

Bad first sentences that are awkward or confusing:

Gazing grimly at the sky, Lt. Forrester, the aging detective, shook his head at his rotten luck, while his open umbrella, which had come loose from his grip, alternated between bounding like half of a giant bowling ball (except a lot lighter) and taking off for short flights kind of like a black parachute with a really skinny woman hanging from it trying to land in a hurricane down Dover Drive.

Charles was not used to such accommodations, and he held the menu, a greasy piece of plastic peddling greasy fried foods, grimly.

These sentences were purely for the fun of it:

"One more sip," he thought, and as the bottle of Maalox brushed his lips, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his back and a quick, sure movement in his right hip pocket, and he thought to himself, "I'm gonna die right her, right now, in this parking lot for a measly twenty dollars, or maybe I broke that twenty when I ordered that Long Island Iced Tea, but I don't remember getting any change."

Every hospital has its idiot employees, and the fates usually prevented them all from descending all at once on one hapless patient, but Donnie wasn't feeling lucky after his unfortunate mishap with the garbage disposal, and now, to top it all off, this was the fourth time someone had entered his room and tried to give him the wrong medication, and he knew, deep down inside, that his life depended on staying alert for the next forty-eight hours.

Short ones:

Jane was a hot bombshell waiting to be defused, and Charles was a hot bombshell defusing kind of Tarzan.

Jack was the king of his bachelor pad still on a quest for his queen, but in reality he was only a deuce, or a six or seven at best, a worthless card in the great deck of life, but he had an ace up his sleeve, and her name was Lady Luck.

The needle tracks were beginning to show, and Frank applied some more self-darkening suntan lotion to his arm in preparation for what would be his last successful job interview.

"I'm going into the car wash business," announced Ralph to his new bride, "and I am calling it "The Immaculate InCarNation."

Loretta's sobbing could stop sparrow's singing in spring as well as sink ships like loose lips during World War II, but fortunately for her boyfriend Dave, she was in a good mood.

Knowing that he was alive and the other guy wasn't relieved and saddened Jeremy Scott Fleisher at the same time.

Here is a comma filled favorite of someone whose opinion I respect:

This is a tale that can only be understood, if at all, by believing, even if only in a lukewarm manner, in miracles, though modern man, in his post-biblical neurosis, fails to entertain the notion of their existence, and the wondrous things that can happen, and happen they will, when they manifest themselves, like a pinata that bursts open to spill out its candy reward, in our lives.

I like the word "again." Here is an again-filled beauty:

This time Gene's 38 revolver had finally accomplished its handiwork, the smoke never to languidly ooze its way out of the slightly rusted barrel again, the chamber never again to spin like a carousel of chaos again, the grip never again to slip out of a drunken hand and fall to the floor again, the safety never to be left off, and the firing mechanism never to fail and allow a bullet to come out when it wasn't supposed to again.

Here are my favorites:

If women were dances, Carla was a fox-trotting, Rhumbanesque, striptease pole dancer of a flamenco with flamingo legs tap dancing across the dance cards and the hearts of the flat-footed men who dreamed of Fred Astairing their way into her panties.

Live Oak Terrace was a brand new neighborhood, somewhat like a virgin, with fresh, white curbs, little tiny trees protruding from the ground, the first signs of grass seedlings in each yard, and a garage that had never had a car enter its garage and then back out again.

It seemed like a plain, old, ordinary day, a day like any other, and he felt the same as he would on any other day, except this day wasn't going to be a plain, old, ordinary day, a day not like any other, and he wasn't going to feel the same at the end of it like he would on any other plain, old, ordinary day, and it all started with the alarm clock just like it usually did.

Disturbing sentences:

A steamy mist hissed from the sewers and gutters of Central Boulevard as if the secret doings unfolding in all the clapboard houses and moldy motels lined up on either side of the dirty concrete street were escaping in the only way possible - as putrid, seething gases belching from the nasty underbelly of lost souls housed in each despicable, deplorable, and dilapidated dump.

Gorgon, a Zola leader of the Expulsion Team on Arbutus-3, lifted a skulltainer to his lips and sipped warm liquid extractions as smoke wafted thought the containment flaps, and he flared his nostrils and growled, "I love the smell of burning human flesh in the morning."

Charles H. Langford was the therapist to some of Chicago's richest and most famous personalities, his offices snobbishly gazing down at the windy city below, his Clark and Hydesbury suits perfectly tailored to his well-maintained physique, but his latest patient, Bud Clouf, was troubling him, and he squirmed in his seat when Bud muttered, "I got the dough to buy a tie like yours, but what the hell kind of morphodite would want to?

Manny's eyes flickered, his chin rose ever so slightly as his nostrils flared, he gritted his teeth, and he clinched his massive fists when he realized the Ace Hardware store was out of quarts of Tuscan White interior wall paint, and he thought about getting a portable drill with a 9/16" bit and taking a trip down the aisle drilling holes into all the Dutch Boy's foreheads until somebody could stop him with an ax, or maybe a shovel if they got lucky.

"I hate soccer," Bill Joe muttered to himself, and he drove several blocks thinking only of machine-gunning all the little soccer players and their parents for having the baseball fields converted into Brazilian battlefields of boredom until he caught sight of the beauty parlor in the strip shopping center where he had scheduled a manicure and a pedicure.

One that I thought would win:

Barrels came loose, cannons broke free and were, as in the old expression, "loose cannons," and they smashed the poor sailors who found themselves in the lower part of the ship as the front part of the mighty schooner "The Tempest" crashed into another dark and stormy wave, causing the main sail pole to moan and groan like a nauseous drunkard struggling to stay standing.

LOST IN KIDS

2011-02-25T18:55:00.000-05:00

This blog was started by Laura on March 5, 2006. I was invited to join her in a discussion of children as witnessed by a parent (Laura) and a teacher (Walter). This blog will soon be celebrating five years of dedication to, the celebration of, and the bedlam and merriment generated by kids.

This blog is pure literature. Raw writing. Few pictures. No sounds. No other purpose than to chronicle children and their impact on our daily lives, and with grace, perhaps reflect on the joy and agony of life we all have witnessed by being young.

I never thought of myself as a writer. I was a writer of lyrics to songs, songs sung by me and thus never appreciated by loving family members, much less by the masses.

Thank you to everyone who has ever read for themselves or shared this blog site with others. The five years have roared by like an ice cream truck when you're digging for change.........like a Saturday at an amusement park.........like the first birthday party you attended.........like art class compared to math class.........like the last hour before bedtime.........like a life period

Thanks again.

FAMOUS PEOPLE DIE IN GROUPS OF THREE

2011-02-25T16:36:00.002-05:00

It has been noted that famous people die in groups of three. This myth supposedly began with the simultaneous deaths of Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, and "The Big Bopper" in a plane crash in 1959, and their deaths were memorialized by Don McLean in his song titled, "American Pie."
I mentioned to someone at work that there was a myth fueled by confirmation bias that famous people always died in groups of three, and she asked me to give another example. I said, "Well, for example, first there was Farrah Fawcett. Then there was Michael Jackson. I paused.

"Who is the third one? she asked.

"Tony the Tiger. He was murdered by a cereal killer."

I got a nasty look from her, so I tried it differently with a different person.

I set the joke up just like before, except when she asked, "Who is the third one?" I replied, "The Pillsbury Dough Boy. He died of a yeast infection."

It got a much bigger laugh.

If you can't laugh at death, you probably take it too seriously.

UPCOMING FIFTH ANNIVERSAY OF "LOST IN KIDS"

2011-02-25T16:01:00.000-05:00

March 5, 2006 was Laura's first entry on the "Lost in Kids" blog site. She and I took turns with blog entries for many years until recently when she took some time off to return to college for her teaching credentials and licensing. I miss her challenging writing style and have done my best to maintain the quality without her.

I will be contacting her to ask for a fifth anniversary blog entry.

Please visit our site any time, but this is a special invitation to see what's coming on March 5, 2011, the fifth anniversary of "Lost In Kids."

KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS PART 2

2011-02-24T15:35:00.001-05:00

Art Linkletter hosted a television show in the 1950's called "House Party" and the most popular segment on the show was his interview of pre-schoolers and the embarrassing and overly honest things they would say.

Middle schoolers don't want to embarrass anyone except maybe a teacher or two and that only gets them into trouble. Their parents are fair game, though, and I do hear weird things.

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There was a photo of a pig in our math book and I wasn't sure if the pig was from the movie "Babe" or from the movie "Charlotte's Web." I asked the students which one it was and they all quickly responded with an inappropriately loud, "Babe!!"

Then one of the students distinctly mumbled, "Babe. That was a scary movie."

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I mentioned to one of my students that it was apparent that he was having trouble with fractions, and I asked him to be honest and tell me if I was correct. He replied, "Yeah. I have trouble with fractions. My dad says I always do an eighth-ass job on them and then he laughs as if something is funny."

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One of my students told me with a very straight face, "Mr. Rich, I flunked my science test because of Jenny."

"Why is it Jenny's fault that you flunked your science test?" I asked.

With all seriousness she replied, "Just before the test she told me that the 'greenhouse effect' was caused by some people voting for the Dixie Chicks to win an Oscar."

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A SECRET HOMEWORK-FREE CLUB: MIDDLE SCHOOL

2011-02-23T16:33:00.003-05:00

I am relieved to know that so many politicians understand the best methods to raise low student achievement in our country's schools. I am also overwhelmed at their confidence in their political party's ideas on the subject compared to their opponent's. As a middle school teacher I am reassured and thankful to know that the future of our educational system is so clearly defined and envisioned by the politicians whose solutions are being imposed on our schools.

I do have a few questions, though. Why is the solution in the instructional strategies of the teacher as if homogeneity will ultimately prevail and cure the ills? Why is the "fix" in the curriculum provided by corporations and sold to each school district? How can students be helped by having lower class sizes set by state laws as if individual tutoring is the ultimate goal for each student? Why is the way out of the students' low scores the amount of money provided to a school? Why is the problem solved by experienced teachers receiving further training in meetings devoid of real classroom situations and the topics of those "professional development seminars" set by school superintendents?

One more question. Why isn't the lack of completed homework by 40% of my students considered in any one's "formula for success?"

THIS WORLD

2011-02-16T07:37:00.001-05:00

I want to dump all the world's problems in a pile, set fire to them and watch them reduced to ashes. All the dirty looks, the grumpy dispositions, the blank stares induced by grief or trauma, the rude comments, treatable diseases that go untreated, the ravages of untreatable diseases, hunger, anger, bitterness and greed. The bonfire would destroy anxiety, depression, poverty, wars, threats and rumors of wars, and the damned military forces we so dearly treasure that thrive on weapons and bloodshed.

Flames would melt cold and remorseless hearts, sear laziness into ashes, and change foolishness and the ensuing criminal activities into mere smoke that dissipates with the fresh breeze.

Injustice would burn while cool drinks are dispensed to those falsely accused and false witness borne against them, and the flames would shed light on those hiding in the darkness who have failed to pay for their crimes.

Forgiveness will put out the fiery inferno of resentment and blame, and restitution will be fertilized by and flourish in the ashes of retribution.

This world will not be sanctified by flames or healed by fire, nor will it be saved by the works of our own hands. What does this world have to offer? What is the greatest gift we own and hold dear to our hearts? What if we did travel to the stars and discovered life on other worlds? What is our most exalted and magnificent idea, thought, concept, or material possession we have in our minds and hearts? What is the one treasure this world has that humans should share with the universe?

Censorship of Teachers: Making Our Children Feel Safe

2011-02-15T16:21:00.001-05:00

Each teacher has a few, or in some cases, many peculiarities. One of mine is a statement I make to any student who sits and stares off into space. I get their attention, which sometimes takes considerable effort, and tell them, "Don't just sit there and look handsome/cute. Get to work."

Two girls went to the principal and complained that I was calling them "cute." Guilty as charged. I didn't deny it. When I told the principal the context of the comments, he just rolled his eyes and laughed at the silliness. However, he is not the boss. Lawyers are, and I was told never to say that again. If I do it again, I will be "written up." If you are "written up" three times you have a problem.........teacher probation. Today I told a kid, "Don't just sit there. Get to work." It lacks that little complimentary pizazz, but it's just as ineffective, if not more so.

The principal also mentioned that I had told the girls that I was a handsome devil. Guilty as charged. Also true. When I am explaining math to a student, I want them looking at the math problem, not me. If they keep it up, I tell them, "Quit staring at me. Look at the math problem." If they do it again, I say, "I know I am a handsome devil and it is hard to take your eyes off me, but you must focus on the math. Look at the math problem." Today I merely, said, "Look at the math problem." I had to repeat it two times, but it's as effective.

There are children that have been terrorized and their sexuality severely damaged by predatory adults, and they will be judged not by me, but by the Almighty Creator. I would sacrifice myself to prevent it from happening again to even one child.

I wish that our society would do more to solve this horrible problem than censor teachers for trivialities and control our vocabulary with political correctness.

ADMINISTRATIVE SUPPORT

2011-02-14T15:20:00.000-05:00

I have a seventh grade math student who is trying his best to engage me in a downward spiraling relationship. He does everything he can to push my buttons, which is quite easy if you think about it. He has chosen the path of greatest disagreement and argues with every thing I tell him.

If I tell him to pay attention when he is not paying attention, he looks up at his book and says, "I am paying attention." If I tell him to quit laying his head on his desk, he'll lift his head up and wearily and exasperatingly reply, "I am not laying on my desk." Today we reached the bottom of our descent; we had an argument whether he was arguing with me or not. It's an important issue and a battle I choose to fight because no student can make improvement if they are in denial about their behavior or work habits and turn any suggestion or criticism I make into a debate.

I have sent him to the office several times, and he now has after school detention and a required meeting with his parents and the Principal. The parents know about this issue because I called them, and they informed me that their son was doing the same thing to them. It was driving them crazy. Ditto.

I went to the Principal today and told him what was happening between this student and me, and he suggested that it's a fairly common occurrence in middle school. He told me to send the boy to the office and he would fix the problem I am sending the student to the Principal's office tomorrow. It is wonderful to have an administrator/principal that supports teachers and understands the issues they confront.

It is a weary and dangerous path you traverse when your guide is an incompetent fool, and how wonderful is the journey when you are led by a knowledgeable and considerate person.

THIN, DAINTY SKIN

2011-02-14T12:46:00.000-05:00

Read the blog below this one. Then forget what I wrote. I must have been dreaming.

I had a conversation with my two brothers last night that almost brought me to tears. Forget what I wrote. At least when it comes to family, I am a still a cry-babe-in- the woods.

THICK, TOUGH SKIN

2011-02-12T19:45:00.005-05:00

I was a student of Chong Wei Lin (Charles Lin) at the Chinese Culture Center and Lin's Martial Arts Academy for over twelve years. During that time, I learned to push my body and mind over and over again, relentlessly, far beyond what I ever thought was possible. I learned that the supposed ancient "secrets" contained in the Chinese martial arts system really exist. I am thankful to Mr. Lin for pushing me as hard as he did and passing on to me that call for excellence through hard work in every endeavor. However, I was not quite prepared for the harsh and cruel world of middle school.

I am beginning to believe that after teaching seventh grade math at a middle school, I am now truly, formidably tough. I am now ready for anything. It will be a grueling year, and most people could not last that long. It takes a thick and tough skin. I thought my skin was thick and tough before, but I have been toughened by the best......... seventh grade math students. After dealing with them for half a year and realizing that I am going to make it and am succeeding, I am now one tough dude.

My skin is now so thick and tough it can be blow torched. Welders can now weld my arms together without it burning. I stare at hypodermic needles while they are being shoved into my body and I laugh.

I can be mocked by professional mockers and not shed a tear. I can have Don Rickles ridicule me in front of a world wide audience and laugh along with everyone. Snicker behind my back? That's so ineffective it's humorous.

I can handle verbal and psychological abuse while keeping a smile on my face. I can laugh while being disdained and keep a straight face while a babe-in-the-woods pre-teen mocks me. I can discover cruel notes about me being secretly passed from one person in the room to another and not even raise an eyebrow. I can look Evil in the eye and give it a lunch detention.

I can eat crow.........it's tasty! I can eat toasters for breakfast and iron skillets for supper. I can discover the Grim Reaper standing on the hood of my car in fast, rush hour traffic and just yank the wheel hoping to shake him off while turning up the car stereo.

I can dismantle human time bombs, warm cold shoulders and ignore frozen ones. I can keep my mouth shut when one word could destroy some one's buoyant spirits, and I can open my mouth and make some one's day. I can dodge tripping feet, trip up liars, and trip the Light Fantastic.

I could mop the floor with a cruel child or simply make them know that I disapprove, and I always choose the latter. I could destroy a child's reputation and spirit or try to lift them up on wings, and I always choose the latter. I can teach a child with their mind shut, I can make them hear when they don't want to listen, and I can teach them to say what's in their heart with no words.

I can go home each day with my head held high and a jaunty step despite all the depression, anxiety, fear, loneliness, and anger around me.

I am a middle school teacher. I can be knocked on my back by a virus and unable to work, rushed to a hospital by a car crash, and killed by too many cancer cells, but I can enjoy a day with kids that would wreck some people's spirits for an unreasonably long time.

Tough skin looks soft and old. Outside I look like glass. Inside I am iron.

ODD THOUGHTS

2011-02-11T17:38:00.000-05:00

If mal de mer is French for motion sickness or seasickness, would bowel de mer be French for diarrhea? Or how about mal de bowel?

If you ask a class of seventh grade math students how many grams are in a kilogram and one of the students sarcastically drawls the slow response, "A lot," should the teacher be given a medal for finding it humorous instead of strangling the kid a la Homer Simpson?

I have noticed that my wife and I don't "get" some commercials which are obviously aimed for the youth market. It is not a sign of old age because the younger generation doesn't understand commercials aimed at my generation. The time to worry about old age setting in is when you don't understand any commercials.

Every now and then I feel like a man in an Easter Parade wearing only a thong and a bowler. I can walk with style and grace and confidence, but sooner or later I am going to notice that people are snickering.

IT EERILY WARMS THE COCKLES OF MY HEART

2011-02-08T14:37:00.004-05:00

I gave the District Based Assessment today to my students in first and second period, and I am delighted to say that they were focused and centered, working industriously and quietly for the entire class. It was heart warming.

There were a few occasions when I'd look up, see them furiously working away, and then I'd get the eeriest feeling, and the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up on end, and as I slowly realized that they were no pods in the back of the room or in the hallways, the feeling would slowly fade and I'd get that cozy little warmness in the cockles of me heart.

I hope the rest of my classes work as diligently.

WINTER'S BITE AND THE BEST LAID SCHEMES

2011-02-06T14:35:00.005-05:00

This February winter sure bit the global warming community in the butt. That ought to shut them up, and I don't think I'll be exposed to a global whining article about the greenhouse effect for another couple of weeks.

It also cancelled school in our city for four days. We had school Monday and I was all set to give my math students the District Based Assessment. They were primed and test ready. However, the best laid schemes of mice and men often go astray, and so did my plans. I will give the students the test but only after they sat around on their rears and watched TV for a week like I did.

Why were four days of school cancelled? It's unheard of in our city, but Tuesday the roads were horrible. Wednesday was too cold and the roads were slick. Thursday the school buses wouldn't start and some of the schools' plumbing and water pipes were frozen. On Friday the school superintendent complied with the Governor's state of emergency request to reduce natural gas consumption. Tens of thousands of homes and businesses had no heat, and gas lines needed to be restarted.

Personally, I got away with two frozen pipes that never burst and goldfish that survived a six inch layer of ice on the pond. I also was able to experience below zero weather. You go outside with a hot cup o' coffee, and you have about twelve seconds to drink it. By then, it's iced coffee, and who wants iced coffee in below zero weather?

I will return to the classroom tomorrow, Monday, February 7, 2011, in the hopes of getting seventh graders excited about a very important math test. I'd have better luck kick-starting a 1979 Kenworth.

A TEEN MARRIAGE

2011-02-05T14:20:00.004-05:00

During the first week of teaching middle school I was approached by a girl in the hallway between third and fourth period who was selling what were unappetizing, homemade cupcakes. I asked her if they were a fundraising project, and she told me that she was raising money for her wedding dress.

At that time I was very new to middle school, and though I sometimes act as if I was born yesterday, I was not born last night, and so I did some quick arithmetic and decided that something was wrong. I asked her if she was getting married, and she said yes. She and a seventeen year old boy had fallen in love and wanted to get married. According to her story, her parents agreed to let her marry at the tender age of thirteen and had signed legal papers stating so if she raised money for her own wedding dress. I didn't question any of her statements. I told her that I wanted to think about it, but maybe I would purchase a cupcake the next day. I immediately went to the counselor and the principal to check this story out. Neither of them had heard anything about it, but the counselor was able to guess her name.

Sure enough, the next day she had a new batch of cupcakes, and by the way, they looked more appetizing. Selling them was a way of raising funds for her wedding dress. I never accused her of lying or, assuming she was telling the truth, informing her that her parents were cuckoo. I played it cool and just didn't buy any cupcakes because I didn't have any money on me.

This went on for some time until she quit carrying around cupcakes. I asked her why she didn't have any more cupcakes, and she sadly informed me that sales had tanked and there were no more takers.

When I asked her about it even later, she said that the wedding was planned to be celebrated over the Christmas Holidays. After the Holiday Season (This time I am politically correct) I asked the girl if she was now married.

"Yes, Mr. W. I got married over Christmas."

"Did you wear a nice wedding dress?"

"It was OK, but it was just an ordinary dress."

"Well, it's just a dress. The most important thing is to keep the love between you and your husband going."

She made no response and didn't look overjoyed, so I kept the conversation going. "Do you like marriage? Is it a big change?"

"It's about the same, really."

"Really? I would have thought it would be a big difference. Did you consummate the marriage?" "Uh oh," I thought. I just opened a can of worms.

"What does consummate mean?" she inquired.

"Oh, never mind. I just hope that this marriage works out great for you."

"Thanks," she replied. I don't see her anymore in the hallways. I need to find out if the matrimonial service actually took place. Call it professional curiosity.

WRITER'S BLOG AND MENTAL CONSTIPATION

2011-01-30T16:36:00.004-05:00

I am not a psychologist, but I have heard that people isolated on desert islands or in solitary confinement lose some of their mental stability. At least Tom Hanks did when he sobbed over the loss of Wilson in the film, "Castaway."

When food and water are ingested, waste products must come out. When we have experiences and ideas arise, so should some waste product come out. That is why we all have a need to communicate.

That is why I write. My blogs are a release, something that helps prevent the mental constipation that comes when we can't or don't share our feelings and ideas. Some would say it's a great analogy.........my writing material as a waste product, and many times I feel like that's what it is, but writing keeps me writing. I call it writer's blog, and it is the antonym for "writer's block."

Wilson was Tom Hanks' only friend, his ear, his way to communicate and share his experiences and ideas, and ultimately, his escape.

You are my ears and thus my friends. Thank you for continuing to read.

RACHEL'S CHALLENGE

2011-01-29T08:39:00.001-05:00

Our middle school hosted the Rachel's Challenge program during two assemblies this week. Rachel Scott was the first student killed at Columbine High School in 1999. The last few months of her life were spent telling everyone that she was not going to live a long life but somehow was going to make an impact on millions of others' lives.

Started by her father and her family, Rachel's Challenge is the program that carries on her wish for everyone to show more compassion and tolerance for others. A video was shown to all my math classes that introduced them to the Columbine massacre and the challenge that Rachel Scott made to us all after her death.

It is a powerful video that was edited by our counselor so that no dead bodies were shown. Students cried. Their treatment of me has been much nicer than before. Teachers and staff cried. We are all affected. I hope the challenge that was accepted by myself, our students and staff is carried on forever.

To view the video, click on this link: Rachel's Challenge

A CHOICE: DISHONOR OR DECEPTION

2011-01-28T16:01:00.003-05:00

Our country is making an insidious decision. We have a choice between rewriting history or affirming that many of our ancestors' deeds were dishonorable. We have chosen to rewrite history.

I was raised in the south and saw drinking fountains marked "white" and "colored." The colored drinking fountains were always dirty because the white owners did not want to clean them, and besides, it served a purpose. That dirty drinking fountain marked "colored" proved the filthiness of the African-American race and the purity of the white race. The only problem was that I was fourteen years old and saw through the deception.

I watched the Civil Rights Movement take place under the inspired guidance of Martin Luther King, Jr., and I sat at the Newberry's counter in the old Gulfgate Shopping Mall a few weeks after blacks were hauled off to jail for having the audacity to sit at that "white" lunch counter. That Newsberry's went out of business. Good riddance.

I spent my formative years gazing up in admiration at huge statues of men in Confederate uniforms with one arm to the sky symbolizing that Almighty God was on their side. I was raised singing "Dixie" and watching Confederate flags flap in the thick and humid air of the South. I was told these were great things, honorable things, respected institutions. I discovered that it was all a fabrication. A lie.

The Southern whites bought human beings. They sold them. They bred them. It was a simple business decision to sell or keep the children of slaves. The Confederate flag was designed to represent the Confederate States of America when they broke away from the Union and formed their own country in order to keep their precious slaves and ensure that any new territories that became states would allow whites to own human beings from Africa. The statues were of men who fought to keep the institutution of slavery in the South and killed Union soldiers. I remember my brother moving to Boston and telling me that one of the culture shocks was seeing statues built in honor of Union soldiers who fought against slavery and the preservation of the Union.

I have watched propaganda films that have been fairly recently released that sell the deception that the Southern soldiers were gentlemen and the Northern soldiers were crude and despicable. One of those films even stated that many Confederate Generals were fighting with the intention of setting slaves free at the end of the war. Lies.

Instead of facing the hard truth which will set us free, we believe the deception. Any of my ancestors who fought for the Confederacy fought to maintain slavery. Should it be a surprise that one hundred years later I was a teenager and staring at "colored" drinking fountains? We were still fighting a war in the South. The Confederacy had lost the Civil War but was still fighting the dishonorable cause.

The war continued until Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. He is one of the casualties of the continued battle with the last remnants of the shameful Confederacy.

Abraham Lincoln did a great service to the South by including the Confederate soldiers with the Union soldiers while honoring all their deaths in National Monuments such as Gettysburg. Lincoln is a greater man than I. I can't and won't pay homage to the Confederacy, and I hate to see the rewriting of history. Many blacks do not seem to comprehend the honesty and true vision of Huckleberry Finn, and the nation is blinded to the deception in our latest revisions of the Civil War.

There is no honor in a dishonorable cause.

THE LOSS OF EXCELLENCE

2011-01-26T16:39:00.002-05:00

Beavers are industrious creatures, and if you stroll by a stream while hiking, upon your next day's return you might see a completely new dam built as their needs arise.

Bees have a society maintained by worker bees, and the workers work in a furious flurry of activity all predicated upon the continued survival of the species.

Americans picture themselves as beavers. Our children are busy. Everyone is busy. Busy as beavers and bees.

Curmudgeons, as they are sometimes labeled, complain that everyone and especially children are too busy.

"Our children's schedules are overloaded. Take your children out of some of the organized activities and let them enjoy life," they whine. "We're draining the childhood out of our kids with all these frantic activities," they moan. I have to agree with the curmudgeons.

I have had piano students for over twenty years, and I have watched the amount of their practice time slowly dwindle over the decades as more and more activities are squeezed into their schedules. The students don't have to lie; the parents will back them up. They truly are too busy to practice. I hear their schedules and inwardly groan, and I know they will never learn the piano because they have no practice time. If I tripled my rates, the parents might ensure their child would practice in order to warrant the expense, but more likely, I would probably lose them as clients.

Children are not beavers and bees. When they get too busy, they are no longer productive. All they do is buzz around and accomplish more with less excellence. Many of us are as busy as beavers and bees, but we are sacrificing a quality of excellence in our accomplishments.

Being busy as beavers and bees should not be a goal but a schedule that enables us to achieve excellence in our endeavors. When we squeeze in too many activities in too little time, we aren't as busy as bees and beavers; we become as busy as a couple of nerds in a never ending dodge ball game.

We should not strive for quantity of activities, but excellence in the quality of those we perform.

Of course, I could be wrong. We could be raising a new generation of Renaissance People, excelling at many activities and creating an explosion of amazing accomplishments that will mystify all.

I hope I'm a curmudgeon and wrong.

HUH?

2011-01-25T15:33:00.003-05:00

At the beginning of the day an announcement was made over the PA at our school for all geography students to immediately go to the atrium. I didn't know where the atrium was, so I asked the students, "Is the atrium that place at the end of the hallway where the big Jet is hanging from the ceiling?" (Our mascot is a Jet.)

"Oh no! yelled lots of students. "No! that's not where the atrium is. No! No!

"Then one student yelled out, "The atrium is where the Jet is hanging from the ceiling!

Huh?

I met a student who was entering the classroom. She saw me and said, "Oh, Mr. W., I'm not here today!"

Huh?

I told the class that their homework was not in the textbook but was a problem on the board. "Please copy it down," I said.

A student raised their hand and asked if we had any homework.

Huh?

Another student was tardy to class, and he was wearing one shoe with the other shoe tied to it and flopping along as he walked. I asked him why he was late, and he said, "I got into trouble with a cop."

"An Albuquerque Police Department officer or an Albuquerque School security guard?"

"A security guard guy."

"OK, so it wasn't a cop. It was one of our security guards. What did you do?"

"Me and a friend were walking down the hall with our shoes tied together like this."

"Why did you and your friend do this?"

"The cop told me to do it."

"The security guard told you to tie your shoes like that?"

"No, but to walk to class like that."

"So you're trying to say that the security guard told you to continue on to class and not stop to tie your shoes correctly, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"So that's why you were late?"

"Yeah."

Huh?

SECRET, INANE NOTES

2011-01-25T12:31:00.001-05:00

There is a girl in one of my math classes who is inattentive, easily distracted, and is perpetually tending to the upkeep of a facial feature or alertly adjusting a fashion accessory with far more attention to the task than Martha Stewart would put into a centerpiece at a dinner for Chinese emissaries at the White House.

Several months ago I caught her passing a secret note. She was mortified and distraught about my confiscation of the said note, and she begged to have it back. I kept it with no punishment or consequences.

I placed the note in a "secret compartment" in my wallet, and found it recently. Here is the secret note and its exact contents:

Haha ya! Uhh...Something that makes
numbers and algabreak equasionss
disapearr!...Hmm.... Wat does tht?... Magic wand?!?
Oh ya! But where tofindit?.. ??
No idea?? Haha maybe the creepy lil nose picker
that claims hesawitch that lives nextdoor to me mite
have one I can rent. lol! Ha ha!!

I thought it was of some significance or importance for the sole reason that its contents were of no significance or importance whatsoever. It is quite revealing, and I wonder about the inanities I passed around the class when I was twelve.

INNER PEACE

2011-01-21T21:36:00.002-05:00

Teachers learn with their students, and unfortunately some of those lessons are grim. We learn that some students will not reach proficiency, much less mastery of the lesson, even under the best of classroom conditions. A society may attempt to eliminate social and educational ills that present valid excuses for a student's failure, but inevitably, they are excuses and nothing more.

I have seen many human lives and bits of lives play out on the stage. The events and results of a person's life unfolding can be fascinating and very enlightening. At times, the light is nothing more than a perspective, and conflicting philosophies based on those events may arise. Here is one life played out in front of me to see and to learn from, and it applies to a student's failure.

Years ago I attended an elementary school that had a family of two boys. The older boy was about the age of my older brother and sister, and I heard lots of stories about this older boy who I shall dub, "Fred." Fred was a tall, handsome, popular, high schooler, and all the stories about him were favorable and luscious. Girls fawned and boys admired. Fred was a charmer. Smart. Cool. Handsome.

His younger brother, "Frank," was also tall and handsome but not as smart. The girls liked Frank but no more than any of the other boys because we were only fifth graders and too innocent at the time to base our affections on society's idea of appearances. Girls thought I was as handsome as Frank until they reached the age of eighteen and decided they didn't want to face the possibility of having a red-headed, freckled-faced, short, mesomorphic child.

Frank flunked the fifth grade. No one spoke of it. It was never brought up in conversation. It was hush-hush and taboo to discuss what happened to Frank, but it was a big deal. Frank suddenly became a lowly fifth grader while the rest of us were promoted to the sixth grade. Frank lost his coolness, at least to some of us. Poor Frank. I felt sorry for Frank and thought, "What will become of poor Frank? Thank heavens I make straight A's."

Fast forward about twelve years. I am driving down the freeway in a worn out Chevy Nova, blue smoke billowing out of my rattling tailpipe as drivers behind me frantically change lanes, the car windows are up in summer so the wind pressure inside the car won't blow the rear windshield out because of all the rust, I have eight dollars to my name, my parents aren't happy with me as usual, I am jobless again, I haven't had a date in two years, and the only good thing in my life is that my last thoughts of suicide didn't "pan out," so to speak, and I am still alive to cry in a beer.

On the spur of the moment, I got off the freeway and drove into Bob Robertson Chevrolet, not to shop but to dream and gaze wistfully at the treasures a good life could bring to someone more fortunate than myself. A couple of salesmen approached me, but I told them they were wasting their time. I didn't have a dime to my name, no job, and I was just dreaming.

A third salesman approached and I told him the same story. He replied, "You might be surprised. I can talk to our Sales Manager and maybe we could work out a trade-in. You could apply here for credit with GMAC, and if you qualify, the car of your choice is yours."

"I don't think it's gonna happen, man. My car isn't worth a hundred dollars."

"You might be surprised. We have a new Sales Manager, Fred Julep, and he makes things happen. Let's go talk to him."

I immediately recognized the name. It couldn't be the same Fred. How could he be the Sales Manager at one of the biggest dealerships in Houston, Texas? He was my age, about twenty-three.

"Is this Fred Julep kind of young, like maybe 23 or 24?"

"Yeah, he is. He's a lot younger than me."

"Is he tall with dark hair?"

"Yup. That's him."

I made up some excuse, turned on my heels, and left. I didn't want Fred to see me in that condition.

It turns out that the Sales Manager, Fred, was my old classmate. He was the Sales Manager, drove a Corvette, was married, and had a pregnant wife. He eventually became a regional Sales Manager for the Chevrolet Division of General Motors.

I don't know the rest of his story, and I don't know how his life turned out, but that's the beauty and mystery of life. Our story always reminds me that when a student is failing, the school system and the politicians and the parents and all of our society gets all frazzled and worked up and everyone tries to fix the social ills that caused it to happen so that a child's life is spared the humiliation and poverty that comes with failure.

Inner Peace. That's what we need. A stillness inside us that tells us everything will be fine. Life is not an emergency. Education is not an emergency.

I hope that Fred still prospers, partly because I liked Fred, but also because I want to believe that our frazzled selves do not comprehend life's complexity, and we have no idea how a life story will play out. All we do is fret and worry, cringe and fear.

Fred did just fine, and I pulled out of my dive just before I would have crashed and burned. I drive a wonderful car, and I hope Fred still does, too.

TEACHERS AND TEACHER UNIONS

2011-01-14T03:48:00.003-05:00

I am not a member of a teachers' union and have no intention of joining one. I paid my dues for years to watch my precious little pay slowly decrease. When I became a teacher, my state was ranked 38th out of 50 in teacher pay. Not bad. However, after ten years, our state had dropped in rank to become 49th out of 50. That's awful.

I began email communications with our new union President, a woman whose name shall remain anonymous. I wrote to her specifically regarding our abysmal pay rate. After many emails, it finally came out: pay increases were not her biggest objective. Her pet projects were site-based management and professional development.

Site-based management means that a teacher can be on a committee that "runs the school." What a crock of malarkey. Any principal who so chooses can ignore the recommendations of any teacher committee. It's a bag full of air, an empty promise, and even if it wasn't, if I wanted to run a school, I would have obtained my administrative license and become a principal. I don't want to run the school; I choose to be in the classroom. I believe that teaching is one of the few professions in which you start at the top and work your way down to the bottom.

Professional development is a cutesy word that refers to pitifully boring meetings that allegedly enrich your teaching abilities. How could any meeting help a teacher? I would never want to oversee or run such a meeting. What could I say or do in such an environment that would really impact teachers and the manner in which they provide instruction? There isn't a whole lot.

I emailed our new union President that I believed she was heading the union in the wrong direction. She disagreed, and after quite a few written debates, our email communication stopped abruptly. I quickly dropped out of the union and sent her an email explaining why I disagreed with the union's emphasis and direction and made sure she understood that money and the union's direction were the motivating factors.

Money is no longer an issue. A new Governor of our state promptly raised teacher pay, and my pay started to climb substantially after his first term. Despite my finances being much better off, I still consider union dues money spent wastefully. Our union is cantankerous in meetings with administration, doesn't speak the truth, doesn't want the truth spoken, and is a mamby-pamby political tool of the liberal politicians it endorses and the lousy teachers it protects.

There are two large teacher unions in this country, and I don't want to have a part of either. Most teachers in my state agree. Most teachers have their noses to the grindstone, concentrate on the classroom and the students they encounter, and have no time or inclination to ponder the bull noodles coughed up in the political arena. We just wish that lawmakers and lawyers would stay our of our way and let us teach.

Teachers' biggest complaint is that we now spend far too much time gathering data, and on occasion even having to input it into computer programs. We are slowly becoming data operators. This data is tests scores, and that is where huge amounts of money are being spent by school districts. Trust me, they won't cut that expense when they reduce the schools' budget. It should be noted that the data is mandated by No Child Left Behind (NCLB).

My complaints about teachers' unions run deep. The last president of the local teachers' union "went to the Dark Side" and had a highly paid position with the school district as a coordinator and an interfacer. Everyone knows our present president is headed for the same high paid position upon her retirement. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

MEDDLING PARENTS

2011-01-13T20:31:00.002-05:00

Marshall McLuhan, in his revolutionary book, "Understanding Media: the Extensions of Man" (1964), proposed that our electronic media was taking the place of the printing press as our mode of communication, and this electronic media would change our society more than the content of the communication itself. We have created an electronic "global village." This global village would have its own characteristics that were vastly different from the "linear" world of the printing press. Among many changes would be a shift to "process rather than product." Sound familiar?

McLuhan would be amused to discover that in the United States, the village is considered insane by the parents of its children, and the parents want no part of someone else having any say-so in the raising of their child. Parents believe everyone else in the village is nuts.

I have switched from elementary school to middle school, but I am amazed to discover that many parents of middle schoolers are completely oblivious to any input from their child's teacher, and quite frankly only listen to the child's side of the "story." They believe everyone else is lying and can't be trusted.

Students are being pulled from classes and "promoted" into "Accelerated" classes because their parents are "squeaky wheels" and frighteningly vocal complainers. The village is being run not by its members, but by its legal community that has a tight grip on the villagers' privates.

Students who don't like the amount of homework teachers give complain to their parents that their teacher is mean. Their parents complain vehemently without ever talking to any of the teachers first, and they are able to frighten administration into switching their child to another class. Then the child discovers that there is a little more homework in the new class or maybe it's not as much fun, informs their parents that the new teacher is much meaner than the old teacher, so they get switched back to their original class. The village is not being run by the villagers.

It is not accurate to say, "It takes a village to raise a child." It should be, "It takes a lawyer and threats of lawsuits to control the villagers so I can raise my child the way I want."

Some parents squeeze their children so much that teachers just stand back and wait to see when and where they'll pop.

THE HOLIDAYS ALMOST KILLED ME; INTERIOR VS. EXTERIOR BODY PARTS

2011-01-11T17:22:00.006-05:00

The holidays were like a near-death experience except there was no light at the end of the tunnel and there was no sense of peace and love as I didn't approach it.

My health took a nosedive. If I was a car I would have been diagnosed with a blockage of and a serious leakage in the rear exhaust system which affected the power train. I also had a malfunctioning fuel system and two broken rear suspension parts. All in all, it was a pitiful sight to see a robust, masculine work of virile manhood such as myself reduced to a decrepit geezer.

The reason I don't actually give specific diagnoses of my health is due to a singular devotion to maintaining a youthful attitude. I may have already informed you of my efforts to maintain that attitude, and here is how I do it.

I classify people in two categories: the young and the elderly. The biggest difference between them is that the young concentrate on and limit their discussion of the human body to exterior body parts. The elderly, meaning a lot of my friends, discuss interior body parts. I can't stand listening to them talk about blood pressure and pharmaceuticals and organs and organ removals and diseases and such. It is all so depressing. I want to focus on exterior body parts such as hair, lips, rear-ends, hips, pokey-outey parts, and stuff like that. That will keep you young.

So I suffered from some pretty serious afflictions, but relating them to automotive problems relieves me of having to go into disgusting, elderly conversational mode.

I had two weeks off due to the holidays (teachers have a great vacation schedule!) and then I had to call in sick five more days right after that because of my exhaust, fuel and suspension systems. It was horrible!

I was so glad to see the students when I finally returned that I could have hugged them. Instead, I just returned to making their lives a little miserable and knowing that I am NOT ready for retirement, at least not under such painful and decrepit conditions.

JUSTICE ADOLESCENT STYLE

2010-12-02T17:41:00.002-05:00

Today a student was obviously not paying attention, so I called on her to answer the question. I have trained them well and she did not waste our time with frivolity and smoke-blowing, so she came right out and said, "I wasn't paying attention, Mr. W."

"What should I do with you, Charlene!" I moaned.

"Throw her outside," piped up another student. And he'd do it, too, if he was in charge. Sooner or later he'd be fired if he tried it, though.

THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE

2010-12-02T17:34:00.000-05:00

"A sin takes on a new and real terror when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out."
Mark Twain

Almost all elementary school children can be manuevered in such a way as to reveal the truth. Sometimes they can even be painfully truthful.

As we age, human nature subdues and eventually conquers its calling to rise above itself. We adopt lying, deception, and an unwillingness to admit guilt that matches the depth of oceans. We are chained to the deception that image is better than reality, shackled by our fear of punishment, and imprisoned by the desire to never be a victim of justice.

DOIN' DOUGHNUTS

2010-11-30T17:26:00.003-05:00

Today a student got up from her desk which is situated by the trash can near my desk in the back of the classroom, went around the back of the room, went up towards the front of the room, turned left and went across the front of the room, then traveled back to her desk by the other side.

After she sat down, I went over to her and said, "Angie, why did you just go all the way around the room?"

Looking up at me she said, "Huh? What?"

"You just traveled all the way around the room. You did a doughnut. You circumnavigated the room for no reason."

"Oh yeah. I went to throw something in the trash can."

"Why did you use the one in the front of the room when you could use this one right here."

"I don't like that one."

humph. She won't get away with that again. At least not when I'm watching.

A TRIP TO TAOS

2010-11-28T15:45:00.007-05:00

My wife and I traveled to Taos, New Mexico for the Thanksgiving weekend all set to eat at Downtown Bistro, The Trading Post, Bent Street Deli, Graham's Grille, Five Star Burgers, and shiver over the greatest ice cream in the world, Taos Cow.

Our agenda? To leisurely saunter through the Christmas Crafts Fair at Civic Plaza and be captivated by the Christmas Tree Auction at El Monte Sagrado. Maybe we'd shop for Christmas gifts at the Nambe store and all the best of the shops in Taos Plaza. Maybe even go into the antiquities shop.

Then, if we were fortunate enough to have the strength, energy and inclination, we would travel into the mountains to watch the skiers at Red River and Taos Ski Valley and sip flavored coffees by the lodge fireplace. Then, maybe, if we got out of bed in time for housekeeping to change the linens and sheets, we would drive to Eagle Nest Lake to gaze at ice fisherman beneath magnificent Wheeler Peak, maybe visit the Vietnam Memorial near Angel Fire (surely one of the most beautiful valleys in the entire country), and maybe stop at the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, a definitely awesome sight.

Instead, I came down with accession of adipose tissue, and we returned home after only one day.

It is Thanksgiving, and I am thankful to have survived. It's great to be alive and to have another day to plan our return to Taos.

DIZZY DEAN MALAPROPS AGAIN

2010-11-27T16:33:00.002-05:00

For those of you who are young or who are not baseball fans, there was a Hall of Fame major league baseball pitcher named Dizzy Dean who in his later years announced for his old team, the St. Louis Cardinals, and is famous for his malapropisms and abuse of the English language.

Baseball is an anerobic sport that requires an ability to spend a lot of time relaxed and then explode adrenaline into the system. I would feel this as a young man in the outfield, and the rush was quite exciting. Then it would be over, and sometimes you'd stay "high" as you stood out there in the outfield as the game resumed its relaxed nature again. Dizzy Dean's most famous malapropisms would come popping out of his mouth whenever there were those leisurely moments that baseball fans treasure as a contrast to the explosion.

During one of those on-air radio moments, Dizzy noted that two young people were smooching and kissing and not paying much attention to the game, and he then added, "It looks like he kisses her on the strikes, and she kisses him on the balls."

My dear wife Peggy matched Ol' Diz this morning. We were both by the computer and I showed Peggy a way to copy and paste that would save her a lot of typing time.

"That's a good idea," said Peggy, "although I took typing lessons and am a fast typer."

"I'm pretty good too, for someone who hasn't had typing lessons."

"Yeah, I've seen you type, and you're pretty good for a hunt and pecker."

WILD OATS

2010-11-22T17:07:00.005-05:00

As a freshman in high school in 1962, I was told that one of the students in the school had a bottle of scotch and a machine gun in his locker. I was born yesterday, but not last night, so I didn't believe it.

I transferred into a sophomore World History class, and it was there I met Fred. Fred was a tall, lanky boy of a man who looked like he might have lost a lot of weight earlier in his teens. He had long, thin, straight hair and an attitude in the classroom that was shocking.

Gordon was a geek and a nerd, and he talked and looked like one. His parents had a lot of money, lived in a mansion, and he was friends with Fred because he was friends with anyone who accepted him. I liked Gordon, and we became huge Barry Goldwater advocates and worked for his failed campaign in 1964. Gordon was a highly intelligent, full-fledged, wonderful wackdoodle, and one evening on the way to a football game he drove the entire way across Houston, Texas stopping at every green light and running every red. I know this to be a fact; I was riding shotgun.

By the time we were juniors, Gordon and I had gotten mixed up with Fred, and one night Fred was in his red Jeep, and it wasn't one of the new-fangled models. This was a bright red '65 Willys Jeep, and Fred had it roofless. It was open, and it was a cold, fall evening. We were cruising around town with seemingly no place to go, Gordon trying to talk Fred into running red lights and stopping on green and Fred taking hits off a whiskey bottle.....Jim Beam as I recall. Fred was dressed up in brown clothes and was wearing a swastika on his left sleeve. Suddenly we wound up in a older area of Houston, and Fred starting talking about scaring some "queers."

I wasn't homophobic, although lots of the guys were back then. I never had any question of my sexuality, and there was never a shadow of a doubt that I preferred girls, and it wasn't by a margin of any sort. Suddenly we pulled up next to the curb in front of a building at the intersection of two major streets in Houston. Fred reached under the front seat of his Jeep and pulled out a gun, and I recognized it right away as a machine gun. I have no ability beyond that to identify the weapon, nor did I have time to say or do anything. All I know is that Fred left the engine running, jumped out of the driver's seat, ran quickly into the bar, started yelling something, and then Gordon and I heard machine gun fire. Fred came running out, hopped into his Jeep, and took off on a getaway course with the Jeep on two wheels going around the corners.

Quickly we were on the other side of town and riding around in Gordon's Ford Fairlane. Somehow we dropped Fred off and Gordon drove me home, but not before Fred told Gordon and I the story of what happened over and over again. He threw the doors opened, yelled obscenities at the homosexuals, and then started firing his machine gun that was, fortunately for the patrons of the bar, loaded with blanks. One of the details Fred kept repeating was that the men in the bar were all ducking into the booths and jumping over the bar to hide behind it. I was impressed that Fred had loaded all the ammunition himself. Gordon told me he had seen his "munition factory," the basement in his home.

The next day the talk at the school was that someone had gone into a gay bar yelling obscenities and had opened fire with a machine gun. It was true. The machine gun was true. The bottle of whiskey was true. It was all true.

The incident made the papers, and my parents never mentioned it. However, two months later, there was a story in the newspaper that two men were caught by police after driving down Bellaire Blvd. in a Jeep while shooting beer cans off the fence posts. My parents made some comments about gangsters and criminals and how men like that should be locked up. I kept my mouth shut. It was a strange feeling being the one who knew that they weren't men. They were a high school junior and a senior, and I had ridden with them and knew them well.

I asked Gordon about the incident at school on Monday, and he said that he and Fred had spent quite a while setting up the bottles and cans on the barbed wire posts along Bellaire Blvd., way beyond where there were houses. He sat in the back while Fred drove with his left hand and fired the machine gun one-handed with his right. No blanks this time. Their getaway didn't work that time, and I was relieved I wasn't with them. My parents would have made my life more miserable than they had already managed.

The "two men" were caught, hauled to the downtown police station, parents were contacted, and the boys returned home with their parents. They were both in school the next Monday.

Robert Mitchum had a great line in a movie that went something like this: "Sowing wild oats is fun, but they aren't very nutritious."

Gordon went to the University of Texas in Austin, Texas, majored in political science, and graduated cum laude.

Fred was treated very differently than we treat teenagers today. He was nurtured and rehabilitated rather than imprisoned, and with the guidance of his teachers, counselors, and members of the Houston Police Department, he became successful as an expert in special weapons, and his company supplied them to S.W.A.T. teams all over the country.

THE DEATH OF ACCOUNTABILITY

2010-11-17T15:31:00.000-05:00

Respect is the esteem and honor granted to one person by another. It implies a discrimination or partiality when considering the qualities of that person. Respect is something that I don't receive from a few of my students. They do not hold me in high regard. They have no esteem for me, and they never show me or my position as their teacher any honor.

Obedience is taking someone's authority, position, experience, or knowledge into consideration, listening to their advice or commands, and doing what they have suggested or commanded. I have many students who do not obey my demands, either for homework completion or classwork turned in, or follow my suggestions for improved behavior and work habits.

I have been told that if I interact with these students differently, suggesting that if I "handle" them in some way that is "better" or "more effective," I will then receive their respect, or perhaps more simply put, I will then "earn" their respect. I have treated them the same way as I have treated others, yet it is suggested that I am accountable for the respect I fail to receive.

Accountability is dying a slow death. Accountability heaves and groans from the maladies of guilt and litigation; its symptoms are an inability to be burdened by blame; its remedy is to have someone else cured other than the patient; its survivors yearn for a person taking responsibility for their actions.

NAZI WALKER STOPPED

2010-11-16T19:43:00.004-05:00

A long time ago, in the long distant past, I worked for a state's highway department, a state that shall remain anonymous. What some would consider a long-time, permanent position with benefits and great retirement, I found to be a bureaucratic nightmare of a job. We weren't designing highways; we were killing time on the taxpayer's paycheck. Several interesting things happened during that time, however. Here is one of those stories.

There was a fellow who had worked there for some time, and he was a likable enough sort, except he had one peculiar habit that drove everyone nuts. Well, maybe it wasn't everybody. Maybe it was only a few people. Well, actually, maybe it was only me. His walking drove me crazy. This guy would strut around the office high-stepping like a Nazi storm trooper. He wore huge cowboy boots, and those huge, heavy clunkers would crash to the floor and distract, worry and stress me. His legs would be stiff, just like a Nazi struttin' through France.

I allow some unusual peculiarities from people, especially with some of my odd quirks, but this was over the top, and I asked him if he knew he walked like that. He definitely knew it, and I asked him why he did, and he couldn't tell me, so I told him my theory: He was in deep need of attention, appreciation and love, and not receiving any, he turned to an attention-getting, over-the-top, make-believe-manly, boot stompin' strut. He thought about it for a little while, and then told me that I was wrong. He just liked to walk like that. I told some people I was going to get him to stop, and everyone told me that it was impossible. I wasn't going to be able to make him stop.

There is something about me you need to know. I can get things done. Goals reached. Needs met. However, none of the goals or needs are ever of any importance, such as accomplishing something of significance or reaching unattainable, earth-shattering achievements that bring wealth or fame. No, I'm the sort who can accomplish little, worthless goals like stopping someone from walking like a Nazi around the office. Some time went by, and I bided my time.

One day this fellow came to work and informed everyone that he had a friend who was in need of some drastic surgery that required an inordinate amount of blood. Our boss agreed to let the entire office travel to the hospital during work hours in order to donate blood. It was a fine gesture, and all who were willing piled into cars and headed to the hospital. This was before my blood soured. The medical profession no longer wants my blood or any of my organs, decrepit and diseased as they are, but this was before that time, so I went with everyone down to the hospital.

I was lying on a gurney, or whatever they are, and next to me was the Nazi Walker. The nurses started pulling my blood and I got cold all of a sudden, or maybe I got warm. I think it was cold. It was a weird sensation, and I thought, "This is not your average work day."

It was at that moment that I heard a little mousy voice say, "Walter. Walter. Help me."

I looked over at the fellow and said, "Are you OK?"

"No. Somethin's wrong. I don't feel well."

"That's just the change in your blood pressure. You'll be OK."

"No I'm not OK. Oh my God. Help me, Walter. "

"There's nothin' I can do. I'm strapped to a needle and they're drainin' my blood."

"This is it. I'm scared."

"You're not gonna die, you know."

"Tell my wife I love her. Oh God."

"I think you're exaggerating. I'm not gonna tell her anything. You tell her when you wake up."

"Oh noooo00. Ohhh. uhhh walter help me........"

When he awoke, the nurse told him his blood pressure had dropped, and that he merely fainted. So that's the end of that.

Not quite. This fellow came to me later that day, leaned over my desk, and whispered, "Walter, I don't want anyone to know what happened at the hospital. I want you to keep it a secret."

"Oh, you mean about you fainti-"

"Shhh! I don't want anyone to know. Do you promise not to tell?"

"What should it matter to anybody?"

"It matters to me. I don't want anyone to think I'm a big baby."

"They won't think that." It was then I realized that some of the men in the office wouldn't think that, but they'd tease him. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

"OK. I agree. I won't tell anyone. But I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure, man, sure. Anything. What is it?"

"I want you to quit walkin' around the office like a Nazi parading in front of der Fuhrer."

"Is that all?"

"Yeah. That's it." I was astonished that he accepted so readily. I look back and wonder how much cash I could've gotten thrown into the bargain.

"OK. We'll both keep our end of the bargain. It's our little secret, right?" and he looked at me with unsuppressed joy at realizing that if I kept my end of the deal, no one would know what happened.

"I won't say a word to anyone," I replied.

He kept his end of the bargain. I did too, until now.

COMPETITIVE CUSSING

2010-11-14T16:38:00.003-05:00

On Friday another teacher sent students into the hallway to work in a "cooperative group" and they parked their noisy selves right outside my classroom, so I closed the door to prevent their "work" noise from disrupting my classroom.

About twenty minutes later I heard the loudest, filthiest, angriest cussing I have heard since Johnny, a forklift operator at a plastic processing plant I worked at in 1967 ran over his own foot. Johnny could cuss and yell. He wasn't hurt, but his foot was thinner, and he let that forklift know that it was lucky to be made out of steel. He couldn't blame the forklift operator because he WAS the operator.
Johnny: 7 out of 10

He couldn't outcuss the fellow whose life he saved, though. That fellow hated African-Americans, and the forklift operator was African-American. That fellow was an extruder operator and a bigoted, foul-mouthed segregationist, and he let everyone know it, too. He could use the n-word in fifty different formats imbued with variations of cuss words which I always referred to as "hybrids."

One day this fellow was on top of the electrical box that fed the extruder, and he touched the wrong wires feeding electricity into the extrusion machine. The extruder was a beautiful piece of ugly equipment. It was like a steaming, stinking, cast-iron rocket laying on its side spewing plastic out the nose cone. It could melt tons of plastic and ooze it out the other end, and it used a lot of electrical juice. This guy touched the wrong wires, and everybody heard a bang and then a thud. That fellow was blown off the electrical box and landed on the concrete and just lay there not breathing, until Johnny came up and gave him CPR. Now that was in the days when you pinched the unconscious person's nose shut, breathed into their mouth and did that over and over again.

When that fellow woke up in the hospital and heard that Johnny had saved him, he said, "I ain't never gonna say nothin' bad about n1&&38$ again." And he didn't. But his cursing was cut by at least 90%. Lots of men noticed it. We figured that before Johnny wrenched him from the clutches of wherever he was headed, he must've seen something that changed his mind, not only about African-Americans, but about swearing, too.
The extruder operator: 8 out of 10 before electricity
The extruder operator: 2 out of 10 after electricity

African-American comics can cuss pretty good. You have to wait until the last thirty mintes of their show because they cuss so much the average audience would blush, so they warm the audience up real slow like. They throw in a few cuss words, then let a sentence rip out, then maybe a little break with just clean language, and then more cussing, and then, right when the audience starts to loosen up and the late crowd is the only one in attendance, they start cussing full blast.
Stand-up comics: 6 out of 10

Everyone is so shocked at those stand-upcomics you have to laugh, kind of like little second graders when you say the word "underwear." Second graders laugh like maniacs when they hear that word, like you're the funniest man in the world. If the world was run by kids, I'd become a stand-up comic. I'd stand there, wait a few seconds, look at the audience and say, "Underwear!" Kids laugh at that word when spoken out of context, like anywhere except their bedroom. I'd be famous. When the fun of that wore off, I could start a new routine. "Butt!" The kids would roar. Then a few months later another routine, "Panties!"

You see, they laugh because they are embarrassed. That's why people laugh so much at stand-up comics who cuss so much. Everyone is really embarrassed. They just don't want to admit it. Some would argue that stand-up comics are so good at cussing they are funny when they cuss. Maybe so. Maybe cussing can be funny. It's like a fourth grader who hears the word "brassiere."
Second graders: 1 out of 10

I heard some great cussing when some hippies called some Vietnam Vets "crazed killers" at a Peace Rally at the University of Houston in 1966. That was also an awesome display of foul and depraved language by large crowds and not just a couple of individuals. It was like the public, which meant everybody, was cussing at each other and using filthy language. By the way, without a doubt, the hippies were no match for the Vietnam soldiers and vets. I am glad those veterans didn't hurt those hippies.
Protesting hippies: 3.5 out of 10
Vietnam soldiers: 5 out of 10
Vietnam Veterans: 7 out of 10

The whole cussing match was topped by a student who hosed everyone down from the Engineering Building with a fire hose pulled out of the wall, and he made the local TV news reports. I mention this incident because the hippie with the fire hose wasn't protesting $h1+. That hippie and I went to high school together, and his name was Carl. Carl was always playing with the fire extinguishers in the school auditorium during Drama Club rehearsals. His favorite one was the CO2 extinguisher that shot a cold blast of white CO2 fog at you. Sometimes he'd sneak up behind you and blast it through your crotch area, as if you had finally exploded under the stress of being a virgin. Well, the local newspaper, the Houston Chronicle, had a photo of Carl protesting, and they wrote that this hippie had really become upset about the Vietnam War. Some investigative journalism that was! Carl was still playing with fire extinguishers!

Longshoremen standing outside their Union Hall on Harrisburg Boulevard in Houston, Texas not far from the turning basin were pretty good cussers. Danny and I went down there to get some real good paying jobs. Danny wound up in the Merchant Marines and told me cool stories about the entire crew suffering from sea sickness, which he described as not merely nausea but much worse. He said it was a horrible, living nightmare, and the part of his story I remember the most was the vomit sloshing back and forth in the hallways as the ship tossed and rocked. He also told me about Equator Crossing Parties. Lots o' cussing, you can be sure. Danny didn't pick up the cussing, though. Apparently they can cuss up a Perfect Storm, but their cussing wasn't contagious enough to work on Danny.
Merchant Marines: no score (unobserved)

Longshoremen don't toss a few cuss words into their conversations. They just cuss. For example, if they were to ask you to borrow some money for their wife's wedding anniversary gift, and you were to inform them that in no way were you going to loan them any money because they would spend it on booze and women, they'd reply, "You don't know j79^$h1+ you little (&640faced %&30&*wad. I got money for booze and women" As you can see, after listening to that for a week, and it's the same old words over and over again, it starts to lose it's power from overusage. The Teamsters I worked with for about five years, they were the same way. Their language was slightly cleaner than the longshoremen, but still without the variety. I like variety. It has to flow and have variety. The delivery is also important.
Longshoremen: 7.5 out of 10
Teamsters: 7 out of 10

The thirteen year old eighth grade girl in our hallway used cuss words that were vile, filthy, loud, angry, varied, prolific, and practiced. There was a vehemence that was startling and you sensed she was really out of control. That intensity helped raise her score. Her cuss words were a little too monotonous for my tastes, spewing out of her mouth like a relentless barrage of machine gun bullets. I prefer little bursts. I've heard that the bursts keep the machine gun from jamming, and I think that the same applies to cussing. You have to ease up for a moment or two, even if for a second or two, then hit another burst, then another.
Eighth grade girl: 8.9 out of 10

It all boiled down to the fact that the members of the "cooperative group" had a misunderstanding. Maybe they were discussing the merits of military intervention in Southeast Asia. Or not.

SAGGIES

2010-11-06T18:16:00.001-04:00

I would have thought that the fashion statement of "pants on the ground" would have died out by now. I have watched boys waddle around Albuquerque for fifteen years with the tops of their underwear on public display, and I've been amused by it. I just never pictured it as a fashion statement that would survive so long.

Pants that hang way down are called "saggies" and are against the dress code rules at our school, but preventing boys from wearing "saggies" is not an easily enforceable rule, and due to lawyers and "freedom of expression" our principal chooses different battles.

In second period math class I called on Roger to go to the whiteboard and explain how the answer could be obtained, to show us the calculation. As Roger waddled to the front of the room I realized he was wearing "saggies." Aww it was awwful. The crotch of his pants were hanging down to his mid-calf region.

I yelled out, "Roger! Don't move!"

Roger, of course, turned around.

"Roger! Don't move! Look back at the board. Turn your back to us!"

Roger started to laugh, maybe out of confusion, and didn't turn around.

I yelled again, "Roger! Face the board and don't move!"

Roger figured it out, turned to face the board, and hiked his pants way, way up.

I yelled out, "Roger! Lift your pants higher!"

Roger lifted them higher.

"Higher!" I yelled. "I DO NOT want to see what is underneath the outer layer!"

Roger hiked his pants up to full fledged Nerd Position, and the two of us started to get laughs.

I yelled back, "Now keep it that way! I do NOT want to know what is underneath the outer layer."

It was at that moment that Roger let go of his pants, and they went down, down, and then down too low. I saw black underwear, and I screamed out, "Oh NO! Roger! You are wearing black underwear and it's disgusting, and I did NOT want to know that!"

The class was having a good time.

Roger attempted to inform me that it was not his underwear, that it was shorts and his underwear was underneath his shorts, but I could find no comfort in that fact, and I told him so.

The class was having a really good time, but I was "serious." When the laughing died down and Roger finished his calculations and returned to his desk, I went to the front of the room and informed them that my new class rule was that I am to NEVER know the color or appearance of any clothing that is underneath the outer wear. Kids started "informing" me that shorts and other clothes are worn under the outer clothing so that what you see "might not be underwear." I told them again that there was no encouragement or consolation in that fact. I told them that my new class rule is, and I quote:

"The color or appearance of any clothing that is under the outer wear should never be forced on anyone."

"For one thing," I told them, "saggies remind me of my cousin, David, who had a photo of himself taken when he was about one and half years old, and his diaper was sagging way down just like saggies do today, but David's diaper was sagging because of the weight of the urine and the dump he had taken, and the load was obvious in the photo. Saggies remind me of my cousin David's diaper dumpload."

"Also," I added, "Modest people have their rights too. I don't want to know the color of girls' bras and panties or the color of boys' underclothing. The inner clothing does not have to be the innermost clothing, and it does not have to be contacting the skin or private parts. All it has to be is beneath the outer clothing. How would you guys like to see all your teachers' under clothing?"

They all started making puke faces, gasping for air and fake wretching.

I said, "Fine. Now you know how I feel. No underneath clothing is allowed to be seen."

Ha! Fat chance of me winning that battle. I'm still working on getting that class to do 50% of its homework. Now that's a real battle I choose to fight. Not necessarily win, but at least pitifully swing at it every now and then.

As an aside, taken out of context I might be terminated for one or any of my comments above. (Choose one.)

FRUSTRATION

2010-11-04T17:31:00.002-04:00

I am so frustrated right now I could shove my head through a steel plate and then rip my eyeballs out with my tongue. A student in my low performing math class is not passing pretty simple arithmetic, yet she plays with her hair constantly. I guess I would too if I had a head of hair like that, but not when the teacher said to quit. She had upped the ante from pulling on it in strings to using it to make mustaches. When I asked her a couple of questions that were pretty easy, such as pointing to a number on the whiteboard and asking, "What number is this?" she would not know the answer.

I finally asked her to please stop playing with her hair. This girl then proceeded to vehemently argue with me that she wasn't doing it. Another friend insisted that she only pulled on it once. Now I have an insurrection over nothing important. I thought I should back down, but I didn't. I told her to just agree with me, her teacher, and start paying attention. She didn't agree to that, and after further arguing over her hair as a distraction, I sent her to the principal's office for non-compliance and arguing with the teacher (over nothing of significance).

Overreacting on my part? As an isolated incident, perhaps, but in the context of a student not caring at all about math, she's lucky she got off with a "ticket."

I am so frustrated at kids who DGaS (Don't Give a $4!+) I could shoot blood out of the ends of my fingertips.

EXOTIC CAFETERIA VEGETABLES

2010-11-02T18:33:00.002-04:00

Our middle school encourages leadership by allowing students to do announcements over the PA system. This morning I was amazed to hear that ".....the cafeteria will be serving chicken nuggets with colored greens."

Wow! Red, blue, and orange greens. Cool!

CHARLOTTE'S HALLOWEEN COSTUME "MALFUNCTION"

2010-10-29T12:19:00.016-04:00

For regular visitors to this blogsite, you may have noticed Charlotte's name cropping up lately whenever anything funny is said or done. It is not coincidental that again Charlotte is involved in an anecdote.

Halloween fell on Sunday this year, and Thursday and Friday were Parent-Teacher Conference Days so there was no school. Our principal is a cool guy, a decent and approachable man, and he allowed our middle-schoolers to wear Halloween costumes on Wednesday. Anything was tolerated except revealing clothing or real and fake weapons. I timed my curriculum so that on Costume Day we would have a quiz on material that should have been mastered. This would prevent any mischief or costume distractions during class. The quiz kept every class quiet and focused until sixth period.

Charlotte came dressed up as a green M&M candy, and she gave me an M&M as she entered the room. Her costume was a giant ball enveloping her torso and I asked her to take off the M&M ball. Charlotte informed me that it was inflatable, and she would deflate it for class.

Twenty minutes later, during the ponderous silence of the test, I slowly came to the realization I could vaguely hear a humming noise..........a very subtle, quiet, whirring. I got up from my desk, wandered around in search of the source of this humming, and then I discovered Charlotte had turned on her M&M inflator motor and was now pinned in her desk by her M&M costume which was now fully inflated. She had a distressed look on her face because the M&M had pushed her away from her desk writing surface and had also tilted her slightly backwards.

Being of strange mind and influenced by the Brezik Method of Reacting , I saw it as a hilarious situation and wanted to laugh but kept it under control. Very calmly I told Charlotte to turn off her inflator motor and deflate her M&M costume.

With a pained and embarrassed look on her face, Charlotte reached down somewhere and flipped a switch. It was then that the deflating noise started. You could make it with your mouth, right now. Breathe in deeply, and then very slowly release the air through your teeth. It was at eight seconds into the deflating that the sound of the escaping air and Charlotte's intensifyingly distressed look caused me to bust into laughter. I think the kids were relieved at my reaction, and there was some nervous snickering.

If any of them grow up and make a movie about middle schoolers, they should not neglect to put that incident into their film.

A CLASSIC MIXED METAPHOR

2010-10-27T15:42:00.001-04:00

Over half of the students in one of my math classes have decided that homework is something that does not need to be done. I was informing them of the foolishness of this academic technique when one of them piped up, "But Mr. W., every teacher is giving us lots of homework and it's eating my clock."

A FISH STORY

2010-10-22T20:15:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite movies of all time is Destry Rides Again starring James Stewart and Marlene Dietrich. Stewart plays a legendary gunfighter's son who is hired to be the sheriff of a corrupt town because it is assumed he is like his gun-totin' father. However, the new "Destry" uses psychology and the law to round up the bad guys. A great film.

Destry, played by James Stewart, tells wonderful stories with a moral that are meant to teach someone a little lesson about life. The townspeople never quite figure out what he is saying.

One of my classes is a remedial math class. That means the students get a double dose of math, and my class is designed to cover material taught a few years ago that they haven't learned yet. They generally hate math, hate my class, and don't do well in math. However, one of the girls is doing exceptionally well.

I told her, "Marty, if you would work harder in your other math class and raise your DBA scores, you could be promoted out of this class. You are like a fish that has bitten a hook and you find yourself on the bottom of a boat flopping around. You don't want to be there, about to be be gutted, scaled, and thrown in a frying pan. If you would do better, it would be like you were the fish but you were thrown back into the water. You'd be saved from the frying pan."

Marty stared at me with a blank face and said, "I don't like fish."

That's the same reaction Destry got from his little stories.

"CHECKED OUT" CHILDREN

2010-10-18T16:29:00.007-04:00

I can tolerate sleepy students, but my first period seventh grade math class is taking drowsiness to irritatingly unauthorized levels. The entire class is comprised of students who are so sleep deprived they act like brain dead zombie flatliners, and by the end of class I am shooing buzzards away from their carcasses with a meter stick. All of them sit frozen in a dormant state of slumberous sedation, and most of the time they are too lazy to even yawn.

This morning the thought entered my mind that they may have been tranquilized with opiates. At one point one of the boys slid down in his desk with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, and a cadaver sliding out of its casket came to mind.

I was able to get their attention by firing a few shots over their heads, but it wasn't long before they returned to their lethargic stupor.

WAITING FOR SUPERMAN

2010-10-17T19:28:00.011-04:00

There is a documentary film showing in our theaters that I am very interested in viewing titled, Waiting for 'Superman'. It is a harsh look at the failing American educational system.

I welcome constructive criticism of the educational system. Lousy teachers are insidiously protected by teachers' unions as openly revealed by John Stossel. Bureaucracies and management far removed from the realities of the classroom make instructional decisions. Government policies drive decision making. Economic and employment problems and realities no longer provide undereducated workers a decent wage.

I am concerned that the successful charter school in the film has an advantage with an uneven playing field. Do they have the right to expel low achieving, under-performing students who do not study or work and disrupt the classroom and the learning of others? Are they allowed to "cull" their students (choose from the best)? Are the intense desires to enter this exemplary charter school matched by the desires of the students to enter their local public schools? Are the students in the charter school living the same lifestyle and applying the same work ethics and study habits as those in the "inferior" public schools?

I will watch the film and give my opinion.

PASTRY PROPOSITION

2010-10-13T17:40:00.002-04:00

M wife and I were reading the newspaper together at the kitchen table. She was deep into the sports section, and I was probably contemplating comments on the editorial page.

Suddenly the urge for sweets overcame me, and I looked up at Peggy and said, "I'm in the mood for some puffed pastry."

Peggy looked up from her newspaper and with just a slight pause replied, "I looked in the mirror yesterday, and I am puffed pastry."

WHAT IS GOING ON?

2010-10-11T11:17:00.005-04:00

I have two anecdotes. The first incident occurred in a math class that is struggling. Some grades are extremely low, and the overall grades are the lowest of all my classes. At the end of a whole group instruction and before anyone began independent practice, I asked if there were any questions. Every student in that class firmly maintained they knew the material and understood what to do. It was not surprising to find that most of their independent classwork was inaccurate and based on a confused and inadequate understanding of the new mathematical concept.

The other incident occurred in the math class that is excelling. Some grades are extremely high, and the overall grades are the highest of all my classes. At the end of instruction and before anyone began independent practice, I asked if there were any questions. A few hands went up in the air, and they started asking questions before I had a chance to call on anyone. When I explained it further, most of the students in the class acknowledged that there was still a little uncertainty, but they would give it a try. It was not surprising to find that most of their independent work was accurate and based on a rudimentary understanding of the new math concept.

What do these two incidents suggest?

- Some would say the first class' lack of ability refutes the value of self-esteem.
- Others would suggest that cognitive awareness, or the ability to reflect and evaluate one's thinking process, can benefit understanding, and the first class has less cognitive awareness than the second.
- Others would say that the first class lacks intellectual curiosity and just wants to be done with it.
- Some would say that peer pressure in the first class forces all the students to keep a low profile and not attempt to please the teacher by showing some interest.
- Others would recommend that more data needs to be gathered in order to verify a hypothesis.

You parents may have a clue as to what's going on. All I know is that I have observed this type of phenomenon all my teaching career, and in middle school the phenomenon is more pronounced and observable.

WHAT'S REALLY IMPORTANT HERE?

2010-10-09T11:57:00.006-04:00

I was teaching a math class on how to solve word problems that require taking a percentage off the price of a purchase in order to calculate the discounted price.

I have always used the names of students in my problems in order to personalize them, so for this class, I took Trisha's name and put her at one of the better stores in one of the better malls and devised a scenario:

I told the students, "Trisha goes to the Cottonwood Mall and wants to buy some new shoes at Dillards. They are expensive and cost $106.00, but she knows there is a 40% off sale. How much will the shoes cost her? Please find the cost and when you figure out the price, put your pencil down."

This class is my best math class, and shortly therafter all the students had put their pencils down. Everyone came up with the correct answer, $63.60.

"Very good. Now let's solve a problem that is a little harder."

Immediately, Charlotte raised her hand, started furiously waving it back and forth, and had a very concerned look on her face. Without me calling on her, she yelled out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!"

I called on her and said, "Yes, Charlotte? Do you have a question about that last problem?

"Yes!" she yelled. I want to know if Trisha bought the shoes!"

Where does she get this material?

STARING AT NOTHING: TEACHING PUDDY'S SISTER

2010-10-07T08:34:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite TV shows of all times is "Seinfeld." In one of the episodes, Elaine keeps breaking up and making up over and over again with her boyfriend, Puddy. At one point in the show, they are on an airplane flying to Italy or France or someplace romantic, and they break up on the plane. Then they make-up again. All is well for about twelve seconds until Elaine settles in with a magazine, and Puddy stares off into space. After a moment, Elaine can't help herself. She asks Puddy what he's doing, and he tells her he is just sitting there. She asks if he wants a magazine to read and he turns that down. He tells her he just wants to sit there. Elaine asks him what he's thinking about, and he replies that he's not thinking about anything. He's just sitting there. Sure enough, Puddy stares off into space until finally Elaine can't stand it anymore and breaks up with him, right then and there. She claimed it was weird of him to stare into space. Surely Puddy was thinking about something. You can't be just sitting' there with your brain on flatline, right?

I was reminded of that "Seinfeld" episode today when a teacher across the hall from me had a student who was reading during their twenty minute silent reading time, but the book she was reading looked very small, and the girl had it up very close to her face, so the teacher wandered over to investigate. Turns out it was a blank journal for writing daily thoughts and ideas. It was completely blank, and instead of saying something, the teacher decided to watch. The girl "read" the blank book for fifteen minutes. Finally, the teacher went over to the girl and confronted her with the fact that she had been "reading" a blank book for fifteen minutes. The teacher suggested she get a real book to read. The girl insisted that the blank journal was the book she wanted to "read," and that she didn't want to read a different book.

Puddy's sister, perhaps?

Humph.

EYES IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD

2010-10-04T18:41:00.001-04:00

After teaching for twenty years, and even though I am in a new school and it's middle school not elementary school, I have honed my "eyes in the back of my head" to the point that I know what's going on "behind my back", or at least have a clue, which is more than my students will give me credit for having. Here are some of the things that I "sense" go on behind my back.

1. The passing of items of interest such as cosmetics, candy, books, answers, pharmaceuticals, colognes and fragrances, CDs, DVDs, glasses, iPods, Karaoke machines, oil and acrylic paintings, school supplies, "contraband," gum, candy, and tamales

2. Foots placed on backs of the students sitting in front of another for the purposes of instigating irritation, infatuation, ingratiation, and stimulation

3. Conversations about but not limited to: other conversations, another student, each other, another class, another teacher, music, love, romance, exterior body parts, grapefruit, pancakes, bananas, homework, other students' behavior, clothing, tattoes (real and permanent markered), breakfast, brunch, lunch, relationships, TV, plans, problems, perfume, and gaseous emissions

4. The passing of notes of which the subjects have been about but not limited to love, romance, perfume, cologne, after-shave, a member of the opposite sex or the same sex, homework, cheating (on both love and tests), computers, iPods, sports, exterior body parts, music, sex, relationships, TV and movie stars, cash, food, gum, books, passing, failing, Popular Mechanics magazine, the mall, the fall, video games, candles, matches, Smoky Robinson and the Miracles, friends, phones, fiends, Sponge Bob Square Pants, tickling, and orifices

4. Giggling over a secret joke, a secret look, a secret book, a secret, and another person's walk, looks, eyes, voice, mannerisms, affectations, hairstyle, clothing, make-up (boy and girl), tattoes (real and permanant-markered), and my saggy old man's butt.

I pretty sure these have taken place. I can only imagine what else has been going on behind my back.

FINDING THE SWEET SPOT IN THE APPLE

2010-10-03T17:16:00.005-04:00

I have just started teaching middle school, and I could write about all the long faces of middle school teachers and the harsh lessons they learn. Students who are disruptive and don't care about school who take up all the class' time. Parents who misunderstand what really happens in class and make up their mind that you are a horrible teacher without hearing all the facts. Students with troubled home lives completely unable to concentrate on school and who are being asked to pay the price: educational shame. A society that mistakenly believes that the ownership of learning is in the hands of the educator and not the learner. Unions that exist in order to protect the status quo of lousy teachers. Politicians who tell me what to do in my business but do not listen to me when I tell them how I should do my job.

The educational apple that teachers and students chew on has rotten spots. Always has. Always will. These rotten spots are exacerbated by the age of the middle school students we teach. I consciously choose not to concentrate on those rotten spots. In almost every blog I write, the decision is made to keep it cheerful, humorous, and upbeat. Now that I am teaching middle school, the decision is made more consciously and more frequently, but I refuse to say middle school is worse. For just as it is rotten, it is also sweeter. Here are two examples why:

SWEET SPOT #1:

Frank: "Mr. W., I want to thank you for what you did with my test."

Me: "Pardon me? What?"

Frank: "I didn't put my name on it and you could have just thrown it in the trash."

Me: "Oh yeah. I know what you're talking about now. Yeah. I'm not gonna throw away a 100%, A+ math test in the trash. I spent some time figuring out whose it was, and it turned out to be you. Yeah, that's right. It was you."

Frank: That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I appreciate that very much, and I won't forget what you did."

Me: "Well thank you, Frank. I am touched by what you just said."

Frank: "No, thank you, Mr. W."

(Frank walks off. Teacher mutters something about life being worthwhile after all.)

SWEET SPOT #2:

James: "Mr. W., you said my father and every one's parents help pay for your salary, right?"

Me: "Yes, I did. Their taxes pay my salary. I feel like I owe them my very best, and that means you have to give me your very best."

James: "Well then how come you ripped me off?"

Me: "Pardon me? What do you mean, I 'ripped you off!' "

James: "Yeah. I had a great front row center desk, and you moved me to the side. You ripped me off."

Me: "James, your father's taxes pay for my salary, but they don't pay for a guaranteed best seat in the house. Don't talk to me so disrespectfully. I 'ripped you off?' That's strong language and I don't appreciate it."

(Next day after class)

James: "Mr. W., I want to apologize for talking to you like I did. I used the wrong words and probably hurt your feelings. I want to apologize."

Me: "James, your apology is accepted."

James: "I went too far and I want to apologize. I'm sorry I said it."

Me: "I have already forgiven you, James, but I accept your apology again."

James: "It was wrong what I said and I'm really sorry."

Me: "James, when I forgive someone three times, because that is how many times you have asked for forgiveness and I am now forgiving you for the third time, I don't just forgive the person and forget about what they said. I remember what they said and did forever, and I forgive them for forever. You are a fine young man to talk to me that way. I will always remember you for that. Thank you, James. Don't worry about it at all."

James: "Thank you, Mr. W."

(Me, looking up at James thinking, life is a sweet apple to bite into after all.)

Pamela Pencils

2010-10-01T15:12:00.002-04:00

At times my life is spent noticing the unimportant trivialities. For example, how come pencils fly out of the hands of twelve year olds? I'm in the class teaching a captivating geometry lesson and pencils are falling and flying out of students' hands every one minute and twenty seconds. And these pencils don't just fall to the ground. They fly out of their hands, sometimes going as far as five feet. There are several explanations:

1. It could be poltergeist activity caused by the ghostly spirit that inhabits our old wing of the school building.

2. It could be the way they play with their pencils. They're just losing control of the dadgum thing.

3. I remember being in the seventh grade. I don't remember much, but I remember wishing and hoping and planning and dreaming that Pamela, who sat on my right, would drop her pencil on the left side of her desk and bend down to pick it up.

4. It's an attention-seeking behavior. "Look at me! My pencil can fly! Oops! there it goes again!"

5. The kids can tell I am fascinated with the phenomenon and are merely trying to entertain me.

I am sure there are more important things that pencils flying out of seventh graders' hands, but lately, that silly item is on my "Dumb Things to Think About List."

At this time I am going with the Pamela thing as the best explanation. At least that's what caused mine to "fly away."

Dumb Questions: Teacher as Straight Man

2010-09-30T07:30:00.002-04:00

Set-Up #1:

Just as I was leaving the school building I saw a fellow teacher from my previous school. She was there to attend an after-school meeting at my new school. We talked genially and briefly, and then, as she went to the doorway to go to the meeting inside, we discovered the door had locked behind me when I came out. We tugged on the door, and I wondered which door out of all the doors in my, new, huge school would provide access to the meeting inside.

Suddenly, one of my math students still on the grounds, Jake, yells out, "Hey! Mr. W! Area and perimeter!"

I yell back, "Circumference!"

Then I thought, "Wait a minute. Jake has been going to this school a long time. He'll know how to get into the building."

So I yell out, "Jake! How do you get into the school building?"

Jake yells back, "Try the door!"

Set-Up #2:

Me: "Charlotte, what was your answer to the area of the next circle?"

Charlotte: "Wrong."

Set-Up #3:

Me: "And so now you can see that pizza sizes are based on the diameter, not the radius or the circumference. So when you order a pizza, what do you do? Charlotte."

Charlotte: "Call Pizza Hut and tell 'em you want a pizza."

Doorway Presentations: Hallway Boy

2010-09-28T19:06:00.005-04:00

There is an eighth grader down the hall from my classroom who is developing an odd habit, probably encouraged by yours truly. This eighth grader goes slowly by our classroom doorway and pulls off "odd stunts." The first time I knew he pulled these "stunts," he went by and I happened to be looking in that direction. There, for most of the class to see, was a tall, dark-haired, lanky boy going by and pretending to be running for his life, and all of it in slow motion. I thought it was hilarious. Then I made my first mistake. I told him it was funny, didn't write him a "ticket," and sent him on his way with me chuckling, and he asked what my name was, probably to tell his classmates what a sucker I was.

A few days later he did it again. He went by pretending to be swimming, and apparently a long distance, like he was cruisin' slowly and steadily across the English Channel, all of it in beautifyl slow motion. It was a splendid performance, and I told him he was pretty clever, but if I caught him again, he'd get a "ticket."

Today I heard an odd whistle (see previous blog.....):

II. Body Generated Sounds:
A. Oral Sounds
1. Musical Sounds
a) Whistling

It was one of those low, tryin'-to-get-your-attention-without-gettin-into-trouble whistles. It was the same tall, lanky boy. He was in the middle of the hallway and not doing a Doorway Presentation, and he was apologetic, again. I let him off, again.

I'm gunnin' for him now.

Not in Control: No Way, No How No Where

2010-09-27T19:09:00.002-04:00

It is nice to know when you come home from a tough day at school, with kids treating you like you're Mr. Cruello, and all that backtalk, and only about half of the kids do what you say, it sure is nice to come home and get the respect and obedience a man deserves.

Today I came home from work a tad grumpy, looked for my glasses, couldn't find them, became peeved, and yelled at my wife, "Where are my glasses!!?!"

She very snappily and quickly yelled back, "Today is not my day to know where your glasses are, and tomorrow isn't going to work for me either!"

Where does she come up with this material?

Humph!

Middle School Sound Effects

2010-09-27T15:43:00.001-04:00

I have been teaching middle school for only six weeks, but one of the things I am qualified to discuss about middle school students is the incessant noises that children this age make. After conducting research, compiling data, and using an investigatory methodology and a research-based compilation and analysis of the data, I am now able to reveal my findings. Here are the sounds categorized for future study. Numbers, percentages, and sounds emanated per second and per minute will be provided at a later date.

CLASSROOM SOUNDS

I. Motion Generated Sounds Using Body Parts

A. Hands Motion is used to generate sounds from hands and/or palms. This includes drumming and an activity I shall refer to as "palm flapping," an activity that is difficult to describe and not worth the effort to do so. Just know that the kids can flap their palms rapidly and make an incessant flapping noise. Fingers are used to drum, snap and tap.

B. Rear Ends

Rear ends squirm endlessly. This generates a chair squeaking sound, but I have placed it in the Motion Generated Sounds Using Body Parts section rather than the Machine/Instrument Generated Sounds Section.

II. Body Generated Sounds

A. Sound Effects
Students generate sound effects, such as 1. lip popping; 2. clucking; and 3. clacking.

4. Hissing can be broken down into three general subsections: a) tires on wet concrete; b) escaping air from a basketball; c) disapproval (hissing as teacher irritant).

5. Whooshing sounds can be broken down into three general subsections: a) wind (sub-subsections: gentle breeze, scary and hurricane force); b) NASCAR race cars roaring by (both close by and in the distance); and c) Olympic skier sounds.

B. Musical Sounds

Musical sounds have several major subsections.

1. Whistling

The first is whistling. Whistling consists of student inspired mindless tunes and recognizable melodies. Sustained, steady notes, the sounds of bombs dropping, and the inward/inhale whistle are other classroom sounds generated in this category.

2. Humming

Humming falls into the Musical Sounds category. Humming consists of three sub-subsections:

a. subconscious humming (work related, happiness related, and unconscious humming)
b. casual humming (self-entertainment, humming used as teacher irritant, etc.)

c. non-causal humming (who knows why they do it?).

C. Bodily Function Sounds
Bodily Function Sounds can include but are not limited to: 1. hiccupping; 2. belching; 3. farting; 4. sucking; 5. chewing; 6. sniffing; 7. snorting, and 8. grunting.

9. Sniffling has its own subsections:
a. cold and flu sounds (either genuine or hypochondriac in nature.) Hypochondria generated sounds are either "nurse pass inspired," or physical and emotional sympathy seeking. Hypochondria sniffling can also be goal oriented: ("I want outa here.")
b. genuine or emotional crying/sniffling sounds.

D. Communicative Sounds
Communicative Sounds is another category of Body Generated Sounds. These include but are not limited to: 1. shushing (fear of getting caught or an actual, "Shut up!"); 2. snorting (sub-subsections: a) disgust; b) disapproval; c) booger/nostril clearing); 3. guffawing; 4. snickering (teacher irritant).

III. Oral Fixation : Cud Chewing
The middle school where I teach and where the research occurred allows gum in the classroom. This, of course, requires its own category, Oral Fixation: Cud Chewing.
There are several categories in Oral Fixation: Cud Chewing.
1. Gum Chewers which includes but is not limited to smacking, chewing, popping, and cracking (teacher irritant);
2. Plastic Chewers for those student consumers who find themselves out of gum. The Bic pen cap is popular. This category is much quieter than gum chewing;
3. Paper chewing is also popular. Thankfully, no spit wads have been seen.....yet. This category is also quiet.

IV. Machine/Instrument Generated Sounds
These sounds require materials to generate the sounds. This includes 1. retractable pens clicking (see George Hamilton in "Doc Hollywood") and 2. Velcro opening and closing.

3. Zippers are its own subsection. This is broken into five sub-subsections: a) the sound of a zipper unzipping; b) the sound of a zipper zipping; c) the most common sound: a zipper either zipping and unzipping or unzipping and zipping. d) the individual student zipping and unzipping over and over again (serious teacher irritant), and lastly, e) group zipping and unzipping, which requires an immense amount of coordianation and practice amongst the group members (teacher irritant). Zipper sounds can be generated by jackets, articles of clothing, purses, pocketbooks, and school-oriented material, such as notebooks or backpacks.

As the reader can see, middle school students generated sounds are complex, varied, subtle, irritating, ingenius, and devious. A continuous onslaught of noises may be distracting to the teacher at first, but as they beocme acclimated, it becomes worse.

Further research studies will be conducted at a later date.

An Eighth Grader at the Movies

2010-09-25T09:34:00.006-04:00

Eddie Fisher, the crooner from the fifties, died recently. It was noted by the newspapers that he met Elizabeth Taylor while married to Debbie Reynolds, dumped Debbie Reynolds in order to marry Elizabeth Taylor, and in a sad sort of fitting retribution, was dumped by Elizabeth Taylor for Richard Burton.

Eddie Fisher's death reminded me of something that happened when I was in the eight grade.

My older brother William came home to visit from college, and it wasn't three hours later that he got into a "disagreement" wih my parents. After the "disagreement," he decided he needed to get out of the house so he uncharacteristically invited me to the movies. His problem with my parents and his unusually kind treatment of me somehow over the years came in second place to what happened in the movie theater.

The film was "How the West Was Won" starring so many movie stars it would take a long time to list a fourth of them, but here are a few: Gregory Peck, Henry Fonda, Lee J. Cobb, Karl Malden, James Stewart, John Wayne, and Richard Widmark. This movie was a winner, a blockbuster, and very entertaining. Story after story unfolded, all of them better than the next.

Suddenly, there was Debbie Reynolds doing what she does best: dancing, singing, entertaining, driving Robert Preston crazy on the screen, and jaw-droppin' all the men in the movie theater. I remember exactly what she was wearing: a scanty, frilly, underwear thing with all of her pokey-outey stuff pulling me into submission.

Just then, William leaned over to me and said, and not in a quiet voice, "Eddie Fisher is crazy." Some would have reflected on Elizabeth Taylor and gotten into a debate over that statement, but with Debbie up there charming the hell out of me, and realizing Elizabeth never charmed me like that and never would, I replied, and not in a quiet voice, "He's nuts."

I can still see her..................Debbie, that is.

Into the Bowels of Braindead I Went

2010-09-23T18:54:00.003-04:00

I have seen a couple of assemblies of middle school students, and for a new middle school teacher they were an experience to remember. Here are a few things I saw 6th, 7th, and 8th graders doing in the two short assemblies I attended:
- pretending to vomit
- making fun of adults
- whispering, and lots of it
- poking, touching, and tickling
- yanking at articles of clothing
- incessant talking
- inability to focus eyes
- yelling the name of a friend fifty times
- groaning, and lots of it
- ignoring everyone
- children with a look of a brain dead zombie unable to move or blink
- children screaming and/or unable to sit still
- wild eyed looks on the faces of boys out of control
- teachers miserably failing to maintain a shred of sanity on their face
- one attempted kissing session (boy w/girl)

However, today I was told by the administration to actually sit with the students in the bleachers, probably as a strategy to keep them under better control. I noticed that many of the teachers did not do as requested. I discovered later, to my horror, that they ignored that directive because they have experience, brains, knowledge, wisdom, and an ounce of sense. I, however, climbed up into those bleachers in the gymnasium and sat surrounded by brain damaged, wild hellions and zombie children. It was a terrifying experience, and one I want to forget. My ears are still aching, my senses numbed, and my mouth unable to convey in some way the vacuous existence of middle schoolers en masse.

Talking With the Enemy

2010-09-21T15:59:00.003-04:00

I sat a new student right beside Pete. Not two days later Pete and the new student were talking away, oblivious to all the educational wisdom I was dispensing, and I was doling it out with charm and goodwill, too.

I yelled, "Pete! I see that you and Seth are good buddies now, aren't you, just a talkin' away."

Pete looks up and replies, "Oh no, Mr. W.! No we're not buddies! Honest!"

Choosing the Brezik Method of Reacting

2010-09-20T20:31:00.001-04:00

One of the recent blogs has once again brought up a memory of reactions that adults can have over children's behavior. As in the case of my niece, Laura, it was an unusual and unexpected reaction that caught me off guard.

I was in the ninth grade at St. Thomas High School in Houston, Texas, and I found myself in a study hall. I went to the counselor because I thought it was silly that I would be given school time to do my homework, so I asked for a regular class instead. Because of the unusual request I wound up in a tenth grade World History class taught by Father Brezik.

There were rumors and wild stories of a legendary student at the school who kept a full fifth of whiskey and a fully loaded machine gun in his locker. I thought it was a made-up story, a conjured legend to impress everyone who heard it. Something like this could not be true in 1962. The stories turned out to be about a student who I shall refer to as Fred, and Fred was in that tenth grade class. The stories turned out to be inaccurate. Fred had several half empty bottles of various sorts of liquor, and the machine gun was loaded, but it was just blanks. How I found out about the blanks is another story, and a good (?) one.

Near the beginning of the year Father Brezik returned our first World History test papers. When he handed Fred his test, Fred turned around and put his back to Father Brezik, bent over slightly, and flamboyantly wiped his ass with his test paper.

I am the son of a man who would have completely lost his cool. This was an affront to all the dignity and respect a man deserves from a lesser human, a child almost. I expected Father Brezik to react like my father would have, and I probably flinched and cringed in expectation of the human explosion comin' 'round the bend.

Father Brezik shook his head and in a very gentle voice said, "Fred, I am so disappointed in you. You could do so much better. You are so smart, but your grades do not reflect that. I am disappointed in not only your test score, but in your behavior."

That was it! There was no explosion! There was no steam blasting out of Father Brezik's ears like would've shot out of my father's ears! Fred wasn't even in any trouble! I was stunned.

I was also impressed. Let me see here.....my father's reaction to this act of disrespect? Father Brezik's reaction to this act of disrespect? Let me weigh these reactions. Let me rate them. Let me compare them. Let me decide which one I like better.

I chose Father Brezik's way. It isn't easy, because I was raised in a very different way, but I have it down now. Maybe I'll blog about some of the ridiculous things seventh and eight graders do at middle school and my Brezik Method of Reacting.

ThourShalt Not Covet Thy Society's Respect For Children's Opinions

2010-09-19T19:16:00.005-04:00

Laura's blog titled, "But I Really Am Cool When You Aren't Here, Jake" struck a dissonant chord with me. When Jake and his friend mumbled something negative and rude about his mother's choice of sounds coming from her car stereo, I yearned to hear a rock-n-roll riff, and I dreamed of Laura turning around and screaming at Jake, "Shut up if you can't be respectful to your own mother! You two have the right to your opinion but no right to make fun of mine!"

I also heard an angelic note that chimed the message of acceptance, patience and a willingness to listen to her rude son. That is the note Laura played. The angelic note.

Upon reflection, I remember a story about a very similar experience that I had as a young boy. My older brother William was probably about nine or ten which put me at about the age of five. We were riding in my parents' Pontiac, and we drove past a petrochemical refinery that was very busy refining something putrid, removing what little good smell was in it and belching the putrid part out of hundreds of smokestacks. It stunk to high heaven and the car had no air-conditioning, so we were bomblasted with the stench. William screwed up his face and boldly proclaimed, "That stinks!" My mother turned around to face us (no seat belts so she got a good look) and screamed, "Shut up and quit complaining!!" This was a predictable response coming from someone who had been putting up with over twelve years of marriage to my father and unfortunately was the typical response I was raised with.

The story doesn't end there. About fifteen minutes later we entered another refinery area, one substantially larger, and as I recall, even busier belching stink. The powerfully putrid vapors inundated the car, and my brother William timidly spoke, "Mmm. That smells good."

I think if a child speaks their opinion, it ought to be respected as long as it isn't said disrespectfully. As a child, a boy, and as a young man growing up in my parents' household, neither my brother nor I were ever allowed to express any disagreeable opinion. We wouldn't have meant it as rude or mean. It would have been our honest and truthful opinion. When I was growing up, my parents were the only ones who were allowed the luxury of expressing their opinion.

I have blogged that modern parents have abdicated some of their authority. Now I am suggesting they have also abandoned disrespect for their children's opinion. That respect from their parents of their opinion is something I envy in modern day children.

I still think Jake should have returned the respect, though, especially in front of a "friend" who had made a rude comment about Jake's mother's taste in car stereo sounds. Wouldn't it have been incredible if he had stuck up for her?

A Teacher Story: Believe It or Not!

2010-09-16T17:08:00.005-04:00

I must begin this blog entry with an admission of guilt: I have had many moments when I said or did something foolish or stupid and wondered why I said or did it and regretted it later. So here's a juicy story about another teacher who allegedly messed up. It could also be a slightly salty story, because surely it should be taken with at least a grain of it.

I had a conversation with two students today. I love it when kids tell stories about other teachers. Kids have a way of embellishing and distorting events in such a way as to highlight or strengthen their point. So it is, I suppose, with this conversation with two girls.

Me: " I want to know why you two cut classes?"
Girl #1: " We don't like that class."
Me: "Why?"
Girl #2: "The teacher is weird."
Me: "You need to go to that class anyway. That's no reason to cut her class."
Girl #2: "But you don't understand! She does weird things."
Me: "So what! So do I, and I don't want you cuttin' my class. Before you know it, you'll think every teacher is weird, and you won't even come to any class."
Girl#1: "She threw a cockroach at us."
Me: "Excuse me? What was that?"
Girl #1: "She found a cockroach and a lot of us were grossed out so she threw it at us."
Me; "Well, maybe she was...... she was tryin'....... she....... she was........ she didn't actually throw-"
Girl #1: "Yes she did."
Me: "Well let's say that what you say is true. You're gonna have to go to her class and dodge cockroaches. Right?"
Girl #2: "What about the cockroach on the wall?"
Me: "What?"
Girl #2: "She found another cockroach and stapled it to the wall."

Choose my next response:
a) "Huh?"
b) "Liar! Quit that!"
c) "Drop her class. Transfer out. Get out, and I'll help you."
d) "Ha haha! That's funny!"
e) "What stories do you tell everyone else about me when I'm not around to defend myself?"
f) Make up a response of your own.

Diminishing Moments of Innocent Ignorance

2010-09-15T17:03:00.004-04:00

I think I am a fair teacher partly because I remember what it was like to not understand something. I will phrase it less delicately: I remember what it was like to be ignorant of something that was obviously important to others, enough so that they roared with laughter, or even worse, put their hands over their mouths in shock.

For example, my Uncle Charles was always cracking jokes that I couldn't understand, but I'd laugh anyway. I must have been pretty young, maybe four or five, and I didn't understand any of his jokes. All the adults would laugh, but if I laughed, it was faked, and I remember the feeling of ignorance. Ignorance is a word that is out of favor now, but it is a great word, and it means lacking knowledge or generally not knowing what is going on. I either confided to my Uncle Charles that I didn't understand his jokes, or else he asked me if I did. I remember telling him I didn't understand them and asking him why I didn't, but I don't remember his answer.

One day my Uncle Charles was driving a car up the Gulf Freeway in Houston, Texas, and my father and I were in riding with him. We went by one of those huge cemeteries in big cities that you used to see. It was Meadow Lawn or something like that, and my Uncle Charles pointed to it and asked, "Walter, do you know how many of those people in that cemetery are dead?"

There were thousands of tombstones, graves, and mysterious little houses with people's names on them, and I had no idea how many, so I said, "No."

He immediately piped up, "All of 'em."

My Dad gave a chuckle, and I remember sitting there in the car and realizing it was a joke! How many people in that cemetery were dead? ALL OF THEM!! I roared with laughter and will never forget that moment when I really undertood my first joke. I remember yelling, "I get it! I get it!" What a feeling. And the laugh! It was a real laugh, not faked!

Many years later I was in the seventh grade and our school actually had a Halloween Parade. One of the eight graders came dressed in brown and wearing a black tie and an armband with some sort of weird insignia on it. This student paraded all over the school marching with an odd, stiff-legged, high-step and sticking his right arm out and up at a 45 degree angle and yelling something about hile hitler. It was all a mystery to me. More than that, I was ignorant. Ignorant of Nazi Germany. Ignorant of all the secrets and horrors of that war. And why were all the adults so upset? Everyone of them was in an obvious frenzy, and their hands were over their mouths. Here's how serious it was: the next year there was NO Halloween parade. That eighth grade student turned out to have a father who was a professor of history at the University of Houston. That boy was privy to adult secrets that had not been revealed to me or my other classmates. No wonder Israel doesn't want certain things swept under the carpet, so we are all ignorant like most seventh graders in 1961.

I remember being confused about this student in his Nazi outfit. Wondering. A feeling of ignorance. I am still aware when that feeling comes over me. There are a lot of things I don't know, and I don't want to lose that feeling of innocent ignorance. It's not as strong as it used to be, as I slowly and unwittingly gnaw on the apple from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I try not to convince myself that I understand every joke or every shame and shock. At least I hope I never will. Every day has one or two of those moments, and I treasure them. Still learning. Still losing my innocent ignorance. Praying that it will never all be gone.

But I Really Am Cool When You Aren't Here, Jake

2010-09-13T06:30:00.006-04:00

I never post about Jake anymore. His high school-aged psyche deserves anonymity from my stories. Additionally, I have no time to write about him, what with checking websites to make sure he isn't tagged in any inappropriate pictures.

In my car, I have been playing a series on Winston Churchill on the Great Courses collection. Olivia enjoys listening, but to Jake it is pure torture. It just isn't Kanye, I guess, and I change to radio whenever he gets in the car.

The other day I forgot. He and his friend plopped their almost six foot bodies into the seats, and after hellos we drove off. I didn't even think about the cd until I heard his friend whisper, "Dude, what is that?" He was clearly referring to the Churchill lecture.

My son whispered back, almost with resignation, "Man, this is an effin freakmobile."

Where Were You When You Heard JFK Was Shot?

2010-09-12T17:53:00.004-04:00

I am unable to tell you exactly where I was when I heard President John F. Kennedy had been shot. I think it might have been during chemistry class, but I don't really remember. I knw I was at school. I do remember that during the next break between periods, I acted unnaturally happy over something, and I was shushed by a few of the students near me in the hall.

But I can tell you exactly where I was when I heard Kinsey Stoneham was killed in a car crash. I was walking down the south side of Colgate Street with my good friend Danny walking beside me on my right. I was carrying my school books in my left hand tucked around them in traditional "cool" style, and it was approximately 7:05 am.

I never knew Kinsey Stoneham very well. None of us did. He was a classmate who died a month before JFK. None of us ever got to know him well, for he died early in the school year at his new school. Unlike Eleanor Rigby, Kinsey Stoneham was buried, but not along with his name.

I'll always remember where I was when I heard that Kinsey Stoneham died in a car crash.

Preparation for Parental Interrogation

2010-09-12T17:02:00.003-04:00

Due to the No Child Left Behind Initiative (NCLB) and the increased pressure on teachers and the educational system to make sure that students aren't being "left behind," and due to the liquor, marahoochie, cocaine, and other drugs ingested into the leaders of our country during their youth that led to such a ridiculous bill, I am required to teach the Pythagorean Theorem to seventh graders. No problem, but they haven't been taught square roots yet.

So I'm doing it. Teaching the Pythagorean Theorem to seventh graders in the hope they'll get that one question correct on the New Mexico Standards Based Assessment that was developed as a requirement to satisfy federal guidelines for NCLB.

This week in class I was having some success, and all was going well. Then as I so often do, I made a speech, one of those cute little speeches that either confuse kids or warp their brains. I finished up the sixth period math class with this speech, "How many of you have parents that almost always ask you, 'What did you learn today in school?' " (Many hands went up.) "Well, when they ask you that today, you can say, 'Today I learned to calculate the length of the hypoteneuse of a right triangle using the Pythagorean Theorem.' Sounds good, doesn't it? That will not only impress them, it may cure them of ever asking that question again, because many of your parents won't know what you're talking about. They learned the Pythagorean Theorem many years ago, but most of them have long forgotten it. So when you go home tonight and your parents ask you, 'What did you learn in school today?' you can reply, 'I learned how to calculate the length of the hypoteneuese of a right triangle using the Pythagorean Theorem.' That ought to shut 'em up."

At this point, the bell rang. Perfect timing. I was in The Zone. As Max left the classroom, he said, "Mr. W., ask me what I learned today in school. I want to practice for my parents."

"Ok Max, What did you learn in school today?"

Max set himself, focused his mind, and then said, "I learned the hypotnus and right triangle of the Pythagaremus Theory."

"That's close, Max, but it's all wrong. You need to say, 'I learned how to cal-cue-late the length of the hy-pot-ten-noose of a right triangle using the Puh-thag-o-ree-an Thear-um."

Max lowers his head, closes his eyes, and then says, "I learned how to cal-cue-late the length of the hy-pot-ten-noose of a right triangle using the Puh-thag-o-re-an Thear-um. I learned how to calculate the length of the hypoteneuse of a right triangle using the Pythagorean Theorem. I learned how........." and I watched him walk out of the classroom mumbling that sentence over and over again.

I don't think his motivation to memorize that was based on his need to communicate what he learned. I think he is, to quote his too talkative teacher, tryin' "...to shut 'em up."

A Cure For Drowsiness in Math Class

2010-09-10T17:37:00.005-04:00

I have a way of saying things with a hundred words that could be better said with four. Here is an example:

In fifth period math today one of my students was obviously very sleepy. His eyelids were drooping all down the pupils, and what faint part of the eyes were visible looked pretty far away. Dreamland was just around the corner for this student, and I was just the teacher to ruin his vacation plans.

I brought him back to the harsh reality that faced him, and then this conversation occurred.

Me: "I think that with the sizeable number of students who find themselves becoming drowsy and falling asleep in my class, I ought to set up a little cot or maybe even a little bed in the back of the room. Anyone who finds themselves getting sleepy could rent the bed from me for ten dollars per period. I figure I could make at least six thousand dollars a year renting that little bed to sleepy heads. Instead, I bet there is something better you could do if you find yourself becoming drowsy in class. Lena, tell us what you should do if you're always sleepy?"

Lena: "Bring ten dollars to class."

Never Give Up the Good Fight

2010-09-09T08:33:00.008-04:00

I wrote that last blog entry for two reasons. The first is that teaching middle school is stimulating my memories of events in my life that occurred when I was the same age as my students. The other reason is that for the first time as a teacher, I am facing a real challenge to make a true impact in the lives of some of my students, at least at this apparent time.

I believe that until a student is eighteen years of age, they should not have the right to deny themselves an education. It's a naive look at the world, but it motivates me to do everything possible short of things illegal or unethical to stop a child from neglecting their education.

Now that I am teaching middle school, I am finding students who have neglected their education and their responsibility to do hard work for seven, long academic years: kindergarten, and the first through the sixth grades. By that time, they can be so far behind that catching up would be a difficult task. With the ingrained attitude of disgust, disregard, and disdain they have towards authority, adults and teachers, it would be almost impossible.

Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. Perfect practice makes perfect. Seven years of neglectful work habits in school may have made some of their behavior permanent, and I may not be able to change them. They are old enough to know better and young enough to not be punished for their decision until they become adults.

All I know is that I will never give up trying to reach those who have learned they have the right to disdain sound advice, to disrespectfully speak to others and their teachers, and to refuse to obey any rule they deem unworthy. I will never relinquish. I will never give up the good fight.

Has our society relinquished its authority to expect respect for teachers and demand obedience of their rules? This is not a new societal problem nor is it a unique question never faced by a previous generation. It's an ancient battle. It's a war in which I have clearly taken sides, and I will never give up the good fight.

POPS, HEROES, AND LESSONS LEARNED AT ST. THOMAS HIGH SCHOOL, 1963

2010-09-07T08:20:00.014-04:00

I am about to tell a true story exactly as I remember it. I won't embellish or embroider the facts but will retell the incidents exactly as I remember them.

I entered the ninth grade at an all-boys' college preparatory school run firmly but fairly by the Order of Basilian priests.

The year was 1962. At that time in our country's history, unruly and undisciplined boys were given "pops," the popular and common expression for a smack on the rear end. Freshmen, or ninth graders, or "fish," as they were commonly referred to, were given "pops" sometimes on general principles.

There were legendary "pops" that lifted big boys, almost men, completely off the ground. "Pops" that left red stripes across the cheeks. And the most mystifying and brutal? The legendary "pops" given out by Father Matzinger, the baseball coach. The strong looking, big man who was always grabbing his chest, squeezing it, and sayin', "Awright yoose guys. Ya better straighten up." He had a baseball bat hanging way up on the wall above the chalkboard that had been sawed down the middle of the meat of the bat, leaving the handle intact. Holes were drilled through the bat. The flat, fat end of this bat landed on the poor boy's rear, leaving legendary red circles where the holes impacted the flesh. When he was finished, there would be a new notch on the bat the next day. Sure enough, there were notches. But a bat? Nonsense. I knew something about baseball, and it was a 38 ounce bat, fer cryin' out loud. There was no way he'd use that thing on a kid's rear.

During the first Latin test of the year, what was surely referred to by Father Matzinger as a "pop quiz," the boy sitting directly in front of me, Gerald, was peeping at other test papers and not being very subtle about it, either. Suddenly Father Matzinger and his huge black cassock loomed beside me, and he was staring intently at Gerald. He suddenly swung his huge hand, landed it smack in the middle of Gerald, and lifted him up out of his desk by the very skin of his back. I'll never forget Gerald dangling there, helpless, like a minnow on a hook.

Gerald was lowered to the ground, marched up to the front of the room, bent over, and the bat was rapidly removed off the wall (without using a ladder! Matzinger was a big man). Father Matzinger went into a quick batting stance, and a powerfully delivered swing to the rear lifted Gerald off the ground. Now some who were not there would suggest it was Gerald's leg muscles flinching in agony that lifted him off the ground, but I promise much of it was an uplift, a Babe Ruthian, Sultan of Swat swing that lifted poor Gerald right off the ground. The next day the bat had a new notch. No more pops were dispensed, and no more notches were required.

I was not going to be given a pop. I was going to go popless. This was my goal. This was my ambition. And I succeeded. The entire year I received nary a single smack on the rear. One day I heard that Coach McDonald was giving every boy in the school a pop. Not me! I had sixth period P.E., and by that time I had checked out every P.E. period, and Coach McDonald was definitely handin' out pops to everyone. I went to gym class early, and sure enough, Coach McDonald was yellin' at everybody to suit up and line up for pops.

I had suited up early, mosied over to the bleachers, carefully slipped inside, snuck deeper inside them, and then held my breath. Another student thought of the same thing. His name? "Doogie". I still remember Doogie and the white house with green trim he was raised in, and the look on his face while we listened to everyone receive their pops, the shouts and hoots and hollers of the onlookers, and the look on Doogie's face when Coach McDonald yelled out, "I'm sure there is an idiot hiding in the bleachers, so you better come out now or I'm comin' in to get you." Doogie and I looked at each other and we knew one of us had to go. Without much hesitation, Doogie headed out to his moment of glory, always to be remembered by me as the brave one, the sacrificial lamb so to speak, my hero, Doogie. When he stepped out of the bleachers, the gym was in an uproar, and for all the bedlam I never heard the pop on Doogie's rear.

All year long I was charmed like this. Oh I wasn't a perfect angel. In fact, for the first time in my life I got into a lot of trouble, and I had trouble getting along with others. I was constantly in fights. I was always meeting some fellow after school on Jackson Hill to settle a score. Jackson Hill meant fists, and that meant blood, lots of it, and that meant blowing smoke at my parents when I got home to explain away the blood. They always bought my story because they couldn't picture me as a tough guy in fights.

I received and gave bloody mouths and noses. There is more blood in a real fist fight than on TV and in the movies, but it wasn't the blood flying and flowing that stopped my bare-knuckled fights. Loose teeth is what stopped me from brawling at Jackson Hill. I switched to challenging or accepting challenges of, "I'll meet you in the gym." That meant trying to punch out some guy with the boxing gloves. Coach McDoanld wisely provided sixteen ounce gloves that were so heavy and soft no one could get hurt. After quite a few fights I learned to let guys pound on me until they were tired, wait for their fists to drop, then I'd try to land three good blows to the face. You only had about ten good pumps in you, and I learned how to knock a guy down. All of them were bigger than me.

Everybody was bigger than me. I got into a fight with Luke because we were the shortest boys in the whole darn school, and that meant one of us had to "rise" to the occasion in some weird, manly, macho manner, and I told him that if he thought he was so tough, go ahead and punch me, but I wasn't gonna go down 'cause he was a puny little @$$h0*8, and when he finished punching me, I was gonna tear him a new one. He punched. Sure enough, I took it. Then a bunch of well-meaning, dadburned heroes stepped in and broke up the fight, thus saving Luke from receiving a new one, and both of us from getting a pop in the office (the worst place). We never did settle that score. I felt horrible later because Luke transferred to another school, which meant I was now the shortest kid in the school.

On and on this went until finally the last day of school arrived. By this time I considered myself invincible. Sure enough, some guy on the Green Slab ( a place designated for smoking cigarettes) referred to my sexual orientation based on the color of my outfit. I'll never forget his claim: red and black on Friday....definitely a sign of homosexuality. Well how was I to know? I disagreed with the sophomoric morphodite and got into a fight that wound up a wrestling match. He was bigger than me so I fought so hard I ripped my pants from the bottom of the zipper all the way around to the belt. When it was over, Father Cooper was watching us and grinning! He was laughing! He thought it was funny! He looked right at me and walked off. He wasn't going to give me a pop! I saw him mumble something to the effect that he was "......going to leave us to our own devices" and ".....summer's almost here..." or something like that. Then he was gone! I was charmed! Untouchable! I untucked my shirt to hide the tear in the entire crotch of my pants and went on to the next class.

The last academic period of my day was fifth period English with a dapper gentleman named Mr. Ribbeck. Everyone loved and respected Mr. Ribbeck, and so did I. I was sittin' in his class and we're all just talkin' about the school year and reminiscing, and suddenly Jim, a mature fellow with an astute sense of observation said, "Mr. Ribbeck, all year long we've all gotten pops. Everybody. But I don't remember Walter ever getting a pop. I've thought about this a lot. I think Walter's gone the whole year without a pop."

All eyes turned on me. Mr. Ribbeck strutted over to his desk, opened the right front top drawer of his desk, removed the white gloves he wore when he gave out pops, and started to put them on. I knew I was had, and I said nothing. Mr. Ribbeck "warmed up the crowd" with remarks like, "He's never had a pop? Never? Not once has he ever ever had a pop?" The crowd started hooting and screaming. He quieted them down with a wave of his white-gloved hand. "Not one pop? It's a virgin butt?" More yelling and screaming. He quieted them down again with a wave of his prim paddle. "A virgin butt? A virgin butt.............................for me?"

I was called to the front of the room, and Mr. Ribbeck made me turn around and face the chalkboard so the entire class could see "....the very first impact of my paddle on a "virgin butt." That was when Mr. Ribbeck lifted up my shirttails so as to expose my pants, and there was my underwear for all to see. Remember? I had really ripped the hell out of my pants. I had to stay bent over as Mr. Ribbeck cracked good joke after pun after good joke, all of them regarding my crotchless pants, my white briefs, possible brown streaks, and lastly, my virgin butt, and after much hooting and hollering and bellowing and chanting by my classmates, Mr. Ribbeck finally delivered the blow.

What was amazing to me was that afterwards everyone was pounding me on the back and acting like I was someone important. Then, to my surprise, during the next P.E. period I was the center of attention. The Virgin Butt. Captain Underwear. I was like a hero.

Somehow, in some mysterious way, I felt that I had, though reluctantly, finally joined a weird fraternity of sorts. Prior to the pop I thought they were all masochists and sadists. Afterwards I finally realized that we were all now part of an ancient tradition that recognized all adolescents and teenagers as, at times, miscreants and ne'er-do-wells deserving of punishment and direction, and what had seemed awful wasn't really awful at all.

That is something our society has lost. Somewhere along the line some teacher probably lost control and went overboard. Some student tried to fight back against the truth because they felt awful being punished. I know how they felt, but it wasn't awful. Awful is not pain. Awful is not shame. Awful is not having anyone care enough to guide your life.

Corporal punishment was an ancient tradition that I lived to see die a legal death in my country. No more would students suffer. The only ones who had to suffer were those of the old order who were caught in that transitional period: those who were sued, fired, ruined, their reputations destroyed, or worse, convicted and jailed. I see them as Priests of Punishment defeated by the noninterference of laissez faire lawyers and replaced by handcuffed bureaucrats who have no other recourse than to treat all ne'er-do-wells as juvenile delinquents, potential lawbreakers, and criminals. The long-term outcome has not been the mere elimination of corporal punishment. We have witnessed the abdication of authority by adults. We have given children the right to make decisions about their own life, and some of them are choosing to avoid work without any costs or repercussions.

I do not know if corporal punishment is effective. Research claims it isn't. Corporal punishment sure gets your attention, though. Those who felt the sting of a paddle held by a white-gloved gentleman are an aging breed of alleged victims of a cruel era, and a fraternity of gentlemen who know better.

Ghostly Voices in Room 203; Seance To Be Scheduled

2010-09-05T17:56:00.006-04:00

In one of my earlier blogs I mentioned that I am teaching in a classroom in the old, haunted wing of a middle school. Nothing unusual happened until Thursday of last week.

I was showing the students why a square yard is not three times as large as a square foot, when right in the middle of my stunning and immensely informative visual demonstration on the board, I heard a voice whisper, "No way, Alfred."

I spun around quickly and looked to where the voice came from and barked, "Who said that?"

The students looked stunned, absolutely confounded, and no one raised their hand. I then got a stern look in my face, turned on my Darth Vader voice, and growled, "I heard someone say, 'No way, Alfred.' I heard it as clear as a bell. Who said it?"

Amazingly, everyone looked stunned, and the entire class insisted that I was imagining something. I walked straight over to Alfred, got down right at his desk and said, "Alfred, the ghost that haunts this room has spoken to me and apparently no one else is 'sensitive' enough to hear his voice. I am sure the ghost is NOT a girl as I have been told, for the voice I heard was definitely a boy's voice, and the voice was trying to tell you, 'No way, Alfred.' I think this is a warning, Alfred, from the Other Side. There is something you are thinking of doing, planning, or thinking about, or whispering about, and this ethereal spirit that dwells in this classroom is telling me that you should not do that thing. Do you understand?"

Alfred, who just fell off a turnip truck, turned to look at Carl. I went over to Carl's desk and said, "If I hear that ghostly voice again, I will conduct a seance after school, and you and Alfred will have to be there. Do you understand?"

Carl said, "I didn't say anything."

I quickly agreed. "I know, Carl. Everyone told me it was the ghost, and I believe them. You and Alfred will have to be here for the after school seance. A seance is a gathering of poeple who make an attempt to contact the dead. If it wasn't you whispering, then it was the ghost, and you'll be here for the seance. They take a long time. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," he quietly replied.

The class thought it was funny. I tried not to laugh, but it was hard. The only students who didn't enjoy that exchange were Alfred and Carl.

Self-Banished Behind Bangs

2010-08-31T19:30:00.004-04:00

A boy's eyes in my first period class haven't been seen by anyone in a year or so. His hairstyle is nothing more than a barrier of bangs sealing off everyone and everything.

I waited a week and then spoke to him about his hide-a-way hairdo. His obvious desire was to get rid of the topic of conversation, but I insisted and made him reveal one eye to me. It took him a few seconds to cautiously pull back his bangs to reveal one eye unblinkingly staring back at me. I then told him I wanted to see both his eyes at the same time. It took him about twenty seconds to put his hands under those thick, carefully constructed bangs, and then very slowly and fearfully lift them up so I could see both his eyes. I've never seen a deer in the headlights of my car, but now I've seen worse. He was slightly terrified. I referred him to the counselor for emotional help with the prayer that the counselor can help relieve him of the demon driving him behind those bangs.

I am certain that I am the first to see both eyes at once for at least three months, and I will never forget the look in them. I pray it's the last time I see them.

What a sorry state human lives are when we all spend so much time going through our paces and never see a human soul crying and cringing behind a curtain of curls.

Middle School Impressionists

2010-08-28T17:00:00.003-04:00

I admire and enjoy the performances of impressionists with their amazing talent to imitate voices, facial expressions, and mannerisms of others. Everyone has their favorites, and I like them all: Frank Gorshin, Rich Little, Eddie Murphy, Fred Travalena, Frank Caliendo, Brad Zinn, Billy Crystal, etc.

Our middle school has budding impressionists working on honing and refining their skills, and a speech therapist told me of one of them performing in her class on Thursday. It seems one of the impressionist's cronies desired a break from school for an hour, and the crony convinced her to pretend to be her so she could skip class. It didn't work. There are only three students in the class, and the speech therapist was able to discern the difference. Of course, a speech therapist in a class of three would be a very tough audience.

I admire the hutzpah it takes to take on a job like that, and though she failed to convince her audience, I wonder how many successful attempts this impressionist has pulled off.

Every now and then I have a thought, and I have one right now. Is it possible to flunk speech class by not talking?

Breakfast Food

2010-08-28T08:05:00.005-04:00

Yesterday morning one of my seventh graders was more reserved than normal, and I asked her what was the matter. She told me her stomach was a little upset, so I asked her what she had for breakfast. She thought for a second and matter-of-factly replied, "Gum." Gum for breakfast! Can you imagine that?

However, her dietary regimen was no surprise. From what I've seen, middle schoolers are the molar grindingest, gum smackingest, cud chewing masticators imaginable. I've seen cows grazing in a field that would appear to have a bad case of lockjaw compared to middle schoolers ruminating on a piece of chicle.

The middle schoolers at our school are allowed gum on campus but not in the classrooms, and I think that's a mistake. I say, "Decide whether gum chewing is allowed or gum chewing is forbidden, but no in between. We have to chews."

However, based on my observations on their obsession to rend juice out of a piece of Wrigley's, outlawing middle schoolers from chewing gum in our schools for six and a half daylight hours would lower gum sales so rapidly and the loss of tax revenue would be so devastating that the local economy would completely collapse overnight.

PS I fixed the student up quickly with a little container of low-fat yogurt and she was fine.

PPS I always have lots of ideas to make money that I never put into action. If it hasn't already been marketed, peddling bubble gum flavored yogurt to kids is one of those good ideas.

Differences Between Elementary and Middle School

2010-08-27T12:01:00.001-04:00

I have noticed three obvious differences between life as a teacher in middle school versus elementary school.

There is a different relationship between the teacher and the students caused by the students' age. That relationship seems to be based on respect rather than affection and love, and that is because of the age difference. They are still kids, but they are older.

The length of time a teacher has with the students is inflexible. That difference is going to play a huge factor in the instruction. I cannot adjust my schedule to increase or decrease the amount of attention I give a concept or subject when necessary.

I have time to prepare. I am sure that as time goes on, it will be spent furiously grading papers. I believe strongly in feedback to the students, and returning quizzes promptly graded is important, especially to those interested in learning from their mistakes. However, I will have that "prep" time to do it. Elementary teachers, at least in my school district, have very little "prep" time (free time) to grade , plan, or prepare.

It is going splendidly, and I have no qualms about my decision to move to middle school. However, I would like to pass official judgement later, once the honeymoon is over.

Mr. Honeymoon

2010-08-23T19:14:00.003-04:00

honeymoon (hun e moon), n. 1. a vacation or trip taken by a newly married couple. 2. the month or so following a marriage. 3. a period of blissful harmony. 4. any new relationship characterized by an initial period of harmony and goodwill -v. i. 5. to spend one's honeymoon (usually followed by in or at) 6. a period of time at the beginning of a school year in a classroom, usually lasting two to three weeks, when the students and teacher get along with occasional, mutual, long-distance respect and harmony, followed by a nastier, less blissful time when students begin to fidget, become disdainful, and then seek out a divorce, causing much anguish among weak teachers who are then weeded out, usually by attorneys, police officers or well meaning principals. - hon ey moon er

I am enjoying the honeymoon.

MY FOURTH PERIOD CLASS

2010-08-21T12:35:00.004-04:00

A teacher is a human being, and as a human being I want to learn from and teach those who are willing to learn from and teach me. Some students either can't or won't learn, and it's my job as a teacher to discern the important difference.

Middle schoolers are further along on life's journey than elementary school students and thus easier to decipher the direction their lives are taking and which forks in the road they have chosen.

Some students have yielded to the rot in their lives, have chosen unwisely, and have been beguiled to give up their dreams for a better world. They have chosen to climb aboard a broken down cart of educational mediocrity.

I strive to have no conceit towards those riding in wobbly wagons and no contempt for those with hobbled hopes.

Off the Subject

2010-08-21T12:14:00.003-04:00

This blog site is about kids and lostinkids, but this blog is off the subject.

I got a phone call this morning that treated me like an idiot, and I want to complain, not about the content of the call but the manner in which I was attempted to be manipulated. I will embellish the conversation a bit as a literary device, but this is the gist of it. I picked up the phone, there was a very short pause which was shorter than the average sales call so I didn't have time to hang up, and I heard this spiel.

"The Petroleum, Oil and Natural Gas Institute of America which represents YOUR country's energy needs now needs your cooperation and help by completing a short survey. This will only take a moment and is NOT a sales call. Please answer these questions in order to help us. (short pause)

"The ignoramuses in Congress..." (this got my attention) "...are attempting to destroy our country's energy suppliers by raising their taxes. These taxes on energy will undo the very fabric of our lives, and we want to know your opinion on this destructive tax increase. If you think these taxes are a tragic mistake, will raise your energy bills, and will further destroy an otherwise wonderful lifestyle, please press 1." (long pause) "If you mistakenly believe that these taxes will someway, somewhere, and somewhen actually somehow mysteriously help our country, press 2." (very short pause) "If you have no idea what the answer is and are not sure of what is going on, press 3."

"There is only one more question. Your energy suppliers, who provide you with the energy you need and provide millions of jobs for thousands of workers, will definitely have to layoff hard-working Americans if their taxes are increased, which will harm our economy. If you think that damaging our economy even further by raising taxes on energy is a bad idea, press 1." (long pause) "If you think that raising taxes on energy suppliers is a good idea and you are willing to take your chances on what damage Congress will inflict on your lifestyle and the American way of life, press 2." (short pause). If you do not know what is going on and have no opinions regarding important decisions in your life, press 3."

"Thank you very much for participating in this survey conducted by the Institute for the Preservation and Security of the United States Petroleum, Oil and Natural Gas Suppliers of America."

I voted #3 because I DON"T know. I'd like to read more and make a knowledgeable decision without the assistance of the American Institute of Petroleum, Oil and Natural Gas Energy Suppliers for a Better Future in America.

That's just the gist of the conversation as I heard it.

Humph.

First Day as a Middle School Teacher

2010-08-18T20:10:00.004-04:00

I left home early. Really early. Rush hour hadn't started. Got to my classroom, fixed myself some coffee, was so excited I forgot to drink it.

I was dressed up. White shirt and tie. I had early morning duty. There were kids everywhere. Some of them were probably teenagers, but I couldn't be sure. They walked and talked differently than elementary school kids. For one thing, any students with parents didn't hug any apron strings. They looked tied to them. No one cried. No one was throwing up.

I was keeping kids out of the school building until time to enter. Only one argued with me and she didn't act hurt. No trembling bottom lip. She just looked like she knew she wasn't gonna get in and calmly walked off. Middle schoolers don't play on a playground. They aimlessly drift around in no hurry. Wait a minute. I just realized there IS no playground. Hmph. Some of them stood in small groups or alone, just gazing into space. Somebody'd spot someone they knew and would run up to them in obvious relief and shake hands (boys) or hug (girls).

The bell rang. I went to my room. Twenty-four kids showed up. I was strict. They behaved, pretty much, and are a real good group. The bell rang. Second period.

A new group came in. Bad News Group. I had to separate some of them. A boy and a girl played "footsie." You know what that is, don't you? It's what you do when you are young. You are feeling so frisky you actually get a huge thrill out of having your shoes touch a member of the opposite sex. No Viagra. No nothing. Just your normal body functions and you get a huge thrill out of touching shoes, and if you're really lucky, an ankle. I smelt the phernomes or hormones or whatever they are in second period. I was choking. Gasping for air. After twenty minutes I wanted out. Too early to give up. Too late to quit. The bell rang. Third period.

Prep time. That's a luxury elementary teachers are denied. Nothing to do except be thankful second period only lasted one sixth of the day. The bell rang. Fourth period.

Another new group. Low math students, a remedial class. If they had just been skeletons I could have picked them out as academically low. Every backbone was bent and curved and slumped. If they had only been eyeballs I could have picked them as the remedial class. Eyes rolled. A lot. If I had been deaf I could have picked them out as the remedial class. Ask them a question? No lips would move. No one spoke, except to each other. All the worst academic behaviors concentrated into one class. I was hard on them, and that means high expectations. They didn't like it. They didn't like it one bit. They didn't like it at all. They didn't like me, and not only that, I didn't care. What do they know. I'll encourage them to excel by promising if they make incredible progress to promote them out of my class. Hopefully, they'll fall for that. They'll get promoted into my second period math class. Suckers. The bell rang. Lunch.

I ate my lunch in the Teachers' Lounge. Microwaved myself some rice and gravy. Yogurt, grapes, cherries. I met and talked to a substitute teacher. He seemed OK. He bought a carne adovada burrito in the school cafeteria that looked damn good. To hell with leftover rice and gravy. The bell rang. Fifth period.

A very different new group. Acted normal, and they understood most of my jokes. That's a good sign. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. This class slipped by me. They could be sleepers, underrated. I'll be more alert for them tomorrow. The bell rang. Sixth period.

I met the accelerated math class. The top notch students, you know. Every eye was open. Every eye paid attention (except for two). They did extremely well on the formative assessment (pop quiz to find out what students know in order to guide instruction). Every other class had difficulty with it. One example: "To get your age, subtract the year you were born from today's year, 2010. How old are you? Show your work." The average answer was about 102. The bell rang.

After school duty on the west side of the building. It was a terrible mess. A city police officer quickly described the problem to me, and he had sized it up correctly. He told me the city wouldn't put in any crosswalks except at the major intersections. He had warned them of the danger, and the city wouldn't listen to him. I told him I'd get results 'cause I'll be a really squeaky wheel with howling wheel bearings dried up from a lack of grease. I'd get results 'cause I wouldn't tell them I'm a school teacher. I'd tell them I'm just an average joe concerned for the tragic consequences of a lawsuit that will come when a child gets hurt or killed due to a lack of a crosswalk where it is needed. It's a dangerous situation. No crosswalks on a major street at a middle school, fer cryin' out loud!

The traffic died, I climbed in my car, drove home, and I ate dinner with my lovely wife. The forecast calls for an early bedtime with a chance of nightmares over the second period class.

Goodnight.

Limbo Rodeo

2010-08-16T18:49:00.002-04:00

According to Webster's Universal College Dictionary, limbo is "...an intermediate, transitional, midway state or place."

That's where I am, professionally speaking. I have my room feng shuied and ready for seventh graders, but no students as of yet. You could say I am "chompin' at the bit" to have students. Upon reflection, however, maybe that isn't the best idiom to use, "chompin' at the bit," because I now visualize a rodeo with bronco bustin' seventh graders climbin' on my back and ridin' me until I'm done broke and tamed and then ridden hard and put up wet.

Preparation time is essential for many tasks, but I believe there comes a time when you just have to trot into that chute and toss that cowboy off yer back. In other words, on Wednesday I have seventh grade students. Until then, it's meetings and firming up lesson plans and preparation and limbo, and I ain't talkin' about purgatory nor the 'How low can you go?' West Indies dance.

I really am looking forward to Rodeo Wednesday.

Scary, Scary, So Contrary

2010-08-15T10:29:00.007-04:00

Olivia has been quite emphatic when marriage is mentioned by anyone. Various ways to say "I am having none of it" that come in the form of "No way!", "NEVER!", and "Yuk" all have made me accept that the only way I may see Grandchildren is to trade out a placebo into her future little preventative pills one day. But it will actually save me hours on long distance twenty-something years from now, consoling my son-in-law with I know, yes, I know, what can I do?

The other day, however, she mentioned her wedding dress and how it should be designed. I was listening with half-an-ear, but I looked up from my studying and said, "Wait, wait. You said you were never ever going to get married."

She looked completely shocked. Her hands went into those little fist balls that either mean Jake is around or the all the red ones from the gummy bear package have been consumed. "What???" She cried. "I have to get married to get a wedding dress???? WHO MADE UP THAT STUPID RULE?"

She fumed for a moment and then got a relieved revelation look. "Hey, Mom" she softened. "Can you just buy me the dress one day?"

Okay, Miss Haversham, can't wait for that shopping trip.

Foul Mouthed Cursers

2010-08-14T11:42:00.002-04:00

There seems to be a glitch in my switch to middle school, and the principal mentioned it in our first staff meeting. He told the true story of a teacher observation he had to do, and he did as usual and walked into the classroom without fanfare so as not to disrupt the lesson. He quietly sat down at a table with a boy we shall call Alex. Alex was legally blind, although he had some vision, and our principal said he probably knew he had sat down by Alex without drawing any attention to himself.

The teacher had a student at the chalkboard working on a math problem. The student cracked a joke, the teacher cracked a funny comment, and everybody started laughing. Then the student said something really funny, and everyone laughed hard, including the principal. Being a good-sized grown man his laugh was probably louder than everyone else's, so Alex must've heard him, and when the laughing died down whispered, "Shut up, you fv(k1ng @$$h0!e."

The principal was shocked, and said he couldn't believe what he had heard, so he quietly asked, "Excuse me? What did you say?"

Alex whispered back, "You heard me you fv(k1ng @$$ho!e. Shut up."

The principal knew he had heard it correctly, so he told the boy to follow him out into the hallway. When they got there, the principal asked, "Do you know who I am? This is the principal, Mr. Mack."

Alex's jaw dropped, and he started to apologize profusely. The principal reported that many times Alex offered up the grand excuse that he thought he was talking to a fellow student; he had been tricked and made a mistake. After many attempts to appease the principal, he was brought to the office and put on an out-of-school suspension.

The principal then explained that no cursing or disrespectful language will be tolerated. He knew how he had felt being talked to like that, and it didn't matter who Alex thought he was talking to or not; such language will not be tolerated. A teacher's job is to stay calm when such language occurs.

I don't think getting angry at student cursing is going to be a problem for me because I am usually humored or shocked rather than angered, and if it's done properly, cursing can actually be quite an effective language tool. I'm just not going to be able to forgive and forget; cursing is cause for a suspension.

I asked everyone later if I was going to be cursed at, and the general reply I received was, "Well, duh!"

But what about "dadburn it" and "frickin' "? And what about "pooty-putt" and "crippity crud"? I use those.

My First Day as a Paid Middle School Teacher

2010-08-12T18:36:00.003-04:00

Today was the first day I was actually paid and had to show up for work. It got off to a good start with a staff meeting to begin the day. I noticed several advantages right off the bat that were better than the elementary school where I used to teach. For one thing, the principal provided breakfast burritos and coffee which were far superior to anything I have had at the elementary school. Now I am aware that this doesn't mean anything, but remember, I'm the guy who when you inform him that you traveled to Paris and visited the Louvre, will immediately respond with, "Where did you eat? Did you try any French pastries?" and if you say that you then went to Italy and saw the Colosseum and Vatican City and then went to Venice, I will immediately ask, "What was Italian food like in Italy? What did you eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner?"

Then the entire staff went to the old gym ( built in 1952) and the new gym (1976) and met any parents who showed up to register their children as students. All the students who came on Registration Day seemed normal to me, although a few of the staff members are a bit odd. More on that later, but I am concerned that this principal hires oddballs, which puts me in their category, which should, upon reflection, come as no surprise.

Then I went to two meetings. One was a meeting of the Professional Learning Community (PLC) I have been assigned to and the other was a Math Department meeting. Both went without any hitches, meaning no one took them too seriously. In the PLC meeting someone asked me which room I had been assigned to, and I told them Room 203, the room with the monolithic shaft running through it and the one that was haunted. Most of the teachers in ther room said, "Yeah....the haunted room." It is now a fact that most of the staff considers my room haunted. Cool!

Then I came home and realized I really want to get into the classroom with a bunch of seventh graders and start teaching math.

And I think I am going to try to meet the ghost and convince him/her to move on.

Yours truly,
The Trepid Seventh Grade Teacher/Ghostbuster

Hauntings at a Middle School

2010-08-11T19:48:00.004-04:00

You're not going to believe this. You'll think I am making this up just to get a blog idea, but I promise I am not.

I have spent three days working in my new classroom and doing what elementary school teachers call "setting up the environment." I am in the oldest wing of the oldest junior high (middle) school in our city with a style of architecture I find stimulating, and I have blogged about it before.

My new principal dropped by to see if I needed anything and how was it going and all that, and in the conversation he happened to mention that the old wing of the school is haunted. I happen to believe in the existence of ghostly manifestations, and my conviction they happen is reinforced by having heard one on several occasions in a home I occupied in Houston, Texas.

My principal told me that he and his two children heard a piano being played, and there is no longer a piano in the old wing. He said other people have had unusual things happen to them in the old wing of the school, and I want to get more information regarding these "experiences."

Today I was talking to an eighth grade social studies teacher who told me a few years ago he had the room I now occupy. He then informed me that while he was in the classroom several unusual things happened, and he asked if I believe in ghosts. I told him I did and gave him an account of my experiences with the ghost of an elderly woman in a house. He told me the ghost in the old wing of the school is a girl who probably attended our middle school, and she tossed clipboards off hooks and threw them across the very room I now occupy. He said a student teacher also saw this happen. He said that since I believe in the existence of ghosts, I will probably be visited.

This is poltergeist activity, and the phenomenon is usually associated with adolescents or teenagers. I came home today and my wife told me to do what the television psychic, Sylvia Browne, advised, and tell the ghost that they no longer belong here and need to move on and not be afraid to continue their journey away from this world.

I'm getting myself all psyched up for such a conversation, and I will inform my readers of any unusual activity. This is an exciting possibility.

Feng Shuiing a Classroom and a Motorcycle Story

2010-08-10T20:37:00.007-04:00

I am not a man's man. Despite my mechanical ability to single-handedly replace a clutch on a Corvette or do fifteen hundred year old Shaolin Kung Fu forms, as soon as people see me they are pretty sure I am not a man's man, and as soon as I open my mouth and speak, it becomes a certainty.

I am not a girly man. I am not effeminate and I have a deep voice, but as my wife Peggy put it when I asked her if I was a manly man, she replied, "No. you're a punkin." I guess she's right, because a manly man wouldn't have become a middle school teacher and then spent two days scrubbing, cleaning, and feng shuiing his seventh grade math classroom.

Here is what I have done so far. On the wall beside my desk is a photo of a motorcycle wheel. You see, I once owned motorcycles. My first was a 1965 Honda CB 160 purchased when I was eighteen which I used to go to my part-time job and then to the university. It was a wonderful, little, dependable machine. I was so broke and frugal I rarely purchased gas. I just pulled into gas stations after hours when they were closed and drained the hoses. That was back when they didn't lock up the hoses. The Honda wasn't fast, but it got me around.

A fellow employee at the plastic processing company where I worked had a motorcycle fender-bender on his 1958 Harley Sportster and he was devastated that his wife happened to be on the back, and he sold it to me out of anger at the motorcycle. Lordy she was a pretty woman, and I didn't blame him for not wanting to be responsible for damaging her in any way. He fixed up the Sportster to better than original condition; his machinist cousin buffed the crankcase covers until they glistened, then dropped the carburetor about a quarter of an inch and retooled the intake manifold so it could breathe in a little more quickly, then he sold it to me for $800. That Sportster was fast. When he turned over the ignition key to me, he showed me how to accelerate off the line, though I already knew. You put it in fourth gear, revved it and almost immediately released the clutch. Fortunately, he told me a few more things I needed to know. One, you bent down over the gas tank and hung on for dear life, and you didn't bend down for aerodynamic purposes. The engine didn't give a rat's @$$ if you were bent over or not. You did it so you could hang onto the bike. If you sat up straight, the only way to hang onto the bike was with your hands and fingers, and they weren't enough. That bike pulled hard away from you. He also warned me that the back end would feel loose. If I accelerated quickly enough a few times, I'd begin to think the back wheel was loose because the rear tire "waggled" as it tried to pass the front tire. It wasn't loose. It just felt so because the rear wheel was trying to pass the front of the bike and it made a serious "waggle." I got a free wheel tightening from a Harley shop mechanic with a torque wrench just to make sure. That was an incredibly fast machine, but it had several problems. One, it had a tiny gas tank......cool looking, but not functional. Two, it guzzled gas. He told me he got eight to ten miles per gallon and I was stupid enough to think I could nurse it along and get better mileage......Not! It guzzled gas idling in the driveway, fer cryin' out loud, and who wants to own a 1958 Harley Sportster and not enjoy the kick-in-the-seat-of-your-pants thrill of goosing it on a green light. Three, my father hated loud motorcycles, and at the time he lived in a sixty year old house with aging putty on all the wooden window panes. Every single window pane in the house would have rattled and a couple of them might have actually shattered if I had goosed the throttle when I pulled into the driveway. Fortunately, I kept the Honda because I was too busy to sell it. Then I realized the Sportster was financially draining me. You see, there aren't enough gas pump hoses in Houston to keep it filled, and I found myself actually paying for gas during the day, long before the sun set and the gas stations closed up shop so I could drain their gas pump hoses for free. I actually had to pay for gas two times in one day. Luckily for me, the fellow who sold it to me, who was also named Walter, regretted selling it to me, so I sold it back to him after one month. His wife was never going to get on it again, and I couldn't afford it. That was in 1967 or 1968 when muscle cars were the rage, and it sure was fun humiliating them in drag races. A Corvette would pull up to a red light, gun the engine, and I'd glance at the driver and then nod. I'd always check to make sure no one was running the red light when it turned green, and as soon as it was green, I'd goose it and pop the clutch. I never saw the tail lights of any car. Well, not exactly. I'd get it up to ninety or a hundred or so, and no telling what the actual speed was because Harleys had notoriously defective speedometers, and who could actually read the thing when it at sixty mph it looked like you were viewing it through a jiggling bowl of Jello. Anyway, I'd get it up to what I thought was about ninety or a hundred and then sit up and ease off the throttle. About five or six seconds later here'd come the Corvette pitifully roaring by me. I never got a ticket, but a GTO I drag raced did because he kept it to the floor and roared past me. A mile up ahead, a cop was pulling him over. I considered it a short drag race and never agreed to drag if there were cars ahead of us or there was no safe straightaway.

My third motorcycle was a British motorcycle, a 1969 BSA Starfire. It was somewhere in between the Honda and the Sportster, and it was a wonderful bike. Experts complained about the Lucas electrical system, but I never had any trouble. The driver sat up real high off the ground compared to a Harley, and it was more beautiful with a rider sitting on it than on the kickstand by itself, and that's one thing I loved about BSAs and Triumphs. I puttered with it a lot, as you're supposed to do with a British machine. It wasn't fast, but one time a cop pulled me over just to look at it. I was relieved it wasn't a ticket, and he asked me a lot of questions about it.

I wanted a photo of that motorcycle because I owned no photo of either of the two bikes before. A friend of mine named Casey was a fine arts photographer and I asked him if he'd take photos of the bike, and he agreed. He got his Olympus camera and started shooting away, developed the photo, matted and framed it, and wrapped it up like a Christmas present. I excitedly opened the package and found a photograph of only the front wheel. I was a little shocked, and I tried not to show my disappointment. He talked so much about his love of that shot that I saw the beauty of it too. That BSA had a huge, beautifully spoked, front wheel with Dunlop rubber and a chrome fender. It was, as I now reflect, the prettiest part of the bike, although I also loved the huge, front headlamp which was bigger than a bowling ball. I treasure that photo, and it sits by my desk in every classroom I have taught.

I have my desk in the back corner with my BSA wheel on the wall to my right, 26 desks arranged so no one can hide behind the monolith, two tables in the back to work with small groups, and on the walls are eight castle pictures, nine pieces of art work I purchased from elementary school children, three times tables charts, my Americana corner (the U.S. flag and posters of the Star-Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance), two blank bulletin boards ready for students' work, a photo of three F-16s with the words "Rush Hour" above them and below it a photo of the Wright Brothers' first flight of the "Flyer" at Kitty Hawk, an unusual photo of a nautilus, and a small poster celebrating our trip to the moon. A computer monitor sits on the desk, and I am blogging on it for the first time.

I am almost ready for seventh graders.

PS My father didn't like the BSA, especially when I pulled away with the exhaust pipe pointing towards his house with the rpm above four thousand and the throttle wide open. I could almost see his face.

Stuff

2010-08-08T08:46:00.003-04:00

Material possessions are truly worthless............in the long run............but we sure do cling to them in the here and now. Take, for example, teachers.

Teachers are generally hoarders, and love their "stuff." The "stuff" includes but is not limited to books, boxes of tissues, scissors, glue, glue sticks, rubber cement, pencils, pens, pins, markers, crayons, colored pencils, dry erase markers, erasers, notebook paper, new or used binders, folders of any kind, construction paper, graph paper, any paper, spiral notebooks, staplers, staple removers, WhiteOut, bookmarks, bandaids, cotton balls, index cards, glitter, books, videos, CDs, paper clips, any kind of tape, posters, pictures, photos, water bottles, stickers, thumb tacks, art supplies, plastic bins, plastic boxes, containers of any shape and size, extra sports equipment, kazoos, Post It notes, harmonicas, recorders of absolutely any kind, magnets, office supplies, desk clocks, wall clocks, mugs, coffee pots and microwaves and tiny refrigerators that can be hidden from an unsuspecting Fire Marshall, rubber bands, aquariums, cages, magnifying glasses, any kind of compass, protractors, any reasonable collection of anything, hole punchers, pencil sharpeners, cleaning products, Lysol spray, Clorox Wipes, twisty ties, thermometers, rulers, scales, balances, carpet scraps, pillows, bookshelves, stools, prisms, boom boxes, books whistles, dusters, empty spray bottles, cushions, laptop computers, Teachers' Guides to every curriculum known to man (my least favorite item), dice, dominoes, playing cards, salt and vinegar and baking soda and iodine and corn starch, pepper, salt, sugar, Splenda, thermoses, extra toiletry supplies, and my personal favorites, books and chalk.

I have much less "stuff" than almost every single teacher I know. Nevertheless, it took me two trips with the old, trusty Maxima filled to the max and a lot of assistance from the new custodians at my new school to get me moved in.

Stuff!!

Pajama Women Sightings on the Rise

2010-08-07T09:10:00.007-04:00

Nature has many marvelous sights in store for those of you who are observant and dedicated, and I want to point out to readers of the strange and unusual sightings going on in the city where I live. Well, actually, I don't live in a city. I define a city not by its size but rather its robust business and civic acumen combined with the urbane sophistication of its amenities and infrastructure. In other words, a strange phenomenon is occurring in my settlement.

Sightings of Pajama Women are becoming more prevalent. Adult women, many with children, have been spotted publicly displaying themselves attired only in their pajamas which are accessorized and enhanced with flopping bedroom slippers which alerts onlookers to the arrival of the entire accoutrement ensemble.

This phenomenon is much more common with the parents of summer school children, and even more so with the parents of tardy students. They are never in a hurry, and flip-flop their way by with nary a greeting or a returned, "Good morning." As a summer school teacher I was given privy to many public observations of Pajama Women.

The sighting of a Pajama Woman in her natural habitat is not uncommon. At my home it's a daily occurrence. However, that rare appearance of a Pajama Woman in public is what we are fascinated with observing. If your city or town does not have any Pajama Women, do not be discouraged. The prospect of observing one in public can be enhanced by shopping at Wally World between the hours of 9:00 pm and 11:00 am. Never waste time going through the automotive, hardware, paint, nursery, or electronics section, for when they appear in public, they have left their lairs for the primary purpose of searching for food. One would be wise to wander through the grocery department, concentrating on the soda and chip aisle, but don't overlook the frozen food section either. They can also be spotted in the toy department asking their offspring questions such as, "How many times have I told you to stop hitting your brother with that DS?!" or, "Will you please put it back on the shelf?"

They also may be spotted in parking lots going to and from the front doors of Dollar Stores. This is one of their favorite environments, but be forewarned. If you actually enter a Dollar Store, you will find yourself distracted by bargains and will miss a lot of opportunities to observe the Pajama Women.

All in all, it's a fun hobby and quite a remarkable, natural phenomenon. But don't get too close. Trust me on this. Many of them are in a bad mood. Researchers have shown that this foul disposition is cause by several factors, such as being overfed and undernourished, personal and financial problems, time management issues, laziness, or simply over or under sleeping.

They have been known to grumpily drop their breakfastless children off at summer school, and it is best to keep your distance.

Things Aren't the Way They Used to be: Mary Had a Little Lamb

2010-08-05T18:51:00.002-04:00

One of my piano students needed a primer lesson in how chord progressions work, so I chose a very basic song to demonstrate them: "Mary Had A Little Lamb." Lo! and behold! I realized she wasn't familiar with the song, so I sang it to her:

"Mary had a little lamb.
Its fleece was white as snow
And everywhere that Mary went..."

And that's when I stopped. I asked her if she knew the rest of the words, and she said, "..the sheep went too."

I decided I would ask all the summer school children what the rest of the words were to "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and thanks to my trusty li'l Palmpilot I am able to record all their responses. Here we go........

"Mary had a little lamb.
Its fleece was white as snow
And everywhere that Mary went.........

"...the lamb went too."
"...it was always snow."
"...the lamb which to go."
"...she spread out the fleas."
"...she was shopping?"
"...the fleas went too."
"...she wore a jacket."
"...she wanted to go."
"...she didn't know."
"...Huh?"
"...Yeah?"
"... the lamb went too." (This was is a repeat. It got two votes!)
"...she took the lamb."

So far three children have known the correct lyrics. I do not consider this a consequence of anything important, but I am mentioning it as indicative of cultural change. Is this a sign of a communal loss on our part, a little more proof that we are losing something valuable?

Nah. For one thing, what's the real value of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" in the grand scheme of things? And another reason for not ever worrying about what is going wrong with the world? Things aren't the way they used to be............and they never were.

Those Mysterious Team Mascots

2010-08-03T16:35:00.005-04:00

I was talking to some summer school students on the playground and we were discussing football, soccer and baseball teams all the boys were on. I told them I played Little League baseball and was on the Cubs and the Dodgers. What teams were they on?

One of them said he was on the Knights, so I jokingly asked, "Do you ever play the Days?"

He looked at me funny and said, "Huh?"

I explained, "You know. You're the Knights and they're the Days, so someone could say, 'There will be a game today between the Knights and the Days.' You get the joke?"

"Oh yeah," he said, and then laughed.

"Of course, you're not on the Nights with an N. You're on the Knights with a K."

"Huh?" he mumbled.

"You know, you're a Knight like in the Medieval days."

"What's medieval?"

I became curious. "Do you know what a knight is?" I asked.

"No. Not really."

"You gotta be kiddin' me, man. It's one of those guys that wears a suit of armor."

"We wear uniforms," he said in a confused manner.

" No. Not you. The knights. Your team is named after knights. They lived in the year 500 or 600 and carried swords, fought with arrows, rode horses, fought for the King of England, and sometimes two knights would get on horses, face each other, then take off riding towards each other with long, giant sticks and would try to knock each other off the horse. It's called jousting."

"His eyes lit up. "Oh yeah! That's what a knight is?"

"Yep! I replied. Your team is named after those knights."

"Cool!" he exclaimed.

I looked at another kid and asked him what team he was on, and he said he was on the Yankees.

"What's a Yankee?" I asked.

"It's a team. A baseball team."

"Yeah, but what's a Yankee? Your friend here is on the Knights and a knight is a guy from a long time ago that wears suits of armor and rides horses. What's a Yankee?"

"I dunno," he said.

I explained to him about people that live up north or in the United States, and to tell you the truth, I think I pulled the plug on his enthusiasm for being a Yankee. To him, a Yankee was a member of the best team in baseball (dadburn it!). Now he was reduced to being a Northerner or an American.

I asked another boy and he said he was on the Rangers so I asked him what a Ranger was.

"I dunno," he said.

This was becoming pitiful, if not discouraging. "A Ranger is a law man, a cop, a policeman, a guy who fights on the side of the law. A lot of Rangers are in Texas. That's why the Texans call one of their baseball teams the Texas Rangers."

He looked disappointed. Obviously he had been there (Texas) and didn't want to have anything to do with the place.

I started asking all boys at school if they were on teams and what was the mascot.

"I'm on the Red Sox."

"What are Red Sox?"

"I don't know."

"What team is your team, the Red Sox, named after?" (This qualifies as a Stupid Question from an earlier blog)

"I dunno."

I had to explain to that kid that the Red Sox were called the Red Sox because they were wearing red socks when their first uniform was designed, and the Red Sox are in Boston, Massachusetts. He didn't seem too excited about that, and I realized I was taking all the air out of these hornets' sails.

I asked another kid what team he was on, and he said he was on the Pirates. I asked him what a pirate was, and he said, "A pirate is a guy that lives on a ship in the Care-uh-be-un and fights skeletons."

Thanks to movies, someone knew.

Con Artist Mothers, Ballet Classes, Dance Contests, and the Perfect Wife

2010-08-01T12:05:00.005-04:00

My last blog reminded me of the many times my mother bamboozled, tricked, or conned me. I am sure she would prefer changing the word "tricked" to beguiled or charmed, but let's just say that at times, all parents "pull a fast one" on a child, or a teacher will try to "sneak one over" on a student. Let's be honest. Where do you think they learn the art of deception?

The first time I realized my mother could and would circumvent the truth was when I was in the first grade. She got wind of a free ballet and tap dance class at the local city park, and having been crowned the Queen of Frugalia, she hauled me down there under the ruse of making me into a great football player. I was more interested in baseball, but she kept insisting it would make me a great football player. She suspected that I suspected that tap and ballet classes were for sissies, so she was peddling the manliest game she could think of on me, which at that tender age made no sense, so I was suspicious that she was suspicious that I was suspicious. Or something like that.

After a few weeks of dance classes, I was given permission to walk to ballet class after school, so I had to take my ballet slippers with me to school. Even at the age of six I knew not to let anyone see them. They would require an explanation and I didn't know how to fit them into a football regimen, so I hid them in my backpack. Being six years old means that you're not as sneaky and devoted to the task of covering yer tracks as say, a member of the Senate or the House of Representatives, so at the end of the day when I went to get my backpack, I could see the little black slippers spilling out onto the floor, but fortunately, no one said anything, so it seems I pulled it off. I spent the entire year of my first grade learning reading, 'riting, 'rithmetic, and hiding ballet slippers, and though I have forgotten the proper technique for a grand-plie, I can still hide stuff in a backpack.

I think the ballet and tap dance class ended after one year but not before I did a couple of dance recitals. I was the only boy in the class, and that was the best part and the worst part. Yes, it was great to be there, but why in hell am I the only guy? I remember a solo in a clown outfit. I bet I was awful.

Years later, in my senior year of high school, I was invited by a girl to take her to a dance contest. She said she wanted me to be her dance partner so we could possibly win the contest. This girl could get on a stage and have every eye on her the whole time, and she did it numerous times. She was a high voltage, eye candy cutie, and I replied, "Sure. Let's go win that contest." We did, and I remember when we were one of the last two couples, the other couple danced pretty well, so I started to dance around them and without hesitation, she started pouring on the charm and followed my lead. I think we won because we literally danced around our competition, but it sure didn't hurt having her as my partner.

So as you can see, deceitful mothers can pay off in the short run; I won a dance contest with a cute high school girl.

In the long run, though, conning someone doesn't pay off. I never became a dancer. I knew it wasn't for me, and I became less and less interested in dancing. I married a woman who is allergic to the metal in jewelry and doesn't like to shop. So far so good. She also was willing to go dancing with me once just to lure me into her feminine snare. She also danced with the future Best Man at our wedding, and she complained that he was all over her like a cheap suit. She told me she didn't like to dance. It wasn't her thing. No jewelry? No shopping? No dancing? She's the perfect wife!

How all this fits together into one blog is not something you should dwell on for very long, if at all.

I Think We Have an Issue

2010-07-29T20:55:00.001-04:00

Today one of the girls in my summer school class was wearing a tee shirt that proclaimed her mother "BEST MOM HANDS DOWN."

I told her that it was cool tee shirt, and she growled, "I hate this tee shirt!" I asked her why, and she said, "My mom bought it for me. I hate it!"

uh-oh.

Shared Love of Music

2010-07-27T18:30:00.001-04:00

My summer school students amazed me today. I was nonchalantly chatting with them during our lunch meal and one of them asked me what music I liked. When you bring up music with me, you have opened a floodgate o' love, excitement, and enthusiasm, so I said I liked it all.

I discovered that either all, some, or at least one of them knows and likes the Beatles, Vicente Fernandez, Toby Mac, AC/DC, Hank Williams Jr. (but not Sr.), Aerosmith, Reliant K, Lady Gaga, the Newsboys, Johnny Lang, BB King, Eminem, Mana, Trisha Yearwood, the Who, Elton John, Queen, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis (but they didn't know his last name), the Bee Gees, Sheryl Crow, Gloria Estefan, and Jars of Clay.

Quite a variety. However, they do not know anything about classical music. They have heard of Beethoven but couldn't tell me much about it other than it was "symphony music." Almost every artist I mentioned had someone in the class who had heard of them and were able to give me proof by mentioning some of their songs or by naming the title of a CD.

I am impressed.