Self-Banished Behind Bangs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Poem in Your Pocket Week

It's funny how some memories stick in your head and won't let go.


Every year the elementary school where I taught had a "Poem in Your Pocket Week." Students would have to wait for a teacher to ask them if they had a poem in their pocket, and if a teacher asked and they did have a poem in their pocket, the child would then reach in, pull the poem out, and read it to the teacher. Most of the poems were written by the children, and children seemed hopelessly stuck in the "make it rhyme" rut, and consequently many of the poems were dreadful. Nevertheless, the teacher would then reward the student with a "Poem in Your Pocket" slip that they would rush to the office, drop in a big box, and at the end of the day a couple of names would be drawn from it and those students would each win a book of poetry.

Many, many years ago I asked a little girl if she had a poem in her pocket. She enthusiastically said yes, quickly pulled out a piece of paper, and then proceeded to make a Broadway production out of carefully unfolding it, holding it up, clearing her throat, and then distinctly reading this poem:

"Now I lay me down to rest.
I pray I'll pass tomorrow's test.
But if I die before I wake,
That's one less test I have to take."

Then she looked up at me and gave me a melt-your-heart grin. I asked her if she had written it, and she replied that she had copied it from a book, but could she have a "Poem in Your Pocket" slip anyway. I gave her three slips, and at the end of the day listened for the announcements hoping to hear her name. She didn't win, despite complicity on my part.

I still remember her name. I think I always will.

Two Conversations

Today I had two separate conversations with two very different mothers about their daughters, both of whom are my students. Considered separately, the conversations may be trifling. However, considered together, they raise many questions, including what is the effect of the inexplicable relationship between parents and children and can anyone really understand the enduring, philosophical question of nature versus nurture.

One daughter is a handful of trouble. Her low academic scores are coupled with an insatiable desire to be the center of attention despite the social and instructional costs to herself and everyone else in the classroom. I finally met the working mother on her day off, and we chatted. This was my opportunity to give the mother my concerned opinion of her daughter which I had been assured the mother had heard many times before from previous teachers. It was going to be a tough conversation. The mother began the conversation.

"How's my daughter doing?" she asked.

She asked, so I replied, "I had heard she was a handful. Other teachers told me that she never pays attention and could be very distracting to others in the classroom. I am finding this to be true because I can never get her attention regarding the subject we are studying, and she constantly tries to change the conversation. For example, we will be working on a math subtraction problem about how many marbles does your friend have after losing some of them. Your daughter will change the subject by saying, 'I have an uncle who collects marbles and he can bring them to class if you'd like so we can all see them.' I have to interrupt her to get her to quit talking about marbles, and I then I am unable to get her back onto the math problem at hand. All she'll want to talk about is her uncle's marble collection."

The mother broke into laughter and chuckled, "That's my little girl. She is so clever and funny!"

The next conversation was with the mother of a child who is one of the brightest students I have ever taught. Her high academic scores are matched only by her perseverance and dedication to the task at hand, coupled with a self-criticism that eliminates the need for me or any teacher to get on her case. Her mother began the conversation.

"My daughter is drivin' me crazy. Sometimes I think she is on another planet, or in another world, or just plain brain damaged! If I didn't know her and just started watchin' her, I'd swear she was mentally handicapped!"

"Well, you may think that because at times she is a little scatter-brained, but she shows all of the symptoms of a highly intelligent, wonderful girl, and you are truly blessed. Don't worry about her. She is going to be a successful person someday. She already is, for that matter."

"Well," she wearily replied, "she'll only grow up to be successful if I don't kill her first."

I am not in the mood to contemplate and then pontificate about these two conversations for you, the reader. You can do that yourself and come up with whatever thoughts may enter your head.

I will say that those are two very different reactions to two very different daughters from two very different mothers.

Learning Disinterested

I may be a cold-blooded, ruthless, unsympathetic human being and a merciless teacher, but I sometimes suspect that certain students are not "learning disabled," and we underestimate children when we label them as such. Perhaps advanced schooling is not their forte. Perhaps neither is "book l'arnin'."

However, after reflecting on the behavior and attitude of many summer school students over many summers, I cannot help but get the notion that some children are not "learning disabled." They are "learning disinterested."

This pedagogy is no longer the prevailing notion in our country. Instead, the school is at fault and the system as a whole is blamed for students' lack of interest because the curriculum is not presented in a way that sparks their imagination. I am not saying every teacher and their class is exciting; I am positive many are boring. I've been in them, and I made decent grades in those boring classes. I have taught those boring classes, and interested children made a good grade in the boring classes I taught.

What about the ones that don't? There are many wonderful, "learning disabled" children in schools today who will grow up to be productive members of our future society, but that doesn't alter the fact that they have no interest in math, language arts, or social studies. Even exciting, hands-on science activities quickly become a game, a distraction, from the actual learning of scientific vocabulary and the eventual ability to speak abstractly about or conceptualize the exciting, hands-on activity.

In many cases low academic scores come from a lack of communication skills. Too many children do not have the advantage of listening to adults speak to each other, of joining in on their conversations rather than dominating them by changing the subject, and of listening to adults who have a large vocabulary and are unafraid to use it in front of children. Lacking the ability to clearly understand the language spoken in the schoolroom, the student flounders, human nature "kicks in," and the student is very unwilling to speak up about their lack of understanding.

This is not a research-based, academic paper. I used anecdotal information and records to come to this conclusion. One of the more powerful pieces of anecdotal information is the look on many of my summer school students' faces when they listen to me or anyone else talk about the curriculum. The word lethargy comes to mind. Also narcolepsy. However, if someone gets up and talks about their vacation to Six Flags, their faces light up. That's only natural; so does mine. What bothers me is their complete inability to even act interested and their ensuing inability to learn the simplest of curriculum.

I don't want to accept the fact that their brains are ineffective in such a way as to prevent them from learning. I do not believe their brains are damaged. I believe that many of them are "learning disinterested."

Speak No "H"'s

I overheard a conversation between two fourth grade boys today. Actually, I eavesdropped. What they were saying was secretive and not meant for adult ears. I was in close enough proximity to overhear every word, yet astonishingly, they continued to talk, and it was about a topic of immense interest to me. I immediately stopped whatever inconsequential thing I was doing, perked up my ears, leaned in as inconspicuously as possible, and overheard this exchange:

"Yeah, I can trick 'em. I do it lots of times."

"I like to get sick. If you get sick early enough, they let you go to bed and rest."

"I'd rather be in the bed than do homework."

"Yeah, me too."

"I just write stuff down most of the time."

"Doesn't your teacher get mad?"

"Nah. She doesn't even look at our homework. I just write stuff on the paper. It doesn't matter what. She never grades it or nothin'."

"I got a trick for you that works every time, but don't tell anybody."

"I won't."

"This works every time! I never say a word that doesn't have an "h" in it. Homework starts with an "h," so I don't use any words that start with an "h." That way they don't even think about homework. They won't say nothin' about it."

"Wow! I'll try that."

An Off-Color Anecdote and a Nugget of Information

One of my favorite expressions that I ever heard and one that I will remember and cherish until the day I die was moaned by a twelve year old boy on a basketball court. Daniel, a behemoth of a fellow, threw a baseball at Glenn when Glenn was too busy yacking away and making us all laugh. He was good at that, and unbeknownst to him, he was about to achieve comedic immortality. The throw was low and smacked Glenn right in the ol' genital area. Glenn collapsed to the ground and tried to do what all boys do when such a tragedy occurs: you only breathe out, and you do that in excrutiatingly tiny exhales. Everything must be done very gently for at least five minutes, and you do NOT want to breathe in. Breathing in means increased pressure on the "sea bottom cavity," and thusly, increased pressure on the scrotum. Breathing in also means continued life, and at that moment, all desire to exist vanishes in a blinding fog of pain. After breathing out for about forty-five seconds, Glenn was heard to moan these words: "I got two balls in one socket."

I'm still laughin' about that. Of course, I am still about as mature as a twelve year old boy. Just ask my wife, Peggy.

In case you are wondering why I started this blog entry with that story, well, first, this is a blog about kids, and I was a middle schooler at the time. Secondly, it was a way of introducing an upgrade in the slang term for the male testicles. For years they have been referred to in foreign languages (e.g. Spanish: cajones), as squirrel food (nuts), gems (family jewels), or sporting equipment (balls).

The new term, as overheard "around the campus" is "chicken nuggets" or simply "nuggets." So if you hear your son or, heaven forbid, your daughter, referring to an item on the McDonald's menu, there is a good chance it is "naughty language," especially if it involves sucking on the nuggets, rather than actually chewing on them. I just thought I'd mention it. I mean, I am an educator, and this nugget of information is educational.

Have No Fear, Blog Ideas Here

I am teaching middle schoolers this summer......fifth graders who, through a lot of fault of their own, find themselves in summer school.

I was concerned that being older and more mature, middle schoolers wouldn't say those little cute things that fourth graders say, and I would lose my source for those cute blog ideas I get from fourth graders.

Have no fear. Blog ideas here. In one short week:


Summers school students tend to suffer from all the worst academic behaviors that students can have. One of them is the tendency to NEVER raise their hand in class. I had a student hurt themself while raising their hand. I heard their hand smack their desk and saw them wince in pain and cry out, "Oww! Ow. That hurt." Maybe with more experience..........


Me: "I want you to be able to know for yourself and be able to tell someone else what you learned in school today. What did you learn in school today, Sam?"
Sam: (spoken with a dazed look): "My parents go into the bathroom a lot."


Summer school students also tend to lack experience answering questions in class. Case in point:
Me: "Abel, make a sentence with the word although."
Abel: (after quite a long wait time as I patiently waited for his response): "My older cousin is one year old."


Me: "Abel, I have warned you many times to keep working. I will have to make you do your work during recess if you don't quit playing around in class. Do you want to lose your recesses?"
Abel: (looking up somewhat confused): "Yeah. that sounds great." (The entire class breaks out into nervous laughter)
Abel: "What's everybody laughing for?"
Me: "What do you think I just asked you?"
Abel: "You asked me if I wanted pizza for lunch."

Build-Up

For those of you who consider yourselves horrible housekeepers, just think what it'd be like if you owned a one room house with about seven hundred square feet of living space. There is no kitchen so there are no dishes; everyone eats out. There are no bathrooms so no clean-up there; everyone potties somewhere else. There are no bedrooms so there are no beds to make up; everyone sleeps somewhere else.

However, your children spend five and a half hours a day, five days a week in your one room house. Oh, and one more thing. You have twenty-six kids, all the same age.

That is the formidable job a custodian has at a school. A great custodian does a splendid job, but they do have limited time to spend in your classroom. A lousy custodian means less clean-up. This leads to a subsequent build-up of chalk dust, dirt, grime, grease, sludge, droppings, drippings, oozings, excess mucus overflows, the creepin' crud, boogers, excretions, vomit, and germs that children instinctively propagate in such immense numbers so as to "get the most" out of their immune system.

For my classroom I would like a GEBLAT (GErm BLAcklighT) or a UGERG (Ultraviolet GErm Reveal Gun) that when turned on in a room makes all the chalk dust, dirt, grime, grease, sludge, droppings, drippings, oozings, excess mucus overflows, the creepin' crud, boogers, excretions, vomit, and germs glow-in-the-dark. I don't want a UGERG so I can see the germs. I want it to see the spectacle of light that would outclass our city's 4th of July fireworks display.

I also want a special germ eliminator. I picture something like my bug sprayer that I use around the yard to exterminate bugs. However, this bottle would be filled with Agent K'vorkian Yellow or some other such product that would really knock those germs dead. Maybe something like an antiseptic, low-heat flamethrower that would burn up the gricky stuff without setting fire to any of the papers. Or how about a chemical warfare gun that could shoot out build-up killing gas. Maybe a special fire extinguisher hose that would come out of the wall except it'd be a germ hose and would shoot out some kind of secret Amway product that mystifyingly antiseptizes everything, and you just hose the place down.












I mention this because the summer school I am teaching at has a lousy custodiam. Like I said, a lousy custodian allows certain things to build up over time.





Yech!

From New to Old

The first impression I have of my new position as a middle school math teacher has nothing to do with the students being slightly older, for I haven't met any yet. It isn't even my new principal or my new comrades-in-arms. Instead, the first noticeable change is architectural in nature. I have transferred from a very new school in a recently built suburb to one of the oldest schools in an already old, well established city. I have moved from an unused, bright beige, low-ceilinged, recently built school with modern fixtures and features to a well-worn, darker, wood adorned, architecturally bygone era.

The ceilings are flat cathedral, designed before air conditioning. I am on the second floor, and the ceilings are so high that the first floor alone shoves us at least fifteen feet in the air. There is a grand view out the huge windows that permit air and sunshine to enter and they cover the west walls of the classroom, and outside are huge oak trees that provide shade for the students and a habitat for squirrels and reportedly, an owl. The outside of the entire school is also impressive, as if the architect was not as concerned as modern Americans about financial requirements when paid to design it, and his clients were not as concerned about the cost to build it.

I have already heard multiple stories about Jackie Chan's recently released film that has my new, old school as the set in a few of the scenes, and everyone on the school staff and all the middle schoolers got to meet Jackie Chan. The school is photogenic, but they touched it up with CGI.

There is one drawback to my new, old classroom. A huge shaft runs from floor to ceiling in the outer middle of the room. The first thing I thought of when I saw this monstrosity embedded in my classroom was an image of twelve year olds screaming, grunting, and running around it until finally one of them was brave enough to touch it, as in the scene with the monolith in the movie, "2001: A Space Odyssey."

It also looks like it could be the chimney flue for the fireplace in Orson Welles' "Citizen Kane," but what is it doing crashing through the middle of my classroom, fer cryin' out loud? I'm not teaching at Xanadu.

It also looks like it could be a hyperthermic pressure release tube for the core of the Earth, and I expect every minute or so to hear the geological equivalent of Mount Vesuvius rushing through the monster and releasing its sulphuric hellfire upon the innocent victims shading under the oak trees just outside the window.

I quickly surmised that it was built as an air duct for the luxurious air conditioning (evaporative cooler) for this wonderful old building, and the only way to go to the ceiling above the second floor classrooms was to run it through what is now the center of my students' learning environment. My first decision upon seeing my room was to spend a lot of time designing a seating arrangement where no one, and I mean no one, is allowed to hide from me behind the huge shaft.

I have made a change, and the first advantage is the architecture of my work environment. I even like my monolith, as long as it doesn't turn out to provide an "Invisible Zone."

O Plumpy, Plumpy, Wherefore Art Thou Plumpy?

I was in that-store-I-ethically-wish-I-could-avoid-but-oh-my-gosh-the-groceries-were-undeniably-cheaper, and they had Candyland on sale for four dollars. That is definitely almost a garage sale price, with the bonus of not having to substitute the red gingerbread man with a thimble from a good-for-parts-only old Monopoly set.

I put it in the cart, and removed something of equal value (so I didn't get up to the register and have to go all Debra Winger on the cashier), and hurried through the rest of my shopping (seriously, when you are there it is called shopping?) to get home to play the game with Jake and Olivia.

You see, we have extremely fond memories of Candyland (Jake and I), as I am sure you all do. We played it all the time with my BF Tracy and her daughter. The four of us would sit on the floor in the living room of her castle outside of Florence. And the castle part is where the romanticism ends. Because no one on this entire planet--trust me on this one--ever hated, reviled, feared, and ultimately destroyed, Plumpy more than my BF Tracy's daughter, J.

We have one of the episodes on video for posterity. J and Jake are four, and as we are playing the game, J is so completely positively sure she is going to get Plumpy (who, we all remember, sends you back to the beginning of the game) that she cannot even wait for people to take their turns. As Jake draws a card, she beats her little hand on the ground to compel him to move it, move it, god move your piece so that I can just take my turn and draw the little monster.

Of course she drew it; she often pulled it from the deck. My memory wants to promise you that she always drew it, but always is a dangerous qualifier and I do not want to exaggerate. She would sigh, make an angry look up to the ceiling (I so wish I could make that face for you now), and move back to the beginning. Hours after the game was over (with clearly a victory having gone to either Jake, Tracy or me), we would be rounding out a perfect afternoon with some neighborhood gelato. If asked how her treat was, she might say something like, "It's good." A long pause would follow with "But I had Plumpy." My BF Tracy would seethe, internally furious that her child was permanently destined to see the half-empty.

Apparently other children also hated getting Plumpy, because after we pulled off the shrink wrap, Jake gleefully rubbing his hands together to watch Olivia fall to the wrath of the Plumpster, we opened up the board and saw that in the place where he used to lurch, there was a cheerful Gingerbread Tree (wth?) who--the rules promised--sat there waiting to "welcome" all children. OH MY GOD, we are so afraid of our children's disappointment that we removed Plumpy? We now need to convince them that it is fun to go visit the Gingerbread Tree, moving to the beginning of (and inevitably losing) the game?

J was not defeated forever by the evil plum. She grew older and clearly empowered; one day she simply took him from the box and tore him into tiny pieces. She is today an accomplished student, with a stunning ability to rule a soccer field, and wins awards for community service and creative writing. A few years ago, I cruelly lovingly decorated her locker in a Candyland theme and made Plumpy into a magnet to tease her; I know she eyed him suspiciously every time she reached in to get a book.

Olivia has the same middle name as J, and therefore prophetically she drew the Plumpy-Wanna-Be Gingerbread Tree Lady. She hated losing. But she luckily missed out on Jake's and my personal favorite part of the game-from-the-old-days: the cheering, gloating Victory Dance we always performed when J flipped her card over to reveal Plumpy. Sigh. Good times, good times.

The game is certainly now made in China; perhaps they stopped printing him because purple doesn't require significants amount of cadmium like the other colors. Just know that our round of play yesterday was not the same, and I can guess what you are thinking--but I swear, it has nothing to do with the fact that we were no longer playing in a castle in Italy.

Peers' Thoughts On My Transition From Elementary To Middle School

I have just accepted a seventh grade math teacher position at a middle school, or what may be commonly referred to in your town or city as a junior high school. Most of my fellow elementary school teachers consider me "loco" in allowing myself to be put in such close proximity on a daily basis to a modern-day, American teenager. Here are some typical reactions from my fellow elementary school teachers after being informed that I was switching to middle school:

"You're kidding me, right?"

"You're what?!"

"Why do you have to do that? ( a pause while they listen) You mean you volunteered? This is what you wanted?"

"Aren't you scared a little bit? I'd be scared."

"Are you serious? (a pause while they listen) Oh my God. You are!"

"You haven't met my son."

"May God help you."

"What in the hell are you thinking?"

"You haven't met my daughter."

"But they're crazy at that age. They're absolutely out of their minds. Trust me on this. They're nuts!"

"Do you know what you're doing?" (a pause while they listen) "No I don't think you do." (another pause) No, you don't."

With a stunned, incredulous look on their face...silence.

"Well, you can always come back to elementary school when you realize what you've done."

"You obviously haven't met my thirteen year old son."

"Oh my God! I'd rather die."

"Great...No really. That's great. Somebody has to do it."

"Are you out o' yer mind?"

"I've heard teaching sixth and seventh graders has its advantages. You can say anything you want to in class, even cuss words, and they won't turn you in because they're never paying attention."

"You haven't met my fourteen year old 'drama queen.' "

"I've taught high school and elementary school, but I would never teach middle school."

"I have two teenagers. They are drenched in hormones and I want to kill them but I can't.

"My daughter's seventh grade language arts class had a student who threw a chair at the teacher and she had to go to the hospital for facial stitches."

"Will you be teaching at that middle school where the kids drove the substitute teacher crazy and she tied up one of them to a chair with duct tape?"

"They're hiring at my son's middle school because one of the teachers retired early."

"I don't think you're going to make it."

Are they correct? Have I naively and foolishly committed an act of voluntary stupidity? "Lost in Kids" will slowly reveal the real truth.

But Really, It's ME That Has No Desire To Let Mattel Define What Is Hot

When I knew for sure Olivia was to be a girl, I was thrilled. The nine full months of sick was assuaged by my visions of dresses and make-up, jewelry and nail polish, Jane Austen and baking. Lily Pulitzer mother-daughter dresses were in my future, and I was at peace to know I would have a compadre with whom to discuss whether or not Marc Jacobs had pumped new life into the House of Louis Vuitton or defiled it.

My diminutive sprite had other plans. She looks like one hundred percent girly-girl. She starts out in the morning with great ovarian-driven intentions. "Put my hair up," she commands, tricking me into participating with a brush and one lovely ponytail holder. After I have complied, she whips out five more from her pocket, and wants them placed, randomly, all over her head, signifying that Pippi Longstocking has arrived. She does love, love, love wearing her tutu (or any costume), but--whoah, Nellie! I had better have Shout in my holster because it just isn't the same for her without sporting something very red to eat in one hand and an Expo Dry Erase Marker in the other. Fourth position, for you ballet-challenged, is running--screaming--from Simon who apparently loves the texture of tulle.

She prefers to play with the boys at school. "Because all the girls want to play is fashion show," she told me one afternoon. "And I don't like to play it much." Well I do, I thought. "They kept asking me today to play it, so I did." I asked her how she had liked it, and she laughed that it was okay, once she had laid out her terms. "I told them I would only do it if I could run down the runway."

Do not imagine that I do not adore this about her. Unlike Mr. Grant, I like spunk, and I enjoy it filling the atmosphere around me.* And I do get my stolen quiet moments of girl-dom. The other day we were sitting in her room. She was wearing a tiara (askew) and we were playing Barbie, dressing her in every outfit in the toy bin.

Olivia is easy to have fun with, so nothing could mar this moment. Even when--as she looked at naked Barbie in her hand, then at me, and then back again at naked Barbie--she said, "Y'all have waaaaaayyy different bodies."

*Jake, it turns out, does not.

Making a Difference in Someone Else's Life

My return to blogging begins with a long one. I hope you have a decent cup o' mud or a good, dark ale to sip on while I pontificate.

I was an elementary school teacher for twenty years. I was hired at one of the best, public elementary schools in Albuquerque, New Mexico by a principal who was named New Mexico's "Principal of the Year" two years in a row.

During my thirteen years at that elementary school, I founded, directed, and accompanied an after school choral music program that became the largest, public elementary school chorus in the United States. I built a parent volunteer organization that did the immense task of setting up field trips, handling equipment, printing newsletters, etc. Approximately one hundred children sang on six risers for ten years, and near the end the chorus was 160 children on eight risers with sound equipment needed to amplify the voices of emcees and soloists. We were paid four figures to appear in the New Mexi-Chords Christmas show.

My classroom students' grades were always above the school average on testing. Every year one or more parents demanded that their child be in my class. Many years I had a teacher's child in my class. Several years I had two or three teachers' children in my class. I was a sought after teacher.

After teaching for eight years, I was invited by graduating high school ex-students to attend their commencement ceremonies and private graduation parties, and it became a yearly event. I felt honored because I was told I had made a difference in their lives. This year I attended a new high school's first commencement. I was proud to see that Alex had passed high school math and was dating the Valedictorian, a wonderfully sweet and pretty girl who was quite taken with Alex, probably because of his bashfulness despite his boyish good looks, and also because he was a true gentleman who treated girls respectfully. A few years before that the student was the Valedictorian of her class and another was the Salutatorian of her class.

Can we make a difference in a person's life, a real difference? I believe I have that power to make a difference, and I use it to the best of my ability. I believe I have the gift because we all do. Here is another example of that power.

I was treated abysmally and shabbily by a new principal. I was forced to resign from chorus midway through her first year as principal. She then successfully shut the program down despite the volunteers and parents who tried in vain to keep it alive, even on a reduced scale. In ending the chorus program, she was able to successfully transfer thousands of dollars of chorus money deposited in an activity fund she was unable to access into a discretionary account that is now at her disposal. The money was not ever spent by the chorus because she lied to the parents and volunteers; she informed them there were no funds in the account. Of course, it could have been a mere clerical error.

I was chastised but never complimented by my boss. The thought came to me that she had something against men. Then female teachers' stories began to surface. Their stories confirmed my error in judgment; she had an issue with everyone. I refer to any school administrator with such issues as "Peter Principals." Other teachers began transferring. Those that remained complained to cautiously sympathetic ears.

I decided to leave, and I informed her I was seeking a voluntary transfer to another school. Her exact words were, "I think that's good."

Parents heard I was leaving and sent letters to this principal to ask her to keep me at the school. She never mentioned those letters, and I feared those letters would only antagonize her further. I knew I had to make a change no matter what others thought.

You have only heard my biased side of the story. I am sure my boss has her side, and yet her thoughts won't be heard on this blogsite. Let's give it a try.

Perhaps I am not nearly as good a teacher as I think I am. Perhaps I am totally wrong about the chorus. The chorus was a mistake, and all I had done was distract students from the true academic mission of the school. I have even considered myself, shamefully I admit, great. My accomplishments were real, but my tactics were cruel and stressful to children. She once said, "If you think you are a great teacher, then you should be fired!" This decent and principled principal toiled unsuccessfully to teach me humility, and I failed to learn!

As Dennis Miller would say with a twinkle in his eye and a huge grin on his bearded face, "Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong."

We influence each other in powerful ways. Some of them good, such as my niece Laura and my collaboration with her in writing this blog. Some of them bad, such as the anxiety and depression I have dealing with such a gristly boss.

Most importantly, I believe our spin, our take, our perspective, our reflection on these influences shape us more than the influence themselves. Those students who make me feel great by crediting me with being a positive force in their lives are not telling me how great I am. They are doing what I tried to be to them. They are being a positive influence in my life as well, and they have topped me, for by acknowledging me as being a beneficial influence in their lives, they are bestowing upon me partial credit for their accomplishments. They have given me a great gift. I was proud of their gift to me. They did to me as I did to them. They were a powerfully positive influence in my life. I believe I am grateful that I am making a difference, and it's the hardest job of all. Way harder than teaching. My great students learn this lesson and surpass me.

And my perspective on my principal's influence on me? She has done me a disguised favor. I was forced to seek a voluntary transfer. I was contacted to attend an interview at a prestigious middle school (junior high school) with a solid reputation by the principal at that school whose great reputation precedes him. I was hired without seeking an interview by someone who heard I was transferring. I was hired after my first interview. I have a principal who has thanked me profusely for saying, "Yes, I'll gladly take the position!" I fear I am already beginning to get my pride back, or is it my confidence? Is it confidence she tried to take from me? Was I failing to learn humility, or was I losing my confidence? That's a very private answer.

We try to balance confidence and strength of conviction with humility. Firm yet fair. Strong yet humble and modest. I am still challenged to make a difference in students' lives. I'll get through to some, and I promise to reflect on the failures as well as the successes.

And inadvertently, she has provided me the opportunity for new "fodder" for Lost In Kids for I am now teaching seventh grade math to ...........
...............................teenagers!!

IS ANYTHING INTERESTING HAPPENING IN OUR LIVES?

I used to think my life was rather tedious and boring, and to some people I'm sure it is. However, a lot goes on even in a seemingly dull life when under the scrutinous eye of reflection.

For example, I recently realized I can check off a goal I achieved on my "List of Goals to Accomplish in This Life." When I was younger, I dreamed of being able to beat up Muhammed Ali in a fight. I can do that now. I can tear him a new one, spank his bottom, teach him a lesson, and control the ring. That has been achieved by many years of martial arts training on my part combined with a serious case of Parkinsons on Ali's part, mostly induced by numerous, severe shots to the head by "Smokin' Joe" Frazier and quite frankly, many others.

I never aimed to be able to hit a Warren Spahn curveball because I didn't think that was ever possible. It was only a dream. It wasn't even on my list. But Surprise! Surprise! I can do it now, and so can you if you can swing a bat. The problem will be for ol' Warren to walk out to the mound and then make it up to the top.

Besides now being able to beat up Muhammed Ali and hit a Warren Spahn curveball, a lot has happened in my life, and I guess it's necessary for me to spill it all out on the electroblogosphere. No one's life is dull now, is it? If you think yours is, just repeat after me "...........I can now defeat Ali in the ring and get a piece of a Warren Spahn curveball."

I have a lot to tell you about what has been going on in my lostinkids life.

The sabbatical ends.

You Can Pretend You Don't Know What Show I Am Talking About

I have one more day before the second round of summer school begins for me. And as anyone who has returned to college with two children and a business career under their belt can attest, the exhaustion plays out in various forms that are somewhat embarrassing. Fast food bags in the trash, pajama tops becoming a shirt that day for Olivia (I didn't notice until mid-afternoon), and some bouts with Nanny Television while I study for a final.

Olivia is out with her dad today, and I sank down on the couch into nothingness. I have nothing to study for, no paper to write, and the looming house chores can wait a moment. And much like Albert Finney after his L.O.O.K.E.R. gun wears off, I realized that during the past hour time had eluded me while I sat their frozen. Worse yet, I had turned on the television and "watched" a horrible pre-teen show that was playing on a children's channel. I chided myself for not having changed the channel from such drive. I was alone and in control of the programming, for Pete's sake.

Can one really ever be too tired to turn the channel off of Zach and Cody, "The Suite Life on Deck"?

It goes from bad to worse. After I grabbed the remote, disgusted with myself, I settled on this. I think all this education has fried my brain. Hey, even a future teacher can blame the system.

FOURTH GRADE "ERRORS" AND "ODD STATEMENTS"

Here are some "errors" and "odd statements" made by my fourth grade students. All of these were delivered with very straight faces, of course.


Me: "Health experts say the average American eats too much salt, which is harmful to your blood pressure and your general health."
Pierce: "I don't use regular salt. I use idolized salt."


Michael: "I brang my homework to school."
Me: "Michael, it's not 'brang.' There is no such word as 'brang.' I 'brang' my homework is incorrect English. What would be the correct word in that sentence?"
Michael: "I brunk my homework to school?"


Pierce: "I am never going to play tennis again."
Me: "How come?"
Pierce: "Because I dented my neighbor's truck."
Me: "You dented your neighbor's truck with a tennis ball!?!"
Pierce: "Well, actually it was a rock."


Me: "Dennis, I've been told you called Michael a bad name. Is that true?"
Dennis: "I didn't call him a bad name."
Me: "That isn't what Michael said."
Dennis: "Well I didn't call him a bad name."
Me: "He said you called him an asshole. Is that correct."
Dennis: "I didn't call him that!! He misunderstood me. I didn't call him that, I swear!"
Me: "Well what did you call him?"
Dennis: "I called him a GAShole."


Me: "And where were you born, Julia?
Julia: "I was born in Fertilia."



Kids. I love 'em.

Ohhhh, They Are REMOVABLE!

Olivia and I went to visit a family friend the other day, and my friend's mother was in town from Orlando. Olivia calls her Granny, and is always happy to know she is here. It means fun and love is hers for the taking, and more importantly it signifies that she will not have to be babysat by her torturous fourteen-year-old brother while I go to school.

We pulled in to the driveway and Olivia squealed. "There's Granny's car, Mom!" She lowered her voice to a calm, measured tone. As she pointed to the windshield and the ubiquitous car-cooling silver shades South Florida drivers use she said, "But don't worry; she takes those out when she drives."

Thanks, Olivia, for looking out for my frayed nerves.

Sabbatical

I want to thank anyone who reads my blog regularly or even infrequently. I am taking a sabbatical from blogging, perhaps a long one.

Thanks again to anyone who took the time to read.


Walter

Silenced Truth

I have a fourth grade student who is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most reluctant learner I have ever met in twenty years of teaching elementary school. This could be caused by the numerous and bitter complaints her grandparents had about me, their granddaughter's new teacher, just a week before school. However, her cum folder suggests otherwise. Horrible work habits and a lethargic attitude toward school have been the hallmark of this girl's school work for three years.

She refuses to write. It had been two weeks since she had written anything, making a total of about five hours of totally wasted class time. I told her to write her name on the board for me so I could remember to keep her in for recess.

This nine year old girl went up to the chalkboard and wrote her name. I have to give her credit for that, but her name was only two millimeters tall. The other students pointed it out to me when recess time arrived. They tattled, and they ratted on her. I talked to her about writing more and sent her on her way. Then I went to the chalkboard. It was so small it was not really a name.

I don't know what it was like teaching in the fourth grade in the 1950's, but I know what it was like being a student, and I don't think I ever saw any child with the hutzpah to try deceiving the teacher by writing in miniature.

I want to worry about her, but I can't. The monkey is not on my back, and it's not my life. It's not my education. I will try my best to motivate her, but the only real writing I have ever gotten from her was a three sentence letter to her father in prison. I am quite sure her mother refused to mail it for her.

No Child Left Behind puts the pressure on me to develop better curriculum at her instructional level, a more appropriate instructional style that best suits her individual learning style, and increased individual attention.

What a shame that the truth can't be spoken anymore.

HAUTE CUISINE

Our fourth grade class won a pizza party provided by the PTA for having the highest percentage of parents to join their fine organization.

During the party I was talking to Mikalea about all sorts of things and the subject of the fruit roll-up snacks came up.

"Mikaela, look at the ingredients list on the back of the package."

"Mr. W., what's proplylene glycol?"

"Propylene glycol is anti-freeze. Car engines have water that surround them to keep them cool. Propylene glycol is a poisonous chemical used to keep the water from freezing in the winter, and it serves other mechanical purposes."

"Oh. What's corn syrup?"

"Corn syrup is a sweetener that is a liquid. It's made from corn rather than from sugar cane, and so that way the maker of the fruit roll-up can claim that the roll-up doesn't have any sugar. It actually doesn't have sugar. It is sweetened a whole lot with corn syrup."

"OK. What's monostearate and phosphoric acid?"

"I don't know exactly. Some sort of chemicals used to keep the fruit roll-up, which actually has no fruit, from going bad after many months."

"Eww!" Mikaela said with a face full of shock and horror.

"Ewww!" I said with a grimace.

No sooner than this exchange took place, Mikalea took a big bite of her fruit roll-up and said, "Mmm. They're good."

I couldn't bring myself to say it.

DIVING BOARD BLUES

I love diving boards, and a swimming pool with a diving board is a real treat. However, I had one bad experience with them. When I was thirteen there was a younger boy in the neighborhood whose name I have forgotten. Some people will say, after reading this story, that I repressed his name, but actually he only lived in the house two doors down for a couple of months. Or, maybe I did repress it. The more I think about that kid, the more I want to punch him.

For one thing, he loved to debate. "Let's debate," he would say. A topic would be chosen. Then, as soon as you said something to argue back, he'd say, "You're losing control. I win!"

I'd say, "I'm not upset!"

"Yes you are," he'd reply with an evil grin, "And I win 'cause if you are so good you make the other guy lose control, then you automatically win. I win 'cause you got upset!"

"Well I'm upset now, you big buttwipe," I would cleverly add. Then he'd walk away mockingly saying, "You're gettin' really upset now. I definitely win!"

He also would go around telling everyone that it was a sin to masturbate, and if you did it, you were going to Hell. Then he'd look you in the eye and say, "I can tell you've done it! You're going to Hell!" Now this was when I was in the seventh grade, so let's be honest; he'd caught me and every other boy in the neighborhood. Except himself. He swore he had never done masturbated. Jim next door agreed with him once when he added, "You're probably right. Your peter is probably too short to grab a hold of." I loved Jim, and I still remember his name. He didn't live there very long either.

This kid never exercised. He never played football, baseball, or even rode a bike. No one ever saw him even run. I figured he wasn't very athletic.

Then one day I saw him at the neighborhood swimming pool. He was in a swim suit that was a brief, which shocked me. I mean, only professional swimmers wore briefs. They were triangle shaped, and the bulge of your privates could be seen. This was a sin my mother would never tolerate, so I always wore boxer swim trunks, and she bought big ones too. I'd grab a hold of those things every time I went off the diving board so I'd resurface with them still attached. This kid was in briefs, and judging by the bulge, Jim was correct.

There was a lovely angel disguised as a college girl up in an air chair watching over the deep end by the diving boards, and I had gone to the swimming pool for one reason and that was to swim the entire length of the pool underwater, thus impressing this Goddess Lifeguard to notice me, even if for a moment.

I told this kid I was in love with the lifeguard. He looked over at her and I could tell he didn't see her in the same "light" as I did, but he did say, "Let's go talk to her!" That sounded great to me because conversation distance with her would be sixty-three feet closer than I was to her already, so we both went over to talk to her.

The first thing out of this kid's mouth is, "Hey lady! You wanna watch us dive off the diving board?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Will you watch?"

"Sure. I'll be watching."

This was great! She was going to be watching us go off the diving board. She wouldn't be checking to see if anyone was drowning. She'd be looking right at me, and she could tell I didn't consider her a "lady." She could tell by the look in my eye that I knew she was a woman. I would never say, "Hey! Lady!" like I was Jerry Lewis.

I went first. I did a nice little head-first dive. I thought about doing a head-first Frogger where you go in head-first but you put your heels together with your toes pointed out, bring the heels up to the crotch, spread your knees as far apart as they could go, put your hands together in a prayer position, place your wrists on the top of your head with the fingers pointing straight up out of the top of your head, and dive in head-first. This was my Frogger, a unique and charming dive, but I didn't want to impress a guy. I wanted to impress the Pool Princess. This was a serious moment. I dove with a simple, head-first dive and then swam to the side of the pool.

The kid whose name I have forgotten because he only lived in our neighborhood for a month dove next. He did a perfect double or a triple somersault and entered the water without a splash. I knew it wasn't a single somersault, but I wasn't able to count the number of rotations because his body spun too rapidly through ther air to count. The Goddess Woman's beautiful jaw dropped open, and she yelled out to him to do another. He started going off that diving board and spinning thorugh the air like a top, and the beautiful lifeguard climbed down from her air chair leaving all the swimmers in danger just to talk to my little debater friend. They talked for what seemed like a half an hour.

Later he told me she had told him to come to the pool early on Saturday morning for a free, private diving lesson with a friend. I hoped it was her Olympic diver boyfriend, but I always imagined her Olympic diver girlfriend and the Goddess Lifeguard fawning all over my little hand-virgin friend.

I still like diving boards, but my diving skills will never be a source of pride. I'll never remember that kid's name, and I bet Jim doesn't either.