CHARLOTTE'S HALLOWEEN COSTUME "MALFUNCTION"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A CLASSIC MIXED METAPHOR

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

A FISH STORY

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

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


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

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

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

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

"CHECKED OUT" CHILDREN

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

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

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

WAITING FOR SUPERMAN

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

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

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


I will watch the film and give my opinion.

PASTRY PROPOSITION

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

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

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

WHAT IS GOING ON?

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

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

What do these two incidents suggest?

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

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

WHAT'S REALLY IMPORTANT HERE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Where does she get this material?

STARING AT NOTHING: TEACHING PUDDY'S SISTER

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

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

Puddy's sister, perhaps?

Humph.

EYES IN THE BACK OF MY HEAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FINDING THE SWEET SPOT IN THE APPLE

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

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


SWEET SPOT #1:

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

Me: "Pardon me? What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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


SWEET SPOT #2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Next day after class)

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

Me: "James, your apology is accepted."

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

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

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

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

James: "Thank you, Mr. W."

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

Pamela Pencils

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dumb Questions: Teacher as Straight Man

Set-Up #1:

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

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

I yell back, "Circumference!"

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

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

Jake yells back, "Try the door!"

Set-Up #2:

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

Charlotte: "Wrong."


Set-Up #3:

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

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

Doorway Presentations: Hallway Boy

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

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

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

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

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

I'm gunnin' for him now.

Not in Control: No Way, No How No Where

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

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

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

Where does she come up with this material?

Humph!

Middle School Sound Effects

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

CLASSROOM SOUNDS

I. Motion Generated Sounds Using Body Parts

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

B. Rear Ends

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

II. Body Generated Sounds

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

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

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

B. Musical Sounds

Musical sounds have several major subsections.

1. Whistling

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

2. Humming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Further research studies will be conducted at a later date.

An Eighth Grader at the Movies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Into the Bowels of Braindead I Went

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

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

Talking With the Enemy

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

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

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

Choosing the Brezik Method of Reacting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Teacher Story: Believe It or Not!

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

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

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

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

Diminishing Moments of Innocent Ignorance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Were You When You Heard JFK Was Shot?

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

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

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

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

Preparation for Parental Interrogation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Cure For Drowsiness in Math Class

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

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

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

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

Lena: "Bring ten dollars to class."

Never Give Up the Good Fight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghostly Voices in Room 203; Seance To Be Scheduled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes sir," he quietly replied.

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

Self-Banished Behind Bangs

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.