As superhuman as I might try to be, I cannot escape the pleasure in being liked. The stony-hearted part of me is fine being cussed out, snarled at, and insulted by students. I take it rather straight-faced and if anything, I become more nonchalant the more the students become agitated. For the most part, the students at my current placement have been rather tame. Moreover, some of my students actually like me here. My chatty students have shared various parts of their lives with me, sharing interests in books, movies, and the like.
One day, my low body temperature was brought up, and I mentioned that one of the other teachers called mea vampire because of it. My students' faces lit up. (I'm trying to avoid finding out whether they're Twilight fans; I'll stick to bonding with them over Harry Potter.) "Miss S, you would make a bad-acid vampire!" The students smiled and glowed at me, nodding their assent. "You have the right hair for it!"
The subject was changed, and zombies were brought up. I turned to one of the students, "I think you would make a bad-acid zombie." The students practically exploded with joy at my use of "bad-acid." I tend to disdain anyone's use of substitutionary cursing (no, "substitutionary" isn't a word); however, in this case, I think this conversation took me miles in building rapport with students, an opinion confirmed by my students' exclamation, "You just became, like, 200 times cooler! I mean . . . you were okay before, but, we didn't really know you and now we know you!"
Perhaps tonight's just a night that I want to think on some of my more amusing teacher-student interactions.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Hacky Sack in the Art Room
My students find ample excuses for why they shouldn't work and ample means for how they can distract themselves. One common way is to use the art room laptops. The classroom is equipped with ten MacBooks for my graphic design class primarily. The other classes, however, have used them for developing their art history presentations and other--not so academic--purposes. This has been my demise. The students' drawings and goblets compete with youtube and facebook for attention and devotion. Finally I issued an edict, declaring that I would allow students to use laptops who were not accessing youtube or facebook. Moreover, I reminded students that these laptops were not present in the classroom in order to be their personal mp3 players. I can't stand dueling music throughout the room, and I already let students use their ipods in class and about 85% of the time the radio is on.
I have since taken laptops from students who seek them simply to listen to music or update their status. Occasionally a new distraction will appear. Today it was in the form of a black, tan, and red hacky sack. I was attempting to convince J--- that he had cut off half of a person's face in the way that he had drawn her when I noticed a student tossing his hacky sack around across the room. I had previously given my support for the game in general, however, I noted that the art room wasn't the place for it at the present moment. He had invited me to hack with him, not believing I lacked foot-eye coordination--considering I was an art teacher.
Having seen him get out his hacky sack again, I looked up and said, "Hey T----, maybe I will hack with you for a little while." He excitedly got up and tossed the hacky sack towards me, I gave it an admirable tap with the inside of my right foot, then snatched it with my hand, quickly shifting it into my pocket. I uttered a "thanks!" and walked back to the drawing with the misshapen face.
As I approached J---, he gave a hearty laugh, mocking T--- for his inability to predict my actions. He alternated between chuckles, mocking comments, and amused glances. When he finally regained his ability for sustained conversation, he declared, "That was a pretty cool teacher move!" It was a couple minutes before he settled down, and in gaining his amusement, I was able to tackle the misshapen face again. At the end of the hour I returned the hacky sack. Later in the day I spotted T--- exiting a class, his hacky sack readily available in his hand.
I have since taken laptops from students who seek them simply to listen to music or update their status. Occasionally a new distraction will appear. Today it was in the form of a black, tan, and red hacky sack. I was attempting to convince J--- that he had cut off half of a person's face in the way that he had drawn her when I noticed a student tossing his hacky sack around across the room. I had previously given my support for the game in general, however, I noted that the art room wasn't the place for it at the present moment. He had invited me to hack with him, not believing I lacked foot-eye coordination--considering I was an art teacher.
Having seen him get out his hacky sack again, I looked up and said, "Hey T----, maybe I will hack with you for a little while." He excitedly got up and tossed the hacky sack towards me, I gave it an admirable tap with the inside of my right foot, then snatched it with my hand, quickly shifting it into my pocket. I uttered a "thanks!" and walked back to the drawing with the misshapen face.
As I approached J---, he gave a hearty laugh, mocking T--- for his inability to predict my actions. He alternated between chuckles, mocking comments, and amused glances. When he finally regained his ability for sustained conversation, he declared, "That was a pretty cool teacher move!" It was a couple minutes before he settled down, and in gaining his amusement, I was able to tackle the misshapen face again. At the end of the hour I returned the hacky sack. Later in the day I spotted T--- exiting a class, his hacky sack readily available in his hand.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
School makes me sick . . .
. . . literally.
I am writing this in bed, under the dim light of the screen, table lamp, and sunken basement window. My sister brought me soup an hour ago, rousing me from my long afternoon nap.
My first clue came yesterday afternoon, when no matter how much water I drank, I couldn't seem to get the back of my throat to stop aching. I gulped water en route to the middle school. Once there, I made frequent visits to the tissue box. At the art show/band concert last night, I began wondering if my glands were swollen, and I returned home late with a headache. I blamed caffeine, but I proceeded to have difficulty concentrating as I tried to read through important documents about my Fulbright visa application. 10:30 felt like 3 AM and I went to sleep and had what can only be a stress or fever dream.
(And because everybody loves to hear about my dreams . . .)
I dreamed that I had been invited to play piano for the high school jazz band at a competition (a similar instance had happened at yesterday's jazz concert with an old alum coming in to play for an ill student). I was to play the right hand and another female would play the left because neither of us were very accomplished pianists. I practiced some then watched the main stage with some fellow musicians. Afterwards I went for a walk, finding myself in Minneapolis--but a very different Minneapolis, more European with piazzas and less traffic. I walked around and as I walked into a coffee shop I literally ran into an attractive man. It was the third time I had literally run into him, so he asked me to have coffee with him. I consented, but then realized I needed to get back to the concert. I pulled out my business cards from my purse and they flew everywhere. I then realized someone had switched my business cards with another as a prank. (Ironically, today I found out I have the wrong phone number on my card.)
Then there proceeded to be the series of events that occurs in many stress dreams--difficulty walking back to the convention center with cars blocking the roads and my feet slowing me down. No matter what I tried I couldn't get back. Then there proceeded to be the oppression of anticipated disappointment.
As my alarm went off this morning, I thought it to be phone calls berating my irresponsibility. My sister finally aided in my wakening, asking if I wanted to go for a run or not. I went to school and proceeded through the day, with frequent use of tissues and frequent hand-washing. By the time I set out for the middle school, I could feel my weakness, bracing myself on my desk and having to think extra hard. My brain could hardly function in a room of active 7th graders, and I made more frequent reminders about volume levels--moreso because of my inability to concentrate than because of their unusual energy.
Through it all, I did what every teacher must do--I went on as if nothing were wrong and continued teaching. I expelled most of my energy by 3:30, uttering a pitifully weak farewell to a passing staff member. On the way home I stopped in Walmart for a decongestant, kneeling before the shelves, overwhelmed by the options, hunting out some pseudophedrine, but settling for, oh, I don't know what, but I'm on it.
I cancelled my evening plans and have been plopped in this bed so long that I fear pressure sores (an unrealistic fear I know). I'm considering venturing up the stairs. I also know that illness or no, I'll be at school tomorrow, and I ought to do some grading tonight.
I am writing this in bed, under the dim light of the screen, table lamp, and sunken basement window. My sister brought me soup an hour ago, rousing me from my long afternoon nap.
My first clue came yesterday afternoon, when no matter how much water I drank, I couldn't seem to get the back of my throat to stop aching. I gulped water en route to the middle school. Once there, I made frequent visits to the tissue box. At the art show/band concert last night, I began wondering if my glands were swollen, and I returned home late with a headache. I blamed caffeine, but I proceeded to have difficulty concentrating as I tried to read through important documents about my Fulbright visa application. 10:30 felt like 3 AM and I went to sleep and had what can only be a stress or fever dream.
(And because everybody loves to hear about my dreams . . .)
I dreamed that I had been invited to play piano for the high school jazz band at a competition (a similar instance had happened at yesterday's jazz concert with an old alum coming in to play for an ill student). I was to play the right hand and another female would play the left because neither of us were very accomplished pianists. I practiced some then watched the main stage with some fellow musicians. Afterwards I went for a walk, finding myself in Minneapolis--but a very different Minneapolis, more European with piazzas and less traffic. I walked around and as I walked into a coffee shop I literally ran into an attractive man. It was the third time I had literally run into him, so he asked me to have coffee with him. I consented, but then realized I needed to get back to the concert. I pulled out my business cards from my purse and they flew everywhere. I then realized someone had switched my business cards with another as a prank. (Ironically, today I found out I have the wrong phone number on my card.)
Then there proceeded to be the series of events that occurs in many stress dreams--difficulty walking back to the convention center with cars blocking the roads and my feet slowing me down. No matter what I tried I couldn't get back. Then there proceeded to be the oppression of anticipated disappointment.
As my alarm went off this morning, I thought it to be phone calls berating my irresponsibility. My sister finally aided in my wakening, asking if I wanted to go for a run or not. I went to school and proceeded through the day, with frequent use of tissues and frequent hand-washing. By the time I set out for the middle school, I could feel my weakness, bracing myself on my desk and having to think extra hard. My brain could hardly function in a room of active 7th graders, and I made more frequent reminders about volume levels--moreso because of my inability to concentrate than because of their unusual energy.
Through it all, I did what every teacher must do--I went on as if nothing were wrong and continued teaching. I expelled most of my energy by 3:30, uttering a pitifully weak farewell to a passing staff member. On the way home I stopped in Walmart for a decongestant, kneeling before the shelves, overwhelmed by the options, hunting out some pseudophedrine, but settling for, oh, I don't know what, but I'm on it.
I cancelled my evening plans and have been plopped in this bed so long that I fear pressure sores (an unrealistic fear I know). I'm considering venturing up the stairs. I also know that illness or no, I'll be at school tomorrow, and I ought to do some grading tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)