Sunday, October 07, 2007
Silence, students who should be smacked, and being smack-ass drunk
http://vacationlandmaine.blogspot.com/
After reading Jessica's memories of the joys of junior high gym class, I thought back to my own days of yore-- 1982-1984, to be exact. I failed gym class one grading period, mostly due to the manadatory swimming portion, the coed mandatory swimming portion to be exact.
Fast-forward twenty years or so, and I was challenged by an extremely precocious student to write a sestina. I had never heard of a sestina. One incident from seventh grade gym stands out in particular, and here's my humble, hurried attempt. The student was impressed, as she had never had teachers actually write anything when she asked them to.
Susann’s Sestina
This isn’t just a tale about a ball,
A girl, a tyrant and bunch of kids.
You know, in time we all end up on stage.
Imagine, if you will, it’s now your turn.
It’s junior high, a less than stellar time,
At least for those of us who serve Miss Park.
A large, blonde, afroed woman is Miss Park.
Let’s say she’s never been belle of the ball.
Perhaps she yearns to make up for lost time
By lording power over groups of kids.
I don’t know what Susann has done to turn
The tide of fate and end up “center stage.”
The left half of the gym becomes a stage
On which Susann herself is forced to park.
The other side: the boys all take their turn
And hurl at her each cruel and painful ball.
I wish at least one boy will stop those kids
And make a different memory of this time.
That day for me remains a frightful time,
A time for me to ask if I could stage
A coup that would have spurred all of those kids
Who felt they had to listen to Miss Park.
Could I have been the one to face each ball?
What would I do if it had been my turn?
From side to side Susann is forced to turn--
Deflecting balls is how she spends this time.
She’s not, as they say, having such a ball
As she endures this time upon the stage.
Directing her performance is Miss Park.
Supporting roles are played by all us kids.
That large, blonde, afroed woman says she “kids”
Susann, who seems as if she’ll turn
Into a crying mess due to Miss Park.
I know I won’t forget this awful time—
I hope I won’t perform upon this stage—
I pray I’m never asked to throw a ball.
So many kids have lived through such a time.
They’ve had their turn upon that awful stage.
We’ve all known some “Miss Park” who owned the ball.
______________________________________________________________________
So it was Friday and I sat in the middle of a parent conference and restrained myself from smacking the little bitch who kept informing her mom that she didn't "want to stay after school three days a week." She would consent to stay one day. She's failing everything. "Babydoll," I said. "No one's asking you what you want."
I heard the phone ringing in my classroom, next door to our conference. I knew I had to get it. I had called Cody's mom three times in a week, the last time a plea for her to call me back so we could discuss his behavior. I ran to my room and answered.
The outcome? Cody allegedly has CAPD: http://www.kidshealth.org/parent/medical/ears/central_auditory.html
This means, according to her, that he probably didn't even realize that he had inserted into his mouth a small piece of paper, moistened with his saliva, and spat it out onto my floor. "Well, " I said, "Whether he realized it or not isn't the issue. The issue is that it has to stop. I know you don't want him doing these things."
Ha! She certainly couldn't admit that she did want him spitting things out of his mouth during school.
After the conference and this conversation, I realized that I could not bring myself to attend any homecoming functions. I couldn't go anywhere I might see children. So I went to the Eagles and proceeded to drink way too much.
And thus we begin a new week tomorrow, hopefully a week that doesn't involve me going to an elementary school to get my head checked for lice, an activity in which I participated this past Thursday.
Thursday morning, Amy, the science teacher on my team, told me that students were saying that a particular kid admitted she had lice. When Amy informed our school nurse, the nurse said she wasn't allowed to check heads based on the words of another student. At the end of the school day, after our school nurse had high-tailed it out of the building, I learned that our learning-support teacher (someone who has to spend way too much time with Cody) was sent home because two dead ones were found in her hair.
I was talking to Nanci, my mentee, when I learned this. She continued to chat away: blah, blah, blah. Finally I broke. "Nanci, I'm so sorry, but I can't concentrate on a thing you're saying. I have got to get to a school with a nurse because I'm going out of my mind."
Nanci understood. I raced to the nearest elementary school, which was just letting out for the day, found the nurse, and sat in her office as she pawed through my locks...and found nothing.
I was speechless with relief. And now I'm practically speechless again, hoarse like I was last year when I was diagnosed with vocal chord nodules. This is getting old.
After reading Jessica's memories of the joys of junior high gym class, I thought back to my own days of yore-- 1982-1984, to be exact. I failed gym class one grading period, mostly due to the manadatory swimming portion, the coed mandatory swimming portion to be exact.
Fast-forward twenty years or so, and I was challenged by an extremely precocious student to write a sestina. I had never heard of a sestina. One incident from seventh grade gym stands out in particular, and here's my humble, hurried attempt. The student was impressed, as she had never had teachers actually write anything when she asked them to.
Susann’s Sestina
This isn’t just a tale about a ball,
A girl, a tyrant and bunch of kids.
You know, in time we all end up on stage.
Imagine, if you will, it’s now your turn.
It’s junior high, a less than stellar time,
At least for those of us who serve Miss Park.
A large, blonde, afroed woman is Miss Park.
Let’s say she’s never been belle of the ball.
Perhaps she yearns to make up for lost time
By lording power over groups of kids.
I don’t know what Susann has done to turn
The tide of fate and end up “center stage.”
The left half of the gym becomes a stage
On which Susann herself is forced to park.
The other side: the boys all take their turn
And hurl at her each cruel and painful ball.
I wish at least one boy will stop those kids
And make a different memory of this time.
That day for me remains a frightful time,
A time for me to ask if I could stage
A coup that would have spurred all of those kids
Who felt they had to listen to Miss Park.
Could I have been the one to face each ball?
What would I do if it had been my turn?
From side to side Susann is forced to turn--
Deflecting balls is how she spends this time.
She’s not, as they say, having such a ball
As she endures this time upon the stage.
Directing her performance is Miss Park.
Supporting roles are played by all us kids.
That large, blonde, afroed woman says she “kids”
Susann, who seems as if she’ll turn
Into a crying mess due to Miss Park.
I know I won’t forget this awful time—
I hope I won’t perform upon this stage—
I pray I’m never asked to throw a ball.
So many kids have lived through such a time.
They’ve had their turn upon that awful stage.
We’ve all known some “Miss Park” who owned the ball.
______________________________________________________________________
So it was Friday and I sat in the middle of a parent conference and restrained myself from smacking the little bitch who kept informing her mom that she didn't "want to stay after school three days a week." She would consent to stay one day. She's failing everything. "Babydoll," I said. "No one's asking you what you want."
I heard the phone ringing in my classroom, next door to our conference. I knew I had to get it. I had called Cody's mom three times in a week, the last time a plea for her to call me back so we could discuss his behavior. I ran to my room and answered.
The outcome? Cody allegedly has CAPD: http://www.kidshealth.org/parent/medical/ears/central_auditory.html
This means, according to her, that he probably didn't even realize that he had inserted into his mouth a small piece of paper, moistened with his saliva, and spat it out onto my floor. "Well, " I said, "Whether he realized it or not isn't the issue. The issue is that it has to stop. I know you don't want him doing these things."
Ha! She certainly couldn't admit that she did want him spitting things out of his mouth during school.
After the conference and this conversation, I realized that I could not bring myself to attend any homecoming functions. I couldn't go anywhere I might see children. So I went to the Eagles and proceeded to drink way too much.
And thus we begin a new week tomorrow, hopefully a week that doesn't involve me going to an elementary school to get my head checked for lice, an activity in which I participated this past Thursday.
Thursday morning, Amy, the science teacher on my team, told me that students were saying that a particular kid admitted she had lice. When Amy informed our school nurse, the nurse said she wasn't allowed to check heads based on the words of another student. At the end of the school day, after our school nurse had high-tailed it out of the building, I learned that our learning-support teacher (someone who has to spend way too much time with Cody) was sent home because two dead ones were found in her hair.
I was talking to Nanci, my mentee, when I learned this. She continued to chat away: blah, blah, blah. Finally I broke. "Nanci, I'm so sorry, but I can't concentrate on a thing you're saying. I have got to get to a school with a nurse because I'm going out of my mind."
Nanci understood. I raced to the nearest elementary school, which was just letting out for the day, found the nurse, and sat in her office as she pawed through my locks...and found nothing.
I was speechless with relief. And now I'm practically speechless again, hoarse like I was last year when I was diagnosed with vocal chord nodules. This is getting old.
