What do I do with this notecard?

Okay, so I'm quickly realizing that I am making promises on this blog that I'm not keeping. Here are a few:

1) To discuss restaurants, cafes, and places that cater to people who want to be warm
2) Including bits about "warm" fashion, e.g. my promise to roundup rain gear
3) Not talking too much about my students.

But...here's the thing. I have to talk about my students. I need to cleanse each day; wash the good and bad off my skin, so I can start back the next day feeling like I didn't just camp out for a night with 3 bottles of wine and not enough water. And, well, when you have to hike out feeling like that, it's just not a good thing. So, to put an end to that metaphor, I'd just like to wash up a little here from time to time.

Here's today's laundry: I call this one "What do I do with this notecard?"



"What do I do with this notecard" affects approximately 3 in 25 students. You know these students, you went to school with some and you probably had to sit next to one at some point in your academic career. These are the students who want to throw their pencil into the ceiling (to see if it sticks) when the teacher has turned around. These students are also very likely to sneeze obnoxiously loud, because clearly that is funny. "What do I do with this notecard" affects students who display attention-seeking behaviors like comparing the illegailty of marajuana to the institution of slavery or changing the clock while you lean down to help a student. Additionally, "what do I do with this notecard" does not get good grades. "What do I do with this notecard" is secretly ashamed of this, but doesn't know what else to do, so he or she is constantly asking the teacher, the person next to him or behind him: "Wait, what am I supposed to do with this notecard?"

Common responses:
"Oh my god, she's told us 3 times."
"Are you kidding, just write your name on it."
"I don't know. Why do you even have that? She didn't pass them out."
"Leave me the f--- alone!"

So today, "what do I do with this notecard" struck. It seized one of my students by the neck and shook him for all he was worth. At close to the end of class students were instructed -- after we had spent about 20 minutes discussing the steps and norms of a Socratic Seminar (a graded, student-led discussion) -- that they were to create 2 questions of their own to contribute to the discussion for the next day. We brainstormed what made a good discussion question (the answer isn't "in" the text, it's not a yes or no, the answer can be debated, etc.) and then I passed out notecards for students to begin thinking about their questions. They had 10 minutes. The lead up to this activity had taken approximately 30 minutes. I began to wonder the room, helping students with their questions, reading great ones, pushing other kids to ask something deeper. And then there was a voice, soft at first, ignorable even. But, then, then I heard it. It was a sort of high-pitched, strident but controlled yelp coming from across the room. As the pitch registered and its composer became clear, my heart found its pace: fast, faster, faster. An internal chant came galloping from the bottom of my throat, "no he didn't, no he didn't, no he didn't. Not again."

And then I heard it again. Undeniably clear. And this time, the hand shoots up, straight up, reaching for his pencil, maybe, still stuck in the ceiling. No, reaching for me. Freaking out, in fact, bleating a plea for mercy. I'm looking across the room, glaring, his hand waving back and forth like an anxious kindergartner who is literally about to load his pants when IT happens a third time, his last time. He says,

"Hey, what the hell do I do with this notecard?"

Aggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggh! The internal teacher finds her rage and pounds it out against her rib cage, rage that pushes its way up to the bottom of my throat. It feels like I'm going into anaphylactic shock. I can't speak, my tongue is swollen. I want to take the notecard and give myself a papercut. I want to take the notecard and rip it into a thousand pieces and tell him to tape it back together again. And all of these thoughts occur in the 4 steps it takes me to get to him before I say, "What do you do with this notecard? Sure, I'll tell you. You take this notecard and you write 2 questions on it."

"What kind of questions?"

"Whatever kind you want to write, based on the book and what we've been talking about today" I offer.

"Well, I don't know. What have we been talking about? Which book?"

"You tell me which book, John." To keep myself calm, I'm now using my mom's recommended 4-count breath in and out.

"No, you're supposed to tell me."

And at this point, I take the card and I write a zero on it. I ask him to write his name on the first line and then I scoop up the card and walk away, hearing him ask the student next to him, "Hey, why did she put a zero on that? Was she grading those? What was supposed to be on that?"

Teenagers are hella random

Here are a list of words that I commonly associate with teeenagers:

Confused.
Annoyed.
Angry.
Entitled.
Sweet.
Deprived.
Melodramatic.
Confused.
Challenging.
In Love.
Distraught.
Misunderstood.
Confused.

So, what happens when you walk into class everyday to face 25 people who are feeling this way? You take a deep breath and practice paciencia! Today was full of tests of will: first, there was the pile of books dumped from my bookshelf onto the floor, clearly done by someon in my last block on Friday while I was out sick. Each kid was required to come pick up one book and place it onto the shelf. I then called a student -- whoever that student could possibly be, "and-you-know-who-you-are!" -- a jerk. What I really said was something like, "I'm not asking people to snitch, I don't need to know who did it, I just want that person who did this, or the group of people who did it to know that they are mean, they're bullies, you are someone who takes advantage of another person's weakness and exploits it for personal gain, in this case to be funny or cool. You are not funny or cool. In fact, you are a jerk." That was my first block.

During my advisory, I had no less than three conversations with students who are struggling to do work because either an adult in their life is sick, absent, or unaware of other problems. And, all three kids said that it wasn't a reason to not be turning in work. Amazing!

During my last block of the day, I had two students, head down, asleep. Within the first twenty minutes of class. Right after lunch. This is what I call, "Too high for school" syndrome. It usually sets in as soon as the lights are turned off for the overhead and almost always after lunch. Other associated symptoms include blood-shot eyes and flaming hot cheetos. Persistent symptoms may include the random raising of the hand in the middle of an explanation to ask: "Can I get some water?" or the declarative: "I have to pee." Ocassionally, "too high for school" may evidence in "very engaged" behavior. Such behavior may at first look like note-taking, but on closer inspection reveals itself to be a series of circles followed by seemingly erratic patterns. "Too high for school" is not to be taken lightly. Very often it leads to such conditions as "referral" or "several calls home." In severe cases, "too high for school" can lead to dropout or expulsion.


But what else? Well, then there's the "random" part of being a teenager. He's a roundup of the random, good things that teenagers did for me today:

• Put the books back and glared very obviously at the person who dumped the books (ha, no snitches needed!)
• Sat and talked to me one-on-one, believing that it was worth their time.
• Came in the room, singing "Hulloooo! Where were you on Friday?!"
• Pulled out a small, stuffed animal version of Pluto, clearly meant for someone else, but instead given to me as a gift.
• Analyzed the tone in a short paragraph when you know they didn't really want to.

Just a few. I like ending my day thinking about that. Much warmer...

Dry Up!

This is Edgar. Edgar the Bulldog.


He lives with my mother and father-in-law and likes to sleep next to the floor heater. His look in this picture perfectly describes my mood today: a little exasperated, a little edgy, a little annoyed. I woke up fine, though perhaps a little cloudy from over-imbibing wine last night with friends (of course bocce ball at 3 pm with a few beers turned into opening up wine until after midnight!). But what's really bothering me, what really has me furrowing my brow, growling, panting at the slightest distraction: it is still raining! It is 55 today and raining; just like it was yesterday, which was just like the day before and this is just what it will do for the next 5 days. And, yes, with this rain comes cool breezes, late night chills, and a general uneasiness about putting on the right clothes in the morning. The rain also means that any establishment -- with workers who are overheating and customers who have just come in to warm up and stay dry -- invariably has the door open. For instance:

Friday Night -- Beretta

8 p.m. -- Waiting for bartender to make my first drink of the evening. I am very patiently waiting, because he is ever so busy making these cocktails for people who come here because the pizza is so hip. And when I say people, I mean people who travel all the way from the Marina, for goodness sake. I am staring at my boring sweater and jeans as the ninth girl in a small black dress passes by me. I whisper to my husband, "I should have worn something nicer. I forgot how hip this place was." He responds, "Your hottest in a sweater." I retort, "I don't believe you," but he actually looks at me in that "I'm serious" way, so I lean over and try to make out with him a little.

8:15 p.m. -- Still waiting for the first cocktail. Pete has become catatonic because all he can think about is a drink and food. The conversation between us has dwindled as we wonder why on earth we didn't just go to La Ciccia. Oh, right, the cocktail.

8:20 p.m. -- Pete has flagged down the bartender and we're waiting for the drink. As we wait, I take my jacket off and sling it over my purse because there is no place to hang it hear. I nearly wack 5 people doing this because I'm not the only one who had this idea this evening. As I begin to sip my first drink, I feel my hair moving and, wait, what's that...that, that's a...that's a breeze people! A breeze. A cold one. I turn and I stare and what am I staring at? The door is open.

8:21 p.m. -- Diners are now staring with me; we are all in shock. We were just trying to get a drink and eat some delicious pizza while staying out of the rain. None of these things are happening now for most of us. We have: no drink, no pizza, and cold breeze. Pete tries to distract me by rubbing my cheek, but all I can do is glare while gulping my drink down.

8:24 p.m. -- My drink (the londsdale: gin, apple, lemon, basil, honey) is gone. I'm cold. I've been standing for 25 minutes. Apparently, the waitstaff is warm. I'm very sympathetic to overheated servers; I've been one, but isn't there a backdoor where you can stick your head outside? Seriously? Shut the...oh, yes, you must have felt me. The door is being shut. Pete is flagging down a second drink. Maybe my weekend will be ok after all.

9:15 p.m. -- 8 23 year-olds are seated next to me and Pete at the communal table. They have been drinking for awhile. At least two of them, you can tell, will be hooking up this evening. Pete and I reminisce on this point and decide, then, that we like Berretta on Tuesday nights. The food was bold, mostly impressive (except for the baccala, which just seemed a little too dry), and I am comforted by the gregariousness of all these people who waited so patiently for their drinks and pizza, despite the breeze.

So, I'm trying to put my game face on for this week, but, deep down, I really just want to stay inside and sleep by the heater. Hurumph!

Coming this week: I'm hoping to post a "rain-gear" round up. We'll see if my students let me get out of this room to take any pics. I guess the weather will provide me with plenty of chances.

Classroom Chaos...