A Minor Disruption

My classroom is rarely a quiet place. It's always peaceful once the students have left, but the broken pencils, wadded-up paper, and knocked-over chairs that litter the floor at the end of every day betray seven hours of semi-controlled chaos. Occasionally, however, an event will transpire that inspires a unique and remarkable degree of pandemonium.* Such a moment occurred yesterday morning.

I have never allowed my students to engage in any organized "show-and-tell" activity, for the sole reason that I don't trust them to bring in anything appropriate. This did not deter Velquisha (vel-KWEESH-ah) from bringing in a small cardboard box, taped shut, that she insisted she had to share. Given that it was another pleasant Friday morning, I'd allowed my guard to slip, and failed to consider the possibilities of the box's contents. She stood before the class and announced that she wanted to show something she had discovered in the street near her house. I immediately tensed up, knowing that hers is not the nicest neighborhood in the city. Could it be a crack pipe? A hypodermic needle? A condom? It turned out to be even worse. She opened the box to reveal a dead bird, and accidentally dropped it on the floor when I told her to get it out of my sight immediately. I'm not going to waste words trying to describe the students' reaction; just imagine the sounds they would make if I brought in their favorite rapper, Soulja Boy, and proceeded to set fire to him. 

Given that Dead Bird Removal wasn't one of my Ed School classes, I didn't really know what to do with the decaying pile of disease on the floor. I grabbed a couple paper towels, picked the thing up, and dropped the tiny carcass out of an open window, where it fell two stories and landed fairly close to a parent who was walking into the school, who gave me a look of shock and horror before presumably heading straight to the office to tell the principal about my teaching methods. In all honesty, tossing a dead animal out of a window wasn't even my most serious transgression against my professionalism committed that week, as I'd earlier praised Denisha's whiteboard demonstration of how to reduce a fraction by assessing that she "treated that problem the way Chris Brown treated Rihanna."

*Prior to Friday, my Holy Shit These Kids Are Insane moment happened last spring, when a student's wig managed to detach itself from her scalp and fall harmlessly to the floor. I should note that the wig was worn purely for cosmetic purposes; most of my girl students make weekly trips to beauty parlors with their mothers, and new hairstyles and fingernails are always a hot topic of discussion on Mondays. Approximately half of the girls at my school wear some form of artificial hair, and it's not unusual to see the occasional braided extension on the floor, looking sort of like a dirty shoelace. In any event, the screaming and running incited by the Wig Incident could be heard throughout the building, and also continues to haunt my dreams.

A Lively Discussion

You've probably heard it hundreds of times in your life, usually from teachers: "There's no such thing as a stupid question." I take pride in having never said that to my class, because there are only so many things I'm willing to lie to students about.* I hear questions every day that are not only mind-numbingly stupid, but often ignorant, insensitive, and disrespectful. Sort of like what happened this morning.

Given that I was in a good mood because it was a sunny Friday morning and the class was surprisingly amiable, quiet, and diligent in completing a math exercise, I brought up the fact that I'd signed up for a 10k race in late March, and expressed hope that some of them could turn out to watch the race and support their teacher. Not a great idea. The orderly classroom immediately devolved into some sort of mob scene, as nearly every student had a question or opinion about my performance in the race.** Here are some actual questions and statements I managed to pick out from the cacophony...I actually had to ask them to repeat some of these so that I could write them down for the purposes of this blog.

-"What if you die?"

-"What if other white and black mans beat you?"

-"Is your family gonna be there? Is they white too?"

-"Hell no I ain't watchin that!"

-"What if a Mexican beats you?"

-"You gonna die, Mr. Martin!"***

*Seriously, why would I tell my kids my actual age when they ask? I always reply that I'm 58, and they accept it as my real age without question at this point. Why 58? I guess it just sounds sort of authoritative. 

**As much shit as I caught in college for maybe being a little too competitive - typically at drinking games - I can honestly report that I've got nothing on my kids in this department, and I think this is why they cared so much about the race. They love competition to the point that the most pointless and undesirable chore can be turned into a fun game as long as there is a winner or loser. If I say something like "Robneka just picked up seven pieces of trash in a minute. Who here thinks they can do better?", every single student will immediately start crawling around on the floor to grab bits of trash. I've even seen N'Dea**** - my most shy and mild-mannered student - elbow other kids in the face for the chance to pick up a lollipop wrapper.

***Possibly unrelated to the race, in retrospect.

****Like the subcontinent.

An Unexpected Letter

Tye'Naisha is a problematic student. When her previous teachers saw her name on my class roster back in August, they each gave pause before describing her, searching for an appropriate expression of sympathy and concern, as if preparing to diagnose me with a terminal illness. In the months since, I have alternately described her to colleagues as "sweet," "misunderstood," and "pure evil." Although something of a behavioral liability in the cafeteria, in the hallways, and more spectacularly so on field trips, Tye'Naisha is an undeniably gifted writer, and frequently showcases this ability on writing assignments in her above-grade level Language Arts group. She recently wrote the following letter, when asked to write a "thank you" note to anyone in her life:

Dear Mr. Martin,

I would like to thank you for helping me with every thing and chosing me for Student Of The Week. I really want to thank you for being the great teacher that you are, and i no that one day you will find love.

Tye'Naisha

Touching, right? And maybe a little concerning? Someone remind me to keep a copy of this letter by my bed so I can read it as consolation before passing out in an empty bed after a fruitless night at the bars.

An Explanation

When I asked my Language Arts class to compose a paragraph in which they defended their stance on the hypothetical implementation of a mandatory school uniform, I was fairly sure how each student would respond. I knew that Khalick would write one sentence in which he would probably use homophobic language to describe my idea of a school uniform before quitting. I was pretty sure that Joe would break the pencil I had given him before complaining that he could not complete the assignment because he had nothing to write with. Jamesha's immediate response of balling up her paper and throwing it at Drayon was similarly predictable. 

What I did not foresee, however, was Jessica hunched over her paper in deep concentration, writing three paragraphs advocating the incorporation of uniforms, on the grounds that it would be conducive to a more structured learning environment.* She even used the back of the page to draw her detailed and curiously formal interpretation of boys' and girls' uniforms.** What struck me most, however, was her conviction that, one day per week, students should have the right to express themselves by dressing in whatever manner they wished. This would be called "Cagawall Fridays."***

What follows are one teacher's occasional reflections on heartwarming and serendipitous moments like the one just described, when the figurative clouds part and I am ever so briefly reminded of just how fun it can be to work with children. As a fourth-grade teacher at an inner-city school, I find these moments as deeply gratifying as they are elusive. My job is tremendously exasperating and challenging, but it is never boring. The point of this blog is not to vent personal frustrations or glorify the teaching profession, but instead to simply share funny and maybe even enlightening and inspiring anecdotes from my classroom. As always, let me know if I ever sound like a douchebag.

* My words, not hers.

**I'm not going to show you a photo of her drawing, but it involved bow ties for the boys and gloves for the girls.

***An earnest stab at "casual"****

****Footnote usage lifted directly from the works of David Foster Wallace and Taylor's blog.