It's a word now.

Me: So for this essay you should probably have four paragraphs. The first one would be . . .

Most of the class: Intro.

Me: The second would be . . .

Third of the class: A body paragraph.

Me: Good. The third would be . . .

Handful of the class (hesitantly): Another body paragraph?

Me: Yup. Good. And the last paragraph would be . . .

One lone voice: The outro.

Me: Hmmm. I like that.

Who needs the president if you write poetry?

Frederica: Miss? Look at my resumé. There's nothing on it, and you said I can't include stuff from middle school.

Me: Hmmmmm. . . Well, yes, it's a little empty . . .

Frederica: I know! And it's too late to do anything about it.

Me: No, it's not.

Frederica (slowly): You know? I don't need a resumé at all.

Me: How come?

Frederica: President Obama's going to be speaking at that college soon, right?

Me: Um, right.

Frederica: Okay then. Here's the plan. I'll go see him and be all like, "Mr. Obama, may I please have your autograph?" And then I'll hand him a piece of folded paper and he'll sign it. But the paper will really be a letter of recommendation I wrote! So the college will think the president wrote me a letter of recommendation!

Me: Um, that certainly sounds like a plan, Freddie.

Frederica: Oh, it's a great plan! So I don't even need a resumé!

Me: By the way, you've forgotten that I published some of your poems in the school's literary magazine when you were a freshman . . .

Frederica (interrupting): Can I put that down?

Me: Absolutely!

Sheryl (to me): Look at that big ole smile on her face!

Me: Uh huh. Pretty nice!

Frederica (smiling even wider): So maybe I don't need the president this time.

Stuff I heard myself saying in public at the start of a school year:

• Well, I don't know where they've hidden the PBIS matrices.


• Oh! That's a new obnoxious buzzing sound, isn't it?


• Okay. Today we're following an A day schedule, but we're also having mod 3 of a B day. So you go (pointing with index finger at the invisible columns in the air schedule) boom, boom, 1, 2, then boom (gesturing in the air up and to the right), that's mod 3, then boom (pointing back to the invisible column on the left). See?


• I'm really sorry, but I don't know where modular 6 is. It's not on the map.


• I'm really sorry, but I don't know where D52 is. In fact, I didn't know we had a D52 room.


• What happened to yesterday's end-of-class bell? It was gentle, like, "Oh, there's my elevator." Today it's back to a sound that makes me feel like a pointy pencil is being pushed through my ear.


• Oh, thanks, but I'm really just wearing a dress today because my school pants don't fit again yet.
  

Teacher seasons are never labeled on calendars.

(As I sit sipping coffee and reading the newspaper at home)

Husband: I thought you were giving up coffee for the summer?

Me (clutching coffee cup to my bosom): Um, yes, I did say I'd stop as soon as summer started. Did I miss the beginning of another season?

Husband: Summer starts today.

Me: No way!

Husband (consulting the calendar): You're right. It starts tomorrow.

Me: That's not really the start of summer.

Husband: Um, what?

Me: If high school graduation is next Friday, then the official start of summer is next Saturday. That's when Teacher Summer starts.

Husband: Oy.

Me: I'm just sayin'. Teacher seasons run differently, and I still have a week to drink coffee.

Seniors are the beast

Today was the last day of class, and for my seniors, the day was a strange combination of exuberance, gratitude, relief and hopelessness. For me, as well.

Since my students took their final exam in class on Monday, they spent today's class writing about and discussing the difference between their post-graduation plans as of September, 2008, and their post-graduation plans as of June, 2009. While many of my students will be attending 4-year colleges, most have decided to stay close to home and attend one of our community colleges. Several students had to change plans because a parent refused to file income tax and therefore could not complete the FAFSA. Several more because a parent, sibling or significant other convinced them not to leave home. Some are reluctantly attending their second or third choice college. Several will be off to basic training in July. Several are attending their first choice college with adequate financial aid. Too many tell me they are still "undecided."

One student totally surprised me with this answer about her college plans:

My plans have changed due to being homeless.

Other parts of the day made me laugh, usually at myself.

A note posted on my wall:
Elizabeth and Katherine will greatly miss there favorite teacher Ms. Huth! Heart U always!

A short conversation at the end of class:

Audrey: I feel like I'm gonna be famous. Miss, when they make a True Hollywood Story about me, you'll agree to be interviewed, right?

Me: Yes, of course.

Susan: She'll say, "Oh, I remember Audrey was always so funny . . . "

James: Naw, remember, Miss Huth will be mad old by then. She'll be like this (in a quavering old woman voice): Oh, that Audrey was always so funny . . . "

Me: What?? Is that me or a very old chicken?

(Laughter)

Audrey: That's you, or it will be you!


Later, an overheard bit at the end of another class:
I'm so scared of large bodies of water, you've no idea. That's why I won't go near the Mohawk River. You never know when a whale might come sneaking up.



At the end of the day, I know there are a dozen and a half really bad pictures of me posing with students, pictures they assure me are "really really good." In my head are faded pictures of those who simply stopped coming to school, despite our best efforts to convince them otherwise. I see myself writing good bye and good wishes on shirts and stapled pieces of paper to those who did not have $72 to spend on a yearbook. I see my graduating seniors proudly showing me the cap and gown they paid $27 cash for today. I rather enjoy this picture, however, left on my board today, near the suicide prevention hotline numbers we were directed to post in our rooms.

I'll take "breathing" for 3 points, Alex.

(As the pledge ends and class begins)

Katherine: Huthie! You didn't stand up for the pledge!

Me: Right.

Katherine: But it's the pledge!

Me: I know. I was silently respectful, unlike you, who was yelling at me through it.

Katherine: I think you should turn to god for help, Miss Huth.

Me: Um, thanks. I hope it works.

Katherine: Oh, I'm just kidding, Miss.

Me: I know. And I also know you're just stalling right now.

Grace: Speaking of stalling . . . it's really cold in here.

(Murmurs of agreement from others.)

Me: Yes, I know. Okay. On to Hamlet . . .

Katherine: Well, Miss, you're all set with that big ol' sweater of yours.

Me: Uh huh. And back to the play . . . Act III, scene 2 . . .

Blanche: Excuse me, please. What's "strumpet" mean?

Me: Um, someone with loose morals.

Katherine: Like a skank?

Me: Hmmm. Yes. Like a skank.

Amanda: Or a ho?

Me: Um, yes, kind of like that, too.

Blanche: Thanks. Okay. Act III, scene 2 . . .

Grace: Hamlet reminds me of House.

Me: What? Dr. House on TV?

(Murmurs of agreement from the class)

Grace: I know, right?

Me: Hmmmm . . .

Grace: You don't see it?

Me (considering): No. I guess I do.

Grace: See? I just made a real-life connection to Hamlet! I should get 10 points for that!

Me: Why don't I just give you breathing points as well? Anna, I think that's worth only about 3 points, right?

(Anna, trying desperately not to be drawn into this, laughs a bit and shrugs.)

Me: See? Anna says only 3 points. If you want to explain your point, I'd be happy to hear it.

Grace: It's the way he talks to everyone, especially to Ophelia and Polonius. Like, he's always cracking inside jokes and making fun of them. House is always doing that.

Me: True. I guess I'll take your "real life connection." Should we take a moment to discuss the similarities between Hamlet and Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart?

Grace, Blanche, et.al: Naw. We're good. Act III, scene 2 . . .

Nothing more to say

(After reading the mandated "grief statement" to the class about the previous night's suicide of a freshman, the 8th in the last four years, and the 5th one this year)

Me: So remember that if you need to talk to someone about this or anything else, you may go to the Commons. We've got guidance counselors, social workers, psychologists, clergy and students and staff there for you to talk to. . .

Patricia: But that makes me so mad . . .

Me: What? Why?

Patricia: Because people do that just to get out of class. They don't really feel bad, or they didn't know this girl . . .

(Some students mumble in agreement.)

Dolores: Yeah, it's not like they really care about that girl.

Me (sighing): Look, I understand your point, but how can you or I determine who needs help or feels bad? It's not right that some people abuse this, but still, something like this affects us all. (Slowly) I mean, even though I didn't know the students who killed themselves recently, that doesn't mean their deaths don't affect me. (More slowly now) I did know Dashad, for instance. (Stopping abruptly, struggling to make some point and suddenly terrified to find my eyes filling with tears) He was my student . . . and that was really hard (shocked to realize I won't be able to continue or even look up at them) . . . and um, right now . . . see? This reminds . . . me . . . um, of . . .

(Sorry to have begun this at all and even sorrier not to be able to finish, all I can do is turn away and wipe some random words off my white board. Class is silent.)

(Bell rings)

Dolores (from behind me, quietly): You had to bring up Dashad, right? You know he was my best friend?

Me: I know. I'm sorry.

(Dolores holds her phone out, showing me a picture of her at his grave.)

(Long pause.)

Me (finally able to look at her): I'm sorry.

Dolores: I know. It's okay.

(She walks away. I walk to my computer, hoping to distract myself with some email but realizing Patricia is still in the room. )

Patricia (walking slowly to stand next to me): I mean, it's so hard still. He was our friend, but he was your student, too.

Me (able to look up and seeing her eyes filled with tears): I know (sighing). It is still really hard. But that was my point, I guess.

(Long pause as we both reach for kleenex.)

Patricia: I know. I mean . . . I'm afraid now (stops to blow her nose) not to answer my phone. I think, what if it's one of my friends who needs me? What if I don't answer the phone and I'm not there to help them?

Me (as the weight of this burden sinks in): Oh, Patricia. . . (slowly, wondering what can possibly be said) It's going to be okay. You need to take care of yourself. . . You're a good friend.

Patricia: Thanks.

Me (hugging her): Thank you. You have a good weekend, okay?

(She hugs me hard for a long minute, then lets go.)

Patricia: Okay.

(Study hall students arrive as she leaves. I focus on taking attendance.)