Noise Next Door

The appropriate time to discuss the zombie apocalypse is after I've had a second cup of coffee.

2011-04-12T19:25:00.002-04:00

John: Miss? I can't wait for the zombie apocalypse!

Me: Well, John, even though I'm tempted to ask why, instead I'm going to redirect your attention to your research project.

John: Miss! But the zombie apocalypse is gonna be great! All those zombies crawling all over everything, falling apart all disgusting-like. Eyeballs flopping out. I keep hoping it'll happen, and now I bet it does. I can't wait!

Me: Sigh. First, there would be nothing great about a zombie apocalypse. Second, it's impossible. Third, you're supposed to be researching Galileo. Finally, it's wrong to discuss the zombie apocalypse at 8:07 in the morning.

John: Miss? Why don't you just say, "Get back to work!"?

Me: It's more fun my way.

John: So, back to the zombie apocalypse. I can't wait! I'm going to have all this food stored up, and computers, and I'll have weapons stashed all over . . .

Me (interrupting): If you're really going to insist on discussing this, then do it the right way. You need to consider what type of zombies you'll be dealing with. If they're slow-moving zombies like in Night of the Living Dead, you'd be all set with just a bat. Something to whack them in the head with. If they're really fast, like in 28 Days Later, you'd better have something else, like guns, so you can whack them from farther away. If there is a zombie apocalypse, you can't count on having electricity to run a computer. Besides, you'll be too busy fighting zombies to be on Facebook. Now, don't forget to consider whether your zombies are made from a virus, radiation or interplanetary interference. And whether you could become a zombie from a bite, or whether it's transmitted via body fluids. These are important things to take into account.

Silence.

Me: What?

John (shaking head):You might be more interested in zombies than I am.

Me: Hmm. Perhaps. But even though my knowledge of zombies would help keep me safe in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I would never hope for one.

John: I guess you're right, Miss. If it happens, it happens. In the meantime, though, I think I have some more movies to watch.

Your eyes work better when they're not dangling on your chest.

2011-03-15T18:26:00.000-04:00

(As we're writing rough drafts of an essay, John sneezes loudly.)

John: Oh, hey! Somebody better bless me right now or the devil will climb into my soul!

Class: Bless you!

John: My aunt taught me that. And did you know that if you held your eyes open and sneezed, it would blow your eyes right out of your head? My science teacher from last year told me that.

Me: Um, really? Hmmm. I'm not sure that's really accurate.

John: No, it's true.

(Michael nods vigorously.)

Me: Sigh. Okay. So let's try to find an example from the book to prove this point . . .

John: What? You don't believe me? I'll prove it.

Michael: Oh, I heard that, too. It's true. There was a show on the Discovery Channel about it.

Me: Um, okay. So, your topic sentence is good but . . .

John: It would look just like this:

John takes his lime-green earbuds from around his neck, positions the right one over his right eye and the left one over his left eye, pauses, and

John: ACHOO!

John flings his earbuds from his eyes and rolls his head back and forth so the earbuds flop from his eye sockets, like tiny green eyeballs dangling by their roots.

Me: Ewwwww! Whoa. Thanks for that, John.

John: You're very welcome, Miss. But see? That's just what would happen, so it's a really good thing to keep your eyes shut when you sneeze.

Me: I don't think I have any choice, but thanks so much for the lesson. Please keep me posted on anything else I should know, okay?

John: Oh, I will.

So now I have a LOOK . . .

2011-01-07T11:50:00.003-05:00

(As students work on laptops creating a survival show in the style of The Hunger Games but set in a European country of their choice.)

Me (looking over John's shoulder): That’s good. Austria was a good choice. You’ve learned about the climate and terrain. How are you using this to develop your show?

John: Um, the contestants have to climb mountains.

Me: Okay. How many contestants?

John: 200.

Me: Um, 200 is a lot.

John (quickly): Okay. 20.

Me: Better. Okay, you’re in good shape. Make your rules and objective a bit more specific. Let me know if you need help.

(Later)

Me: So, John, I'm wondering what Megan Fox has to do with your game.

John (quickly minimizing his googled Megan Fox images screen): She’s going to be in the game. I decided my game will be like those celebrity reality shows.

Me: Um, okay. It’s still got to be set in Austria in the mountains, though.

John (slowly): Right . . .

Me: No, really, you have to stick with Austria. You don't have enough time to switch countries right now. Also, you probably can't have Megan Fox climbing mountains in a bathing suit.

(George snorts.)

John: Um, she won’t.

(George snorts again.)

Me: Right? She'd die way too fast.

John: Yeeesssss . . .

Me: No, John, really. You need to stop looking for pictures of Megan Fox and finish defining your rules.

John: I am, Miss.

Me: Really?

John: Yes. Really. But I’m switching from Austria to Italy.

Me: You can’t. You don’t have time. Without defining your rules, contestants are the least of your worries. And you can’t just switch to a warmer climate so Megan Fox can be in a swim suit!

John: I’m not!

Me (slowly): You're sticking with Austria? Right?

John: Right. Yes. Okay.

Me: Okay. Then I'll leave you alone. It's fine.

John: No it’s not. You just gave me that look.

Me: Did not.

(George snorts.)

John: Yes, you did. You gave me THAT look.

Me: John, I most certainly do not have A look. Or THAT look. Or any particular look.

John: Yes, you do. See? George saw it.

George: Just put Megan Fox in a jumpsuit, John. She'll still look good.

John (pointing to me): See? THAT look right there!

Conundrums before coffee make me very . . . whatever.

2011-01-05T13:57:00.000-05:00

(As students enter the room, Mike notices two shopping bags sitting on a desk.)

Mike: Miss, what’s in the bags?

Me: Dunno. Ms. Smith just dropped them off, so I thought it would be rude and disrespectful to look through them.

Mike: I know. That’s what I thought. But you know how some of these kids are; they might see those bags and just be rude and disrespectful anyway. So I was just thinking to myself what to say to them in the event someone decided to be rude and disrespecful. I would hate to have to face a huge conundrum, especially first thing in the morning.

Me (distracted): Um, glad you're thinking, Mike. . . . uh, wait. What? I'm sorry, Mike. Conundrum?

Mike (sighing heavily): You know, Miss. A huge controversy or problem or issue. You know, if I had to teach someone not to be rude and disrespectful. Especially first thing in the morning.

Me: Wow, Mike. Conundrum? Wow.

Mike: What, Miss? You don’t like my vocabulary?

Me: Um, no, I do. I really do. It’s very . . . what’s the word?

Mike: Extensive?

Me: Yes. That, too.

oic (smh)

2010-04-25T11:28:00.002-04:00

(As I'm walking in the hallway during a planning period)

Dean of Discipline: Hey, Huth? Can you come in here for a sec?

Me: Sure.

DoD: So Katherine tells me she stayed after school with you last week to serve a detention she owed me . . .

Katherine (interrupting): . . . Well, I stayed with Miss Huth to finish some work, but I didn't tell her it was also a detention for you.

Me: Oh. But yes, she did stay for about an hour and a half last week.

DoD: But Katherine, you think this should also serve as a detention even though we didn't know this was your plan?

Katherine: Um, yes, I guess.

DoD: How about this? You stay with Miss Huth one more time this week, and we'll call it even.

Katherine: But I don't need to stay with her now. I'm all caught up on my work.

Me (nodding in agreement): Yup. True. Although it's fine if you want to stay with me anyway. We're working on a portfolio project right now, so she's been doing a lot of writing. And she's doing really well.

Katherine: Oh my goodness! So much writing! It's been two weeks! I'm going to get that carpal tunnel syndrome if we don't stop soon!

DoD (laughing): You won't get that from writing or from typing if you use proper technique. You will, however, get it from this (pantomimes texting on a phone).

Katherine: Oh, I don't do that much.

Me (preparing to leave): That's good.

Katherine: After all (pauses for full effect) I'm a writer, not a texter.

Me: I like that. And you're right.

Axe-wielding OD poppin' mom

2010-04-06T22:08:00.008-04:00

Sometimes my students leave me notes on my white board. On the day I found this note, I must have been ranting about some thing or other.

This year I have a budding artist who enjoys drawing trees. He does these very quickly, usually in the last two minutes of class as I am distracted at the back of the room and the other students are packing up. I really like this and felt bad when I had to spritz it with rubbing alcohol.

I think my tree artist left this as well, but it might have been his friend. I'm not sure I understand the significance of my name and the scary axe-wielding character. Perhaps that's best.

I have one former student who, when she visits during a college break, says good bye by leaving me a nice note. Apparently Mackenzie finds me kinder and fuzzier than my tree artist does.

The facilitator needs more tissue.

2010-03-22T16:06:00.006-04:00

Michelle: Miss? I really think I messed up my rough draft so I threw it away.

Me (horrified): What??!

Michelle: Oh, it's okay. Look. I did it over. And it's even longer.

Me: Oh. Phew. Okay then. I hate when you crumple things up (starting to walk away).

Michelle: No. Wait! I have a question!

Me: Okay. What's up?

Michelle: So I don't know how to organize this at all, and I think this project is just not gonna work. I have all these statistics about pregnancy and I just don't know where they go.

Me: We'll find a home for the statistics. Don't worry. It'll be fine.

(A voice from another part of the room)

Katrina: Miss Huth?

Me (to Michelle): Hang on a sec. I'll be right back to help you, okay?

Katrina: Miss? This is ugly.

Me: What? Your rough draft? It's supposed to be ugly.

Katrina: But it's REALLY ugly . . .

Me: It'll be fine. Don't worry. Just don't throw any of it away, okay?

Katrina (heavy sigh): Okay.

(Michelle is now engrossed in conversation with Samantha. I prepare to say something about how she should use her time wisely even if I can't help her right away but as I get closer . . . )

Samantha: . . . so I think if you start off by explaining that teen pregnancy is a significant problem, that will be a good place to use some of those statistics. And that will . . .

Michelle: . . . help my reader understand how important my point is! And it will make them interested in what I have to say!

Samantha: Right. And then, I think you should move your page three to page two.

Michelle (nodding vigorously): Yeah! I see. That makes sense. So then I'll save the solutions part for . . .

Samantha (looking up from Michelle's rough draft): What?

Me: Um, I dunno.

Michelle: Oh, come on, Miss. You know you want to say something.

(Samantha nods in agreement.)

Me (starting to sniffle and dab at pretend tears): Here I thought you were texting and you're actually working . . . It's just that it's so beautiful to see you two working together to solve a writing problem. Samantha, you just helped Michelle so much (choking up) and it's just . . . the way that . . . (sniffle dab) I'm sorry . . . English class is supposed to be . . . I mean . . . I've been waiting my whole career for this experience . . . I'm sorry but it's just so wonderful (dab dab dab sniff sniff).

Michelle (with a heavy sigh and an eye roll): Oh, Miss. Wow. Okay. You probably have someone else who needs help, right?

Me: Oh, I don't think anyone needs my help today. I think I'll just sit here and facilitate.

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

2010-03-17T18:32:00.003-04:00

First thing in the morning, before school begins. Even though my door is open, I hear a knock and look up, realizing I don't know this student.

Me: Hey! What's up?

Student (extending hand and striding purposefully into the room): Hi, Miss Huth. I'm a new student in your class. My name is Grace.

Me (tentatively returning handshake): Um, hi! Well, it's very nice to meet you, Grace.

Grace: Here's my schedule. I think I'm in your next class. Mod 3, right?

Me: Yes, mod 3 is first today.

Grace: What are you working on right now? I want to be able to catch up.

Me: Oh, we're in the middle of a research project.

Grace: Oh, I love doing research! It's so much fun, and I always learn so much!

Me: What?! Oh. Good. (Then, scanning schedule, slowly) Oh, Grace, um, I'm sorry but you're not my student . . .

Grace: Oh! I'm so sorry!

Me (sighing): Oh, it's no problem. The schedule is hard to figure out (sigh) Your class is next door (sigh). I'll take you there (sigh).

Grace: Oh, thanks so much! I appreciate all your help!

Me: You're very welcome. It was a pleasure to meet you, believe me (sigh).

When maneuvering through the snow is the least of it.

2010-03-06T15:03:00.010-05:00

This is a recent letter of recommendation for a former student. Some things are easy to do.

I’m pleased to write this letter of recommendation for Katherine. I’ve known her since she was a junior in my English 11 class. When she was a senior, I was happy to find her in my creative writing elective, and since she graduated, she has kept in touch with me quite regularly. She is a wonderful young lady, and I highly recommend her.

When I think of Katherine, I picture her wonderful smile. She has the uncanny ability to remain perennially optimistic in the face of anything: a tough research project, maneuvering her wheelchair through snow, or dealing with blindness and indeterminate diagnoses. Despite many painful medical tests, procedures and sick days in the last several years, she faces each obstacle with her quiet strength and shy smile. She seems unconcerned about herself; rather, she worries more about the fears and concerns of those who care about her.

One of the most difficult memories I have is when she was a senior in high school; after yet another doctor’s appointment, she came to tell me about her decreasing vision. As an English teacher, I see too few students who love to read. Katherine is an exception, a voracious reader. As she was telling me that the doctors had determined that she would probably continue losing her vision, I felt overwhelmed that this young woman might no longer be able to enjoy her books. I also imagined the obstacles this would pose for her academic life in college. Nevertheless, Katherine, far more mature than she has any right to be, quickly turned the conversation to the hopeful—that an operation or technology might help, and that, ultimately, it would be okay. We were soon laughing about the possibilities of wheelchairs with GPS and autopilot capabilities and, finally, I had to agree with her that it would be okay.

And in the two years after her graduation from high school, it really has been “okay.” Despite adapting to blindness and changing diagnoses and the normal stresses of being a successful college student, Katherine has indeed proved to be exceptionally strong, optimistic, and determined. Adapting to college life is daunting enough for many young people, but she has done that all while adapting to blindness as well. She is not merely surviving, but thriving in college, and the proof is in her academic success and many activities, including spearheading fundraisers and completing internships. She has many gifts--strength, optimism, empathy and intelligence—and she uses these gifts to enrich every life she touches.

And when the research is over, we sing.

2010-03-05T19:00:00.006-05:00

At the end of two weeks in the library researching college and career possibilities, they invent a song and sing it to me. Luckily, they weren't researching careers in music.

One-stop shopping for all your comedy, trauma and suing needs.

2010-02-26T22:22:00.008-05:00

(In the library researching college and career options for a short research project)

Genevieve: Miss Huth, we've got it all figured out.

Me: What's that? And, by the way, it's about time.

Genevieve: What we're all going to do when we have jobs.

Me: Hmmmm. Okay. Let's hear it.

John: So, you know that I'm going to be a lawyer or a comedian.

Me: Um, yes. I mean, what?? Um, okay.

John: Yeah, Miss. It'll be fine. Anyway . . .

Me: Right. Anyway . . .

John: So Thomas is going to teach elementary school.

Me: Uh huh.

John: And he's going to invite me to entertain his class.

Thomas (nodding vigorously): That's right.

Me: Oy.

John: Whatever. So anyway, I'm going to heckle his class, all the little second graders.

Me (slowly): Isn't the audience supposed to do the . . .

John (interrupting): . . . yeah, whatever, Miss. Show a little support, please. So I'll heckle the little kids and traumatize them.

Me: O lord.

John: Yeah, so once the little kids are totally screwed up because of my act, then . . .

Genevieve: . . . then they come to me, the psychologist so I can fix them!

(John, Genevieve and Thomas take turns high-fiving each other.)

Me: I see you've got it all figured out. Wow. What a relief, guys. And I was worried you didn't have a plan.

John: Naw, Miss. We've always got a plan. And if I become a lawyer, I can defend myself and Thomas when the little kids' parents sue us. See? It's perfect!

Miracle lotion treats all skin types: ashy, pinky and yellowy beige.

2009-12-23T13:43:00.006-05:00

As students enter the classroom first thing in the morning . . .

Gwendolyn: Miss? You got any lotion?

Me: Yup. In my bottom left drawer.

Gwendolyn: Oh, I like this lotion. It's good.

Me: Thanks. I like it too.

Grace: I like Palmer's.

Gwendolyn: Uh huh. And Suave is too watery.

Nadine: Yeah, but Palmer's is too thick for me.

Grace: What's that lotion in the blue bottle?

Me (thinking): . . . Nivea?

Grace: Yeah! That's it.

Gwendolyn (to me, laughing): That's what you should have, Miss. That's white people's lotion.

Me: I'm sorry. What?

Elizabeth: What? Why?

Gwendolyn (as others nod in agreement): I dunno. It just is.

Me: Hmm. Okay. Whatever. So the lotion I just gave you isn't white people's lotion?

Nadine (laughing): Naw, Miss, it's good for us, too. See? It's in a brown bottle!

Me: O, lord. . . but if Nivea's in a blue bottle, why is it for white people? . . .

Samantha: Can I have some too? I'm mad ashy today.

Elizabeth: Oh yeah! Me, too.

Me: . . . I can see you're not going to answer my question . . .

Samantha (to Elizabeth): White people don't get ashy!

Elizabeth: What? Yeah, we do.

Samantha: No, you don't. Or if you do it doesn't show because you're pink.

Me: What? Pink?! I'm certainly not pink. I'm more of a . . . um . . . yellowy beige . . . AND Elizabeth and I will go without using lotion for a week just to prove that white people get ashy too.

Elizabeth (as others nod in agreement): I know, right?

Grace: Miss? May I have some lotion even though it's not for Puerto Ricans?

Me (sighing): Of course.

When "nipple" is the best option.

2009-12-11T21:39:00.003-05:00

As the class is getting ready to be dismissed:

Jim: Hey! What are you doing? Geez, that's so gay!

John: Ewww. Really. You're a retard.

Me: Hey! I don't want to hear those two words again! Seriously!

John: Um, which two words?

Me: What? "Gay and retard."

John: Oh. We said "nipple" too.

Me (thinking): Nipple is fine. No problem at all with nipple.

Jim: Really? Nipple's okay? Oh. Okay.

Me: Yup. You can use "nipple" all you want. Just don't call each other gay and retard anymore.

John: Jim is such a nipple.

Me: Much better. Go to lunch now.

It's a word now.

2009-09-23T17:49:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-09-18T23:02:00.009-04:00

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:

2009-09-09T14:26:00.010-04:00

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.

2009-06-20T11:54:00.004-04:00

(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

2009-06-10T22:52:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-05-18T16:21:00.008-04:00

(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

2009-04-03T12:49:00.012-04:00

(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.)

Strep + subs + 12th grade - nagging + teacher = . . . wait . . . what? sigh . . .

2009-03-23T09:44:00.016-04:00

Because I have already written at length about the problems we teachers have with having substitutes, I will not spend much time discussing the problems of missing two consecutive days of school last week from a bout of strep throat. Suffice it to say that as today progresses, I'm learning more and more of what happened in my absence.

Like the substitute who arrived 15 minutes late and then left 10 minutes early telling my students, "I'm leaving because I've got stuff to do." Had this not been independently documented by several reliable sources, I might not have believed it. And my class, apparently sans "stuff" merely remained in the room, quietly, waiting for the bell to dismiss them. Oy.

I have yet to determine the degree to which my classes actually completed work in my absence. I do not have high hopes for this. Nevertheless, I did enjoy finding this note scrawled on one of my attendance lists:

Where you at Mrs. Huthie? Not cool to ditch us like this, but whatever. I'm sure you have a good excuse, just make sure you're here next class, alright, ok. I'll talk to you later.

Sometimes it's enough just to know you were missed.

The truth is in the necklace, my children.

2009-03-12T09:52:00.016-04:00

(As I collect "writer's notebooks" at the end of class and try to address questions from students having trouble completing their financial aid forms for college)

Me (to Adele): So you can estimate the tax information on the FAFSA until . . .

Audrey (looking up as I pass by): Have you ever toasted a pop tart?

Me: What? Yes.

Audrey: Do you want to try this? It's a hot fudge sundae pop tart.

Me (to Audrey): No. Thanks, though.

Me (to Adele): . . . until you have the real numbers.

Adele: So should I call the EOP office?

Samantha: What does your necklace mean?

Me (to Adele): Yes. Absolutely.

Me (to Samantha): It's supposed to be a Chinese character for "energy."

Me (to Grace): You're going to try to finish the TAP form tonight then?

Grace: Yes, but . . . .

Audrey: Everyone else has tried a piece. You may as well.

Me: No thanks.

Me (to Grace): But nothing. You need to just get this done!

Samantha: So do you think it really means that?

Me (to Samantha): The symbol? My theory is it means, "I'm an idiot for wearing this necklace in a language I don't understand."

Samantha (laughing): Could be!

Audrey: So how do you toast it?

Me: What? You put it on a lower setting. Especially if there's icing.

Jessica: Look at her! She's so cute, trying to answer everyone!

Me: Thanks, Jessica. Good to know.

Audrey: Well, I'm just going to eat this untoasted then. That's why it's called a "pop tart," because it's "to go."

Me (cocking head slightly): What?

Audrey (laughing): I know. That didn't make any sense, did it?

(Bell rings . . . )

Guess who's coming to dinner without answers?

2009-02-23T18:33:00.009-05:00

Packing up at the end of class and after a brief discussion of whether the movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner is still relevant today

Lucy: . . . so yes, I think it is.

James: And the attorney general called us cowards and says we can't discuss race honestly in this country. But Miss?

Me: Yup?

James: You have kids, right?

Charles (interrupting): Are they black?

(Class laughs.)

Me: Um, what? (carefully) Noooo . . . why would they be black?

Charles: Just wondering.

James: So how many do you have?

Me: Two. A boy and a girl.

James: What if one of them said they wanted to marry a black person?

Me: Um, it would be fine, as far as that goes.

James: What do you mean?

Me: Well, I can't imagine objecting to someone based on some category like color or religion . . . I trust my kids' taste and selectivity. I'd just want the person they choose to be a kind, compassionate, thinking human being.

James: Welllllllll . . . what if your daughter wanted to marry someone who was black AND a really really really really hard core conservative right winger ?

Me: Wow. Hmmmmm. Let's just say that I might have a problem with one of those categories but that I'd have to reserve judgment . . .

James (laughing): I knew it! You'd object to his being black! (several beats) . . . . . . . sike!!

Me (slowly shaking my head): O, goodness. Yeah, you'd better add "sike." Okay. Moving right along . . .

Charles: What if you just had a black baby?

Me: What? But I don't.

Charles: I know but just what if you just suddenly had a black baby without any warning. What would you name it?

Me: What? There are several problems with this scenario, you realize this, right?

Charles: I know. Just play along. What would you name it?

Me: Um, I don't know. Is it a boy or a girl?

Charles: A girl.

Me: Um, I'd name her Erin.

(Class laughs)

Charles: Why "Erin"?

Me: Because that's what I named my daughter.

Charles: Naw, it has to be a different name.

Me: Um, I don't know.

Charles (smiling and nodding): See? That's why I like you as a teacher. You give me answers I can understand.

Are left-handed compliments better than no compliments at all? (Probably.)

2009-02-13T18:23:00.009-05:00

As we finish watching Katharine Hepburn's character fire Hilary St. George in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Patricia: Miss! That's you!

Me: What?

Patricia: That's just how you act!

Me: Like Sidney Poitier?

Patricia: No! Katharine Hepburn! She's talking all quiet to that woman, and you know she's mad but she never gets loud, she just stays all quiet . . .

Dolores: . . . but you know she means business!

Douglas: Yup. That's you.

Grace: And it's so great because you know she is so mad at that woman and she's just all calm. It's kinda scary.

Me: I guess I'll take that as a compliment. I could do worse.

Home-schooled college: Where you're a name, not a number (but you might have to sleep on the floor)

2009-02-09T12:19:00.015-05:00

Just before class

Audrey (excitedly): Miss Huth! I went to that college open house Sunday and loved it. And I got in!

Me: Congratulations! That's so great! So they had an instant admit thing?

Audrey: Yes. I was so happy there. The campus felt like home.

Me: That's great. I'm so proud of you! So did you get to . . .

Dolores (interrupting, to others): We're going to have college at Miss Huth's house next year.

Me: (distracted): Um, what??

Dolores: We're having college at your house next fall. We do graduate in four months, you know.

Audrey: O goodness.

Me: Exactly. Audrey, I think you're better off at Maria College.

Jessica: Dolores! Honestly. What are you going to study?

Dolores: English, of course!

Me: Hmm. I thought you wanted to study business?

Dolores: That's for later.

Me: So let me get this straight. I'm just going to quit teaching here and open a college in my house?

Dolores: Yup.

Me: Oy. Let me think about this . . . okay. Then tuition will be a million dollars.

Dolores: Okay.

Audrey: That's a little steep for me. Can I pay you a bit at a time?

Katherine: I thought you were already set for college?

Audrey: Oh yeah!

Me: So you're not expecting room and board as well, are you? I mean, I don't have a lot of beds or anything.

Dolores: Well, we got to eat and sleep, right? We'll just do like we do in the City. You know.

Katherine: You know. But I'm not sleeping on my coat!

Dolores: Naw. It's Miss Huth's house. We'll pull the cushions off the couch and sleep on those.

Me: Um, we do that in this city, too, by the way.

Dolores: Oh. Anyway, and you can cook for us, but I'll do the cleaning.

Me: Hmm. Cleaning. Okay. That sounds good. But tuition is still a million.

Audrey: You'd better get a loan, Dolores!

Learning: It's not just for social studies anymore.

2008-12-03T09:48:00.008-05:00

During a discussion in the library of how my seniors may end up in jobs they cannot even imagine today, as preparation for their research projects on career possibilities.

Librarian: So how do you picture the job market changing in the next twenty years?

(Silence)

Librarian: Is it possible that some careers you plan on might not exist twenty years from now?
(Silence)

(Finally, slowly, a lone hand.)

Jennifer: I mean, that's a really tough question to answer. We don't have all sorts of time to sit around and think, like Locke and the rest of them from the Age of Enlightenment did. All they did was think, and I can't imagine they ever envisioned something like the internet, for instance.

(All heads swivel toward Jennifer.)

Me: Jen, did you just refer to Locke in my class?

Jennifer: Yes.

Me: John Locke.

Jennifer: Yes. John Locke.

Me: L-o-c-k-e.

Jennifer: Yes. I like to use what I learn when I can.

Me: Hmm. Cool.

Voices from the backseat: A little soothing mousse will do ya

2008-10-29T17:50:00.003-04:00

I wish some of my students were as interested in their work as they are in my appearance. Each year, it seems that some feel they must comment on the way I look, often in a complimentary way, but occasionally with suggestions for improvement. This year, Grace seems particularly concerned that my hair is not as full and luxurious as she prefers.

On a bus ride home from visiting the State University College at Plattsburgh

Me: So how was the food today?

Blanche: It was scrumptious.

Me: Scrumptious?

Blanche: Scrumptious.

Me: I thought it was delectable.

Judith: What does that mean?

Me: The same thing as "scrumptious."

Grace (trying to fluff my rain-dampened hair from the seat behind me): You really need to add some volume to your hair.

Me: Judith, is she petting me?

Judith: I'm not sure.

Me: Jeez, Grace! My hair was a lot bigger before it got rained on!

Grace: I know. It's all right. I'm just trying to do what I can do.

Me: Hmmm.

Next day, as I sit at my computer before class begins

Grace (suddenly appearing behind me): So you didn't take my advice, I see.

Me: What advice?

Grace (as she pulls my hair back and fluffs it gently): About giving your hair some volume.

Me: I have a feeling you want me to spend more time on my hair than I'm willing to.

Grace (still fluffing, but more vigorously): Nope. You just need to work on it a little.

Me: I'll get right on that mousse, okay?

Grace: That's all I'm saying. A little mousse.

Me: If I get mousse, will you stay awake during class?

Grace: I can't promise that. You're not boring. It's just that your voice is so soothing . . .

Me (in a studiously low, soothing tone): O, Grrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaccccccce. I will trrrryyyy to give my hair volllllluuuuuummmmme if you try to stay awaaaaaaaaake. Deal?

Grace: Hmmm. Okay.

Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain.

2008-10-15T18:00:00.007-04:00

As I try to use an LCD projector for the first time in three years . . .

Me (muttering to myself): . . . so this plug goes here, and then I have to . . .

Elizabeth: Miss Huth?

Me (on my knees under a table): Uh huh? Hang on. I have to plug this in.

Katherine: Um . . . Miss?

Blanche: Are you sure that goes there?

Me: Yes. Absolutely. Of course.

Katherine: But the light isn't on, and the computer monitor is blinking.

Me: Yup. S'posed to do that.

Katherine: Hmmm. I don't think so.

Me (tightening connections): There. Right?

Katherine: Oh. Yup. It's stopped blinking.

Elizabeth: So why isn't the projector light coming on?

Blanche: I mean, the light is supposed to be on.

Me: Um, I know.

Blanche: I'm just sayin'.

Sara: She's fine! She'll get it!

Me: Thank you, Sara. I appreciate your support. And may I just say that if I had had access to an LCD projector during the last three years, I would have this new one set up in no time. It's lack of practice.

Katherine: Do you want me to get Mr. G.?

Me: Mr. G.? Ha! I can do this myself!

Elizabeth (under her breath): Yeah, maybe by the end of the class . . .

Me: Hey! I'm right here!

Elizabeth: I mean, I have great faith in your ability to make this thing project onto the screen.

Me: That's better. Thank you. And look, that's the little button to turn it on.

Thomas: So . . . there's no light.

Me: And your point?

Thomas: Well, there's supposed to be light.

Me: Thank you. Yes. I know.

(Elizabeth, Blanche, Sara, Katherine and several others posit theories on why there is no light.)

Katherine (cautiously, after several minutes): Um, did you turn on the main switch?

Me: What?

Katherine: The main switch on the side of the cart.

Me: What swi . . . ? Man. No. Jeez.

(Blanche flips the switch and the projector shoots out a beam of light partly onto the wall but mostly onto the ceiling.)

Me: May I just say that I do know how to use technology? I mean, I do have an iPhone . . .

Sara: It's okay, Miss Huth. We know it's been a while.

Blanche (patiently): So now we have to lower the projector so it projects onto the screen, not the ceiling. See? You have to unscrew these little legs in front . . .

Me (heavy sigh): Oy. So this is what I've become. . . Look, I at least know how to do that.

Katherine: It's okay. We know. Now let's look at that SUNY Plattsburgh website, okay?

Kentucky road trip essentials: GPS, sandwiches, and twenty-three 17-year-olds to share the driving

2008-10-10T12:05:00.011-04:00

Some of my students have a hard time visiting colleges they might want to attend, so I provide them with opportunities to visit five or six different colleges over the course of the year. On Wednesday, we visited the State University of New York at Cobleskill, a great ag and tech college fairly close to home. Many of my students have attended Cobleskill over the last few years, and I am always impressed by the care the admissions staff takes with my students.

Today, I began class by asking my students what they thought of the school.

Me: So is anyone going to apply to SUNY Cobleskill?

Katherine and Douglas: It smelled like cows/It was just like a petting zoo.

Me: Really? What trip did you two go on?? And, by the way, that doesn't answer the question I asked.

(Rest of class murmurs agreement.)

Katherine: Well, it did smell like cows. And there were cows there.

Me: Uh huh . . . So how about we hear from someone who liked the college?

Katherine: But I did like it! It was peaceful, too, and I know I could get some work done.

Me: Oh. Okay. Traditionally, if you mention that a place smells like cows, most people don't take that as a positive. . . . so what else did you like about the campus? The programs?

Grace: The coffee was delectable.

Me: Really? Delectable? Wow.

Grace: Yes. Delectable. But the ice-cream was mad fake.

Me: Okay. Food quality is certainly one thing to consider when applying to colleges, but what about the possible majors? Or what the EOP director was telling you about?

Blanche: The dorm room was mad small.

Me: Actually, it's pretty large for a college dorm.

Blanche: Miss? I'm definitely applying, though. I really liked it.

Katherine: Me, too.

James: We should take a trip to that college with the free tuition.

Me: Hmmm. The one in Kentucky? That's an overnight.

Amanda: Yeah! We should do that!

Me: Honestly, the idea of doing an overnight trip gives me chills . . .

Thomas: Miss? What are you saying? That you don't have faith in us?

Me: No, I actually have great faith in you, but I'm also a realist.

(Class laughs knowingly.)

Me: Besides, that would be an expensive trip.

James: Naw, Miss, you can drive, and we'll pack food to eat.

Thomas: Yeah, and I"ll bring the GPS!

Amanda: We could take turns driving!

Me: O, good lord!

James: And we'll just drive through the night.

Michelle: Yup. We need to get on planning this right now. We can leave on some Friday.

Me: Hmmm. And when you say "we" you mean "me" (pointing to myself), right?

Michelle: Well, yeah.

Thomas: Hey! I got you covered with the GPS!

Study halls said to breed OCD in some, slovenliness in others, study reveals

2008-10-07T20:15:00.003-04:00

It is a rare and lucky teacher who has a classroom all to herself. At least at the secondary level, all of us, share classrooms. Granted, I am one of the lucky ones who teaches all of my classes in the same room; therefore, the room I'm in is considered to be mine. However, the reality is that at least four of us use the same room for various classes and study halls throughout each day.

Unfortunately, study halls are notoriously messy things; the teacher in charge is usually bored, and so are the students. Things happen to rooms during study halls that would not happen during an academic class (we hope). If, god forbid, a substitute is in charge of the study hall, there is no telling what damage might occur.

Today was a case in point. When I returned to my classroom after a study hall had used it, I found the following:

1. Nine pens under a student's desk. I mean, nine pens. They all work. I tried them. And then I put them in my pen can.

2. Two balled up and dirty kleenexes on the chair at my desk.

3. A half-empty seltzer bottle at my computer.

4. A graphing calculator.

5. A travel mug

6. My other chair on the opposite side of the room

7. Two newspapers spread out over five desks

8. A picture of genitalia in black Sharpie on one of my desks

9. My pile of New York Times articles divided into two piles scattered over a table.

And so I spent the first two minutes of my class cleaning up the study hall mess. Oy. If only study halls were useful things used for, I dunno, studying perhaps.

Directives from the ceiling, stars in the closet and feet on the ground

2008-09-24T17:37:00.011-04:00

(A voice from the ceiling interrupts a lively discussion of how to improve college application essays)

Disembodied voice: If you are assigned in-school suspension and walk out, you'll be suspended for two days. Some of you are going to ISS without being assigned, and if that happens you will get two days' suspension as well. You must be accompanied by a parent when you return, or you will be escorted off school property . . .

Me: Who goes to in-school without being assigned??

Grace: I know, right?

Disembodied voice: . . . you will not be allowed to return to school.

Donald: So much for talking about going to college . . .

(Later)

Me: So I'm recommending that you check out AdmissionsAdvice.com to confirm what I've been telling you about your college application essays. You really need to make sure that they communicate some aspect of who you are that your grades and test scores won't show. We'll continue working on your rough drafts tomorrow. Any questions?

Alyssa (waving her hand in the air): Clay Aikens is gay! He came out yesterday.

Me: Alyssa, um, I don't think I actually called on you. And I don't think this has anything to do with college application essays . . . so . . . What??

Alyssa: And Lindsay Lohan has a girlfriend.

Me (to Jessica, as I point to my forehead): Is that frown line back? The one that happens when I'm confused?

Jessica: Oh yeah.

Me: Just checking. Alyssa, I'm very happy for them all.

Charles: And back to the discussion of our essays . . .

(Even later . . . )

Me: So how many of you got an idea for your essay from the brainstorming activity?
(Two hands go up out of 24)

Me: So how many of you wrote your brainstorming thing vertically, like a list?

Charles: Vertically? Um, I wrote complete sentences.

Amanda: Me, too.

Samantha: Yeah.

Katherine: Yup. Complete sentences.

Me: What? How many of you did your brainstorming in complete sentences?
(22 out of 24 hands go up)

Me: Why? I told you specifically that it should NOT be complete sentences, that you should just write whatever pops into your mind related to the topic.

Charles: That's just the way we roll.

Me: Oy. Yes, I am rolling my eyes at you, Charles. Let me get this straight. I tell you NOT to write complete sentences, and you do. If I tell you I WANT complete sentences, I get little bitty fragments with no punctuation. Huh??

Jacob: I think that's the way our minds work. We want to do the opposite of what people tell us to do.

Anna: Miss? I think it's because we have messy lives so we naturally try to put them in order, in sentences.

Me: I think I'll go with what Anna said, if you don't mind.

Teacher punishment: Fire drills. Student punishment: Reading the New York Times

2008-09-23T18:02:00.015-04:00

(Fire alarm rings as the class is two paragraphs into a four-page New York Times article about Berea College, a Kentucky college that provides free tuition to its low-income students )

Various student voices: Oh, thank goodness! About time! Woo hoo!

Me: Hey! I'm right here!

James: We're too tired to suck up right now.

Me: Hmmm. Too bad.

(Later, the fire drill over, the article read and written about)

Me: So did anyone write that they'd be interested in going to Berea?

Darren: I wouldn't go there. The education isn't good.

Me: The article doesn't discuss that, but why do you think this?

Darren: If the education is free, then it can't be worth anything.

Me: So. If I gave you a Jaguar, you'd turn it down?

Darren: What?

Me: If I gave you a fancy car like a Jaguar, you'd turn it down because it wouldn't be worth anything?

Darren: No, that doesn't make sense.

Me: Exactly. The Jag still costs a lot of money and is valuable, but I'm giving it to you. I'm just not making you pay for it. The free tuition is a gift to you. Just because it's a gift and doesn't cost you anything doesn't mean it's not valuable.

Darren: Ohhh. I guess. That makes sense.

Me: That's why I get the big bucks.

John (quietly to Donald ): You know, I bet she does.

Me: Only some days . . .

(In the hall)
Student: Did you hear about that fire last night?

Other student: Yeah! I heard the sirens!

Student: It was on my street. Man, seeing that house burn was hot!

(As the New York Times articles are being distributed)
Audrey: Miss? Are we reading New York Times articles as punishment? You said that last year's class had to read these after they lost all your books.

Me: Of course not! You haven't lost my books yet, so this is fun, not punishment.

And other skills to file under "miscellaneous"

2008-09-17T18:34:00.011-04:00

(During the last two minutes of the day, as Gerald takes his do-rag and snaps it in the air like a wet towel)
Monique (laughing): Do it again!

Gerald (as he obliges): Why are you laughing?

Monique: I don't know! I want to learn that!

Me (watching enthralled as the do-rag cracks in the air): Geez, Gerald. That's pretty good. Notice, however, the very wide clearance we've given you.

Gerald: Oh yeah. Don't worry. I practice a lot.

Me: I believe it. Nevertheless, I think we'll all stand back a ways . . .

Monique (still laughing): Man, I want to try that!

Gerald (as he coaches her on the proper technique): And then you snap your arm back like that.

Monique (as her attempt results in a mere rustle of nylon in the air): I need to practice, I guess.

Me (as Gerald now displays variations--snapping it ceiling-ward and floor-ward alternately): So this needs a name. What do you call it?

James: Do-rag whipping.

Me: That's pretty good.

Gerald (thinking for a second): Do-rag ninja.

Me (et al., laughing in agreement): That's perfect!

Monique: Now you need to do this on YouTube!

Darren: Hey! You should include this on your resume!

Me (head in hands as others enthusiastically agree): Oy. Perhaps not. We'll see . . .
Bell rings.

A room without a view: Or I wonder what accountants dream of?

2008-09-13T17:26:00.013-04:00

If I had stopped to think about it, I would have realized that I was overdue for a teacher dream. Although I went the whole summer without one, I woke up this morning, my first weekend after my first full week of school, straight from the throes of a fairly typical teacher dream.

My retired friend Gary was back teaching English, and he was telling me quite enthusiastically about his plans to begin the year with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. We discussed this for a few minutes, and when he disappeared to teach his class, I decided to find my class. At this point, this turned into one of my more typical teacher dreams where I'm supposed to be somewhere but I either don't know it or can't find it. This time, I couldn't find my room.

I spent most of my dream wandering around a huge building filled with people that looked like a cross between my former school and my current school. I kept running into people I knew who seemed to know where they should be. I kept waiting to hear the dreaded, "Mrs. Huth, please report to your class" over the PA system.

In my dream, my room was AB21, a computer lab that is actually across from my real classroom, AB16. I felt frustrated that I couldn't find my familiar room in this familiar building so finally, I asked someone where my room was. The person I chose was a former department chair, infamous for her enthusiasm and optimism. She stood in the center of a beautiful room beneath a skylight and in front of a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. The light streamed in, and I remember thinking that my room, the room I was looking for, was somewhat like hers.

When I told her that I couldn't find my room she smirked at me and told me my room was #3 Crosswoods. She added that that was where they put teachers who would teach eight classes in a row. I asked, Who in the world would do that? She said that they didn't know they were teaching eight classes in a row because they couldn't tell what time of day it was.

I eventually gathered, from random responses from those standing nearby, that while I was teaching my morning classes somewhere else, all my colleagues had met to choose their classrooms. Because I was the only teacher who hadn't chosen, they gave me the room no one else wanted.

I remember feeling vaguely unhappy as I mulled my room situation for the next year. I pictured a small, dark room with no windows. How else could those teaching in the room not be able to tell what time of day it was? Nevertheless, I also remember thinking, Oh well, at least I like my kids. They'll make the lousy classroom seem better.

And then I woke up. Hmmmm.

Tell them they don't suck: Or how to build self-esteem among teenagers

2008-09-10T21:21:00.009-04:00

I must assume that teachers respond similarly to the question that inevitably occurs early in the school year: How's it going? or How are your kids? or How are are your classes? Mostly, we respond with guarded optimism: Oh, they seem good! or Oh, they seem fine. or Well, they're freshmen (or 6th graders or kindergartners) after all. We understand that those first few days of school are gloriously different from the rest of the year.

If we are lucky (and have been around the block 21 or so times), our new students know us by reputation from cousins, siblings, aunts or uncles who had us back in the day and who (we hope) didn't hate us. Perhaps even thought we were entertaining. Or useful. Or not lame. If we are lucky and experienced, we enjoy the first few days of classes as a time to move quickly from point to point with classes we don't yet know. Since we don't know our students, we don't necessarily have to worry about them. We don't have any details, complications or background information to confuse our focus on the classwork at hand. No bad test scores, no unreadable essays, no phone calls home from the previous day to contend with. No history. Yet.

To be honest, it is a simple but boring time.

Finally, on about day four, they begin to emerge as known quantities with names and personalities. Monique is the one who looks sullen but breaks into a beautiful smile when I concur that being on drill team should be considered an athletic activity. Grace is the one whose mother I worked with for a few years and tells me that she knows I'm always patient. Dolores asks good questions about applying for college. Josh is very serious. Kevin asks me if I'm always calm and quiet. Darren makes me laugh when he tells me a story about a friend of his and former student of mine from last year. They become more comfortable, especially when I talk about applying to college. Instead of merely nodding at me when I speak to them of my hopes, my plans that they all attend college, they begin to honestly assess their chances and express their fears.

Me (moving around the room as they work on creating their résumés for college applications): You had a question?

Kevin: Not really. I just wanted to say that I suck.

Me: Um, why is that?

Kevin: Because I don't have anything to put on my résumé. I didn't play sports. I didn't belong to any clubs. Nothing.

Me: Well, um, did you have a job?

Kevin: Yeah, but that doesn't count.

Me: Sure it does.

Kevin: Oh. Okay. I'll put that down.

Judith: Miss? I suck too.

Me: Judith? What? Why do you suck?

Judith: Because I don't have anything either.

Me: Judith, you don't suck. Neither does Kevin. In fact, no one in this room sucks. We are incredibly un-sucky. And you all have something to include on a résumé.

Judith, Kevin, George, et. al: But . . . what about . . . yeah, but . . .

Me: None of you suck, okay?

Judith, Kevin, George, et. al (slowly, reluctantly, with a heavy sigh): Oh . . . o . . . kay . . .

Me: It will be fine. Now find a club to join.

Later

Student: Miss? I listed this as community service, but what if they ask me why I did it?

Me: Um, I don't think they'll ask you that. But why are you wondering?

Student: Because I don't think I can give them a good answer. Maybe I shouldn't include it.

Me: Colleges like to see community service on a résumé. What's the problem?

Student: Well, I had to do the community service. . .

Me (patiently): And . . . ?

Student: . . . because I was arrested.

Me: Oh.

Student: See?

Me: Well, you don't have to tell them why you performed the community service. I don't think they'll ask.

Student: Really? Oh, good!

Other student: Miss? Should I put a job on my résumé if I got fired?

Me: Um, have you thought about joining a club here at school?

My own private Rapa Nui

2008-06-25T13:17:00.006-04:00

School is strangely quiet now. We are finishing grades, completing paperwork, cleaning rooms and in some small way, preparing for the fall. I'm essentially done today, except for turning in my keys and attending graduation on Friday. Other years, I would probably still be trying to finish everything, but this year, for some reason, I finished early and fairly painlessly. I'm enjoying the quiet and using it to plan for changes to my senior English class next year. And I'm reading the New York Times. A lot. To find articles to use next year because my students lost all my books when I was out. And drinking lots of coffee. Often.

In the midst of my googling a comparison of Fender and Gibson guitars, I was startled to see a student rush into my room. Rush is not exactly the right word. Surge is probably more like it. I've had him for two years now, and he always enters my room the same way: Right shoulder first, head down a little, surging sideways and surprisingly quickly over the threshold and straight to the bank of windows at the other side of the room. As if forcing himself through invisible combatants. As if the end of the room is the only thing that will slow his momentum.

When he reached the windows, a wave hitting a rocky shoreline and rolling back out to sea, he surged gently back to my place, back toward the door, to finally hover behind me, just out of my peripheral vision.

Douglas: So you're all done!

Me: Yup. I just finished cleaning my desk.

Douglas (pacing behind me over my right shoulder): Looks good!

Me: Thanks.

Douglas: Which head would you like?

Me: Um, excuse me?

Douglas (presenting me with two pretty much life-size photocopied cut-outs of his head, neck and a tiny bit of t-shirt collar): Which one do you like?

Me: Um, I like them both, but may I have this one?

Douglas: Sure! Let me just trim it a little bit.

Me: No, that's okay. It looks fine! Thanks!

Douglas: Now you can hang me on your wall! You'll have to find a place!

Me (as I clip the head to my bulletin to my left and directly behind my left shoulder):How about if I put you here for now? I'll rearrange it in the fall.

Douglas: That looks good. Now I'll always be watching and you'll remember me.

Me (as he surges back out the door, ostensibly to deliver the remaining "head" to a colleague):Of course I'll remember you . . .

Whoa, slow down there maestro. There's a "New" Mexico?

2008-06-17T21:50:00.005-04:00

I've found myself with an unhealthy interest in my site meter. In particular, I enjoy checking the search words visitors have googled or yahooed to end up at my site. Unfortunately for them, this little blog never helps them with their search.

The most popular search by far is for "the noise next door," a punkish group from England, apparently. Little did I know. My blog's name refers merely to the occasional noise emanating from classrooms surrounding my very quiet one. If the visitor is British, Canadian or Indian, he is probably searching for this musical group. I suppose I should listen to them sometime.

The second most popular search is a fairly new phenomenon. If the visitor is from Florida, Texas, Tennessee, Georgia, New Mexico or Arizona, I can be pretty sure that he is looking for information about "tractor tattoos." Oy. Really? Hmmm.

Another popular search is for "fish scale purses." Those searching for "Mary Poppins spoons" end up at the same entry.

While it's easy enough for me to question why someone might be interested in learning about "fish scale underwear," "what black people smell like," "tattoo texting" or (most disturbing) "paying to be shot," I have to accept this fact: I'm the one writing about these topics. Okay, I may not even be aware that this is what I'm writing about, but nevertheless, search engines send people to me looking for information about things that are very strange, possibly illegal and certainly, at the least, in questionable taste.

It's enough to make me read my entries with an eye to potential search phrases. An entry I wrote on 16 June for my father mentions "wool skirt," "knee socks" and "Camelot" from Monty Python. I eagerly await the possibilities.

On second thought, let's not go to Camelot. It is a silly place.

2008-06-15T00:00:00.006-04:00

When I was in high school, my father used to joke about how his fantasy daughter would dress. She would wear wool skirts, knee socks and (I think) cardigan sweaters. I can't quite remember if penny loafers were part of this.* Unfortunately, the teenage daughter he ended up with favored Levi 501s with flannel shirts over T-shirts that said, "Swimming suits me."

On the surface, we seemed to be opposites: his academic interests were in science and math, and his strengths were in all subjects; my interests and strengths were in English and history. He was third in his class of over 700 (that nameless position, which our family coined "goobetorian" just for him); I was somewhere in the middle with a pretty solid B+ average that could have been much better had I worked harder. He was gregarious; I was shy.

As we both get older, I realize that he may have given me more than I noticed as a teenager and that ultimately, we are more similar than not.

When I say something that makes my students laugh, or when they make me laugh, I see my dad's sense of humor. Because of him, I can appreciate the broad, the ironic, and the just plain silly, and I'm grateful for the time we spent watching Monty Python and Laugh-In, even when I didn't get all the jokes.

When my son or daughter protests about my paying for something and I tell them that "it's all the same money," I hear my father telling me that as he pays for our plane fare to visit or refuses a contribution toward a restaurant bill.

When I imagine a life beyond my job, I see my dad learning to paint, learning to ski, learning to play banjo, remodeling an old Victorian house, an Adirondack camp, figuring out how to build a backyard skating rink, a deck, a pergola, a dock. I see him sitting on a boat with a book in his hand, walking to the post office. I see him enjoying the people around him, offering help, friendship.

As I learn, slowly, how to handle life's surprises, I see my father appreciating the ironic, the absurd, the difficult, and handling them without anger, dismay or despair.

I actually have a picture of myself wearing a plaid wool skirt, knee socks, penny loafers and a sweater. It doesn't really look like me. Somehow, Dad always made me feel he appreciated me despite our seeming differences--no small feat when the daughter of a science teacher had trouble passing her Chemistry Regents with a 65.

*My father has since pointed out that the preferred shoes were saddle shoes, not penny loafers (16 June 2008).

They shoot horses, don't they? or Two horses walk into a bar . . .

2008-06-09T21:14:00.005-04:00

Dan: Lemme tell you a joke.

Me: Oh lord.

Dan: It's a good one. Two horses went into a barn . . .

Me (interrupting): Bar or barn?

Kevin: I'm leaving if this joke has the word "neigh" in it . . .

Dan: Barn. So the one horse says, "Did you hear that George is in the hospital?" The other horse says, "So, how's he doing?" The first horse says, "Oh, he's stable."

Me (to Kevin): I think I would have preferred hearing the word "neigh."

Kevin: Oh yeah.

Dan: Hey! I almost got low blood sugar last night from thinking that up!

Me: What?

Dan: I had to get up in the middle of the night to write that one down!

Me: Wait. You wrote that one yourself?

Dan: Yeah.

Me: Hmmm. I hate to say it, but I think I have to give you a tiny teeny weeny increase of props for writing it yourself.

Kevin: No, I don't think you need to do that.

Me: Kevin, believe me, it hurts to say that, but I do.

Dan: Hey, thanks, Huth!

Me: Dan, that doesn't mean it's a good joke or anything.

Dan: Yeah, but if it had been really bad, it would have gotten the "Huth eye roll."

You know what I blame this on the breakdown of? Society.

2008-06-02T19:22:00.007-04:00

During a discussion of a New York Times article on curbing truancy with electronic monitoring systems, with an eye toward creating a persuasive argument, and as the more vocal members of class voice their opinions about how the chronically truant adversely affect the lives of those who diligently attend school--

Joe: I mean, those kinds of kids, the ones who are truant, they're not going to change just because they're wearing a GPS.

Jess: They might. If I had to wear one, I'd change.

Me: It is true that attendance does not necessarily equate academic success . . . I'm thinking that while Justin certainly is here in body, he's so busy texting right now that he has no clue what we're discussing . . .

(Justin sheepishly looks up and pretends to put his phone away.)

Roger: If the tracking device was really big and obvious, then it might make a difference. Like if it were around their necks . . .

Me (interrupting): What?

Roger: . . . with spikes to stick into their necks . . .

Me (interrupting again): What??

Joe: Naw, you don't need spikes. You just need to make them stand out, so everyone would know they were truancy problems.

(Tired groans from the rest of the class)

Me: So, you're suggesting a way to make it obvious that this group of kids is a problem, right?

Joe: Right.

Me (tilting head, scrunching mouth thoughtfully): So . . . we need a way to identify this particular group as a problem . . . (thinking some more) . . . I think the neck-thing would be difficult to manage . . . What if we tried something else . . . something simpler . . .

Adele (under her breath): Oh, lord . . .

Alex (under his breath): Wait for it . . .

Me: How about making all the truancy problems wear something to make them stand out somehow? We could make them wear, I dunno, a brightly-colored star or something on their clothes . . .

(Adele, Hosna, Alex, et. al. variously snorting and attempting to suppress laughter)

Me: . . . something so we could all know that these kids are different from us and that we, those who regularly attend school, are better.

(Exaggerated sighs and heavy eye-rolling from the truancy lynch posse.)

Me: Ah, yes. That's why I get the big bucks. And just remember why we're reading all these articles now . . .

Class: . . . because all your books disappeared when you were out . . .

Oh boy! Sleep! That's when I'm a Viking!

2008-05-28T15:12:00.008-04:00

Last night I had one of those dreams where I thought I had a great idea for a blog post. In my dream, I wrote about some hilarious thing that happened in one of my classes, and I remember thinking, "God, this is pretty darn funny! Erin will read it to Anna, and they'll both laugh!" Then I thought, "But this is a dream. Did this really happen? Will I remember it tomorrow?"

Today, I find myself with no memory of the post's content, and no sense of whether it really was based on reality. Oh well. Duh.

I spent today listening intently to my classes, hoping for writing fodder, feebly grasping at moments of levity, incongruity and insight, all of which slipped from me as I answered the intercom, or gathered back work, or had to leave my room to make way for another teacher.

I finally gave up.

Because I am a person firmly grounded in reality I will offer today's statistics in lieu of my fantasy post.

6: Number of Saturdays until I visit Nora in Venice.

5: The average number of seniors absent from each class today.

4: The number of phone calls I made (in between classes) trying to arrange to pay my son's tuition for the fall.

3: The number of seniors who told me they don't think they'll graduate this June because they still haven't passed a Regents exam they should have passed in 10th grade.

2: The number of students who showed up to mod 8 whom I hadn't seen in a week and a half.

2: The number of former students who came back to visit me with excited reports about their first year in college.

2: The number of beers I drank on my deck when I got home from school.

1: The number of seniors who told me they're pregnant.

1: The number of seniors who told me they're about ready to drop out of school even though graduation is on June 27th.

1: The number of former students' obituaries I found in today's paper.

1: The number of boxes of already-opened granola bars I received because they "tasted like bark, and I know you like to eat healthy."

All in all, it was a good day. Or at least it was a normal day.

Will you be my mommy? You smell like dead bunnies . . .

2008-05-22T17:54:00.012-04:00

Random discussion before class begins
Quinci: So Boo-Boo is bigger than you, right?

Yogi: Yeah. My brother's a lot heavier. And taller. That's why everyone always says, "Hey! Boo-Boo can't be bigger than Yogi!"

During a class discussion of a review of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Me: So the first Indiana Jones movie came out in 1981.

Cheryl: Wow. That was a long time ago. How old were you? 16?

Me: You just got some extra points. No. I was 20.

Quinci: 20. Wow. My mother is younger than you.

Me: Hmmm. Yes. Well, anyway . . .

Guy: So you're . . .

Me: Yes. I'm dumb old. Wait. Should I say "mad old" instead?

Jamie: Yeah. "Mad old" sounds better.

Me: Okay. So. Back to the review . . .

Cheryl (interrupting): So was that Indiana Jones movie in black and white?

Another random discussion during the last two minutes of class
Cheryl (to Yogi): Does your house smell like curry?

Yogi: What? Why?

Cheryl: Guyanese people smell like curry.

Yogi: My house doesn't smell like curry.

Breenah: White people smell like spaghetti.

Cheryl: And when it rains, they smell like wet dogs.

Me: What? Wet dogs?

Yogi: I don't know about that.

Me: What??

Quinci: What do Pakistani people smell like?

Cheryl: Curry.

Yogi: Does everyone smell like curry?

Breenah: No. Black people smell like must.

Quinci: Hey! I don't smell like that.

Breenah: Well, just the boys, and if they don't shower.

Me: Wait a minute. I smell like wet dogs??

Yogi: No, you don't. Cheryl just thinks everyone smells like curry anyway.

Me: So why don't I smell like curry??

Cheryl: No, I mean, white people have pets, and when it rains, they smell like their . . .

Yogi (interrupting): Do you just look at people and see them as food? I bet you do.

Cheryl (laughing): No, I mean, maybe . . .

Yogi: See? It's true! She does!

Me: Wait. I smell like wet dogs? And spaghetti? Why can't I smell like curry?

Yogi:No, Miss. You smell fine. But we'll say you smell like curry if you want us to.

Me fail English? That's unpossible.

2008-05-13T20:20:00.007-04:00

Mark: How long is this movie review supposed to be?

Me: I told you on the assignment sheet I gave you yesterday, and which is sitting on your desk right in front of you.

Mark: It's easier for you to tell me.

Me: No, it's actually not.

Jen: So we're writing about two movies? Comparing them?

Me: What? No. Look at the assignment sheet, which I distinctly remember going over in class yesterday and which you have in front of you. It says write about one movie that you choose.

Jen: So it does it have to be one we did in class?

Me (taking a deep breath): Any movie that you choose. It could be one we saw during class, or it could be one you saw on your own, in a theater or at home.

Jen: But I didn't see all of Stranger Than Fiction last week. I was absent, remember?

Me (taking a deeper breath): That's why the assignment can be about ANY movie you want to write about.

Anthony: I bet you're having us write about a movie because we didn't read the book you left when the sub was here and they all disappeared.

Me: That's a good guess, Anthony.

George: But Miss, five to seven paragraphs is mad long. I can't write that much.

Me: Don't worry about the length right now. Just get started on one point and get that part roughed out. Besides, paragraphs can be all different lengths . . .

George (interrupting): No, they're supposed to be three or four sentences long.

Me: Where did you learn that??

Kira: So how long is this supposed to be?

Me (head buried in hands, groaning audibly): Read the assignment sheet again, please.

George: Miss, why do you stress yourself about us? You should just let us take the easy way.

(Murmurs of agreement from other parts of the room.)

Me: Hmmm, let me think about that . . . . um . . . . no.

George: Miss, I'll be honest with you. I've just been doing the bare mininum this year.

Me: Thanks for making that clear.

Because of skunk mittens, spelling tests and guitar chords

2008-05-11T00:01:00.001-04:00

My mother likes to tell the story that she knew she was supposed to be a teacher when she gave a spelling test for the first time. Somehow, she knew that she was meant to teach, which she did for many years. While I had no similar portent of my destiny, I have to believe that I became a teacher, in large part, because of my mother.

She also has helped determine who I am in other ways:

Because I stood beside her in our kitchen in Rochester watching her make a pie crust, using the backside of a fork to crimp the edges, I know how to bake.

Because she knit me hats and scarves and especially skunk mittens, and even more importantly, patiently showed me how to do it, I knit and have been able to teach this to my own daughter.

Because she carefully and kindly corrected my writing assignments, I am a confident writer.

Because she wanted to ski, I learned how to ski and skate and love the cold winter months.

Because she was a beautiful and strong swimmer, I learned how to swim. And because of how she taught me to swim, I learned how to teach others.

Because she taught me that being a lifeguard was an important job, I took the job seriously.

Because she was a voracious reader, I love books.

Because she taught herself how to play guitar, I play guitar. When I haltingly switch from C to G, and the song briefly hiccups, I hear her switching chords and hesitantly, quietly, singing at the dining room table.

Because she loved music and always wanted to play the piano, I learned how to play piano and cello and bassoon and drums and guitar.

Because she loved horses, she let me learn how to ride and eventually have a horse of my own.

Because she thought Caroga Lake was the most wonderful place in the world, the camp there remains my favorite place as well.

Because she let me up-end furniture and drape blankets over it, I learned to imagine other worlds.

Because she let me make peanut butter, onion and Worcestershire sauce sandwiches, I feel free to experiment with flavors when I cook.

Because she made me pancakes for supper on Fridays, I love breakfast anytime.

Because she let me use scotch tape on the windows, I know that any mess can be cleaned up afterward.

Because she didn't make me wear a white dress and veil for my first communion, I learned that we don't always have to do things the way everyone else does.

Because she always saw the best in her students, I try hard to do the same.
Because she is a strong woman, I know that I have strength when I need it.

In these ways, this incomplete list, I understand who I am and how and why I came to be.

I heard that Ramon got a horse and carriage

2008-05-09T18:17:00.009-04:00

Today is the day of my school's junior/senior prom. It is a day of magic and beauty and anticipation and multi-colored fake fingernails and head scarves covering rollers and elaborate, humidity-sensitive do's and discussions of whose stretch Humvee is the longest. It is a day that my district requires all potential prom-goers to attend school for at least half the day--until 10:40 a.m. It is, as all teachers of juniors and seniors realize, a wasted day.

Morning classes are full, but those in attendance are too busy worrying about hair appointments, dress fittings, manis, pedis and limo rentals to really pay attention to any class assignment. After 10:40, classes are empty. The only students who remain are those with really strict parents or those who are not attending the prom. My children, with four proms between them, remained at school the entire day of each prom day. I hope they have forgiven me. Partly to make it up to my lovely, long-suffering and understanding children, Erin and Tim, I always try to plan a useful lesson for prom day despite the loud and regular protests of my students.

A very short play about the futility of teaching, not just on prom day

(The class buzzes hopefully, quietly discussing the slight possibility that I might give them a "free day.")
Me: Haven't you learned by now that I'm not accepting lame excuses like the prom as a way to avoid work? Haven't you managed to avoid enough work this year?
Dan: We've done plenty of stuff this year. We should get a day off. I mean, we read Hamilton, and everything.
Me: What??
Dan: We read Hamilton.
Me: What?? . . . Hamilton? . . . . . . (as a sudden and horrible possibility slowly dawns) . . . . . by William Shakespeare?
Dan: Exactly.

Texting, tractors and tattoos

2008-04-28T17:21:00.005-04:00

During a discussion of a New York Times article on technology in the classroom, my students shared some insight. They prefer to text (while attempting to hide the phone under the desk, leaning against lockers, slouching down the hall and most scary of all, while driving a car) to making an actual call.

Why? I asked. I am a person who (despite the fact that I touch-type really well) texts with an index finger while holding the phone rather delicately in my left hand. And it annoys me to have to omit punctuation, which I do because I'm too lazy to look up the way to include it.

Because, Quinci told me, we don't know how to end phone calls. It's mad hard to do and makes us uncomfortable.

Don't you think, I asked, you should know how to do that? It's not that hard. It's part of being polite and learning the social graces.

No. It's mad uncomfortable. Plus, you can lie when you text and they won't hear it in your voice.

A short play about my cell phone

Kevin (to me): I think your phone is vibrating.
Me: Oh, that's okay. Just ignore it.
Sherelle: What if it's your husband?
Me: It's okay. He'll figure out that I have class and I'll call him back.
Sherelle: But you answered the phone yesterday! Just because he was out of town and you were worried about him!
Me: I know. He's home now. It's fine. Besides, you all had a fit when I answered my phone at the beginning of class DESPITE THE FACT THAT I'M A GROWN-UP.
Sherelle (to the class): What if he's stuck under a tractor? What if he needs your help because he's just stuck under a tractor?
Me: What? Lord . . . he's not stuck under a tractor.
Sherelle: But . . .
Me: And if he is stuck under a tractor, it's too late for me to help him anyway. So let's try to focus on this reading . . .

Finally, an even shorter play about tattoos

Quinci: I'm going to get a tattoo on each wrist that says carpe diem.
Katie: What? What is that?
Quinci: It means "seize the day."
Guy: Watch, you'll get Alzheimers some day and look at your wrists and be like, what? is that my name? carpe diem?

And it's not even my birthday.

2008-04-23T18:59:00.007-04:00

Small gifts I received today from students, and a big gift from a friend:

From Dan: A series of bad jokes that made me groan first thing in the morning. (Well, this actually happens every day . . . )

From Jess: A small sailboat folded out of notebook paper labeled "S.S. Huthy."

From Andre: Closed curtains that I couldn't otherwise easily reach.

From someone in mod 1: A slightly dirty kleenex left on a desk.

From Elizabeth in mod 3 English 12: Good news that she was able to complete her Tuition Assistance Program form and therefore complete her financial aid application to the college she will attend in the fall, Russell Sage.

From Eric, mod 6 English 12: A copy of a New York Times article about credit recovery, today's discussion/lesson, with a drool spot.

From mod 8 English 12: A truly thoughtful and mature discussion of the same New York Times article, with only two attempts to sidetrack the lesson, neither of which was successful.

From Gary, my friend: The promise that he would spread the rumor that I was a dangerous person to be reckoned with, that he would tell people, "Don't mess with Huth. She'll cut ya."
(I'm still not sure what prompted this, but sadly, I like it.)

From Katie: A great, if inadvertant, joke, when confronting the word "anonymity."
("Miss?" she asked. "Isn't that where Nemo lives?" As I tried not to laugh, she started to laugh herself and said, "Oh, no. That's . . . " and the entire class said as one, "Anenome." Two minutes lost from class, but well worth it.)

Finally, also from Gary: My 28-year-old Yamaha FG-335 guitar.*
(After he called me a lazy-ass for not playing anymore, he took it away and had it fixed and reconditioned. It has been unwarped, restringed, and oiled. It is a beautiful thing. If only it sounded beautiful when I played the three chords I still remember . . . and he will not tell me how much this cost. I am afraid, however, that I will be required to play "Smoke on the Water" for him at some point.)

*I received my guitar from my parents for Christmas in 1980 when I was a freshman in college. In this other life, attending a Catholic women's college in hyper-preppy Burlington, Vermont, I happened to be friends with people who were completely insane every weekend, spending Saturday night at whatever UVM kegger was advertised, but who still managed to play for folk mass Sunday morning. And so I began a short period of embracing my Catholicsm. It was a scary time. It was a short time. Nevertheless, I did get a beautiful guitar out of it, which I continued to use fairly regularly until a friend popped a string on it, which I was too lazy to replace. And so there my poor guitar sat, unused, unloved, warping and getting old, in my son's bedroom.)

I should mention that Gary tells me that aside from my being a lazy-ass, he had the guitar fixed for me because I gave him my piano (another gift from my parents. I'm a very lucky girl).

I'm pleased to note that Gary, much less of a lazy-ass than I, has been using the piano to play and to write songs. And it looks lots better in his house. Sadly, more use than it got for years sitting in my house.

What I did realize, however, is that I have no way to tune my guitar now. I will have to call Gary and have him play me a low E.

I will now work on my calluses.

It's all about perspective and scrub jays

2008-04-14T21:46:00.009-04:00

I don't trust people who read self-help books. Or who watch Oprah. To be fair, perhaps these poor souls don't have the luxury of smart, sensible friends, as I do. Whenever I find myself wallowing in doubt, beating myself up or merely thinking too damn much, my friends usually set me straight.

Case in point: I woke up this morning at my parents' home on the Gulf coast of Florida. The sky was blue, the weather was warm, it was spring break. Where was I? Outside enjoying the sun? Appreciating my wonderful vacation time? Nope. I was inside, writing to Nora about how bothered I was that I hadn't felt like writing lately, and myriad other issues. Her response?

"Just dry your hair and go to the beach, Huth."

Ahhh, friends.

While I did not go to the beach until later, I did visit a state park. On the trail, I spotted a scrub jay. As one does with scrub jays (apparently), I stuck out my hand and clicked my tongue a bit. A jay swooped from the brush and landed on my hand while the other watched. After a minute or two, this jay flew off, and the other one swooped in to land on my head. Suddenly, my purpose was clear: I was a perch, an amiable resting spot, a way-station for the convenience of wildlife.

Actually, I felt quite peaceful. And useful.

Later, when I did make it to the beach the sun had just set, and the surf was rough. The wind had kicked up, and if I had been home, I would have said that the clouds looked like they held snow. The sunset-watchers had left, and the beach was empty. I stood there for a bit, holding my jacket close to me.

There is nothing like going to the beach, or having a large blue bird standing on your head, to provide perspective.

Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that's even remotely true!

2008-04-01T16:54:00.009-04:00

Today was my first day back at school after being out since March 6. While I was looking forward to seeing my kids, I was not eager to return to the routine of being up before daylight, living according to bells, and the general mess that awaits a teacher who's had a substitute for this long.

Some significant numbers with which to document my day:

115: The number of pages I left my students to read during class.
35: The number of books I left for my students to read during class.
33: The average number of pages that were actually read.
27: The number of students who unabashedly told me they did nothing in my absence because they didn't like the sub.
17: The number of days I was absent because of my husband's heart surgery.
16: The number of days my sub apparently entertained my classes by performing magic tricks.
15: The number of feet a hawk was sitting from my window as he ate a pigeon, neck first.
12: The number of students who actually completed the work I'd left.
11: The number of days until spring break.
9: The number of hours I spent at school today trying to clean up my sub's mess.
9: The number of hours I'll spend tomorrow at school trying to clean up my sub's mess.
8: The number of the "mod" or period where this exchange occurred.*
4: The number of books that I found this morning upon my return.
3: The number of classes I alternately lectured, ranted at and made feel guilty today. I'll do the other class tomorrow. And I'll probably go back and do the same to the other classes as well.
3: The number of dry erase markers that disappeared.
2: The number of hours I'll spend tonight trying to clean up my sub's mess.
1: The number of lamp chops I will make for dinner (it's a big one).
1/2: The amount of a bottle of wine I will consume as I try not to think too much about my students.
------------------------------
*Kathy: Miss! Did you read about me in the paper last week? I was stabbed in the butt!
Me: Um, what?
Kathy: Yeah! So I was at a party . . .
Me (interrupting): Kathy, I'll let you tell this story if you can do it in under 3 minutes.
Kathy proceeds to tell the story in 2 minutes and 47 seconds.
Me (realizing I had, in fact, read this story in the paper): O, lord, Kathy. That was you?!
Kathy: Yeah, and that's why I can't sit still today, even though they gave me a shot of amnesia.

(Later, as they're writing and some tiny discussion pops up)
Me: Hey! Hush now, and keep writing! You took the last three weeks off, and you have no business talking now.
Guy, Cheryl, Sherelle, et. al.: Okay! Okay! We're writing!
Me (sarcastic): Because if the writing is too much, I suppose I could grade you for breathing . . .
Kathy: It would help.

Remnants, Residue and Right

2008-03-24T21:06:00.006-04:00

Today, I put my son on a train back to school, and Friday, I put my daughter on a train back to her home in New York. For a long time, I could never imagine my house without my kids. When my daughter went to college, I remember saying to my husband about our house minus one, "This is not the way it's supposed to be." We were a family of four, and one was someplace else. It just wasn't right.

When my son went to college last fall, I didn't expect it to feel better. And it didn't. We were a family of four, and now we were down to two. We were the incredible shrinking family, and while I realized that we all were going to be fine, that it was the necessary chain of events, that eventually, our family would grow again in wonderful ways, it still just wasn't right. And while I do not hover about my children or mourn their absence, and while I am thoroughly happy that they are able to develop their own lives away from their father and me, I do miss their presence in untold ways.

The reason that I'm considering this now, however, is because they've both been home for about two weeks, an unusual event caused by their father's recent heart surgery. Before this, time together for more than a weekend was rare and required the merging of four divergent school and work schedules.

However, after I put my son on the train today, I returned home to realize that even after they've left, my children always make their presence known.

From my daughter:
Two crumpled kleenexes on the bookcase.
A borrowed-from-Mom St. Rose hoodie, a University of Miami sweatshirt, a pair of shredded sweatpants and a yellow Factsheet Five t-shirt on a chair.
Amnesia Moon, by Jonathan Lethem, and A Long Desire, by Evan S. Connell, on the printer.
A green blanket cum dog lounging spot on the floor by the bed.
A borrowed-from-Mom black sweater astride the other bookcase.
A toolbox holding jewelry-making supplies on the livingroom coffee table.

From my son:
A futon left opened (which, unfortunately, no one here at home is capable of or has knowledge of how to close).
Various and sundry bedding material including a crumpled pillow, comforter, Grammommy-knit afghan and pillows from the loveseat in the livingroom.
An empy Wii game box (game to be found at SUNY Purchase).
A Game Cube.
The 4th, 5th and 8th seasons of The Simpsons on DVD.
The Special Extended Edition of The Lord of the Rings Return of the King.
Ocean's Twelve.
No Country for Old Men.
An A & F bag holding a size 13 Van's Bucky Lasek Navy/STV Navy shoe box.

It does not bother me to clean up these bits and pieces of my children's presence. In fact, I almost enjoy finding their residue, their remnants. Somehow, it tells me that this is still home, that they know it's okay to pack hurriedly the hour before they must make their train, to leave the unnecessary bits out on a chair or a bookcase or a radiator, for me to pick up later. It's fine. And somehow, while I'm happy to know that they are happy to go back to their lives away from here, I'm happy to slowly pick up their bits and pieces knowing that this is the way it's supposed to be, that it feels right.

Toddlers, cockers and pills

2008-03-21T10:26:00.008-04:00

Being home for a few weeks has given me a new set of "dreams in which I realize my shortcomings." Instead of students staging coups, this new dream involves the pills Geof takes after his heart surgery. These dream are much quieter than those involving students and revolt. In the medicine dreams, I simply forget to provide the proper medicine. Or I give too much. Or I lose the medicine. In this morning's dream (not coincidentally after I dispensed the first medicine of the day and went back to sleep), I not only forgot to provide medicine, but I also lost it and even worse, discovered a whole new set of medicine I'd forgotten about and had failed to dispense. As this horrible realization washes over me, I notice that the car I have been driving has turned to a motorcycle in the pouring rain. Not a good thing, since I have no idea how to drive a motorcycle. Plus I'm getting soaked.

At this point, the pill theme disappears, and as I open a door to an attic in a house that isn't mine, three toddlers and two cocker spaniels escape. Somehow, I am able to round them up and stuff them back through the door and close it before their parents/owners appear. At this point I'm awakened by the repetitive vibration of Geof's cell phone on a table, and our nurse-friend, Prestine, is calling him to find out how he is feeling.

As in the student insurrection dreams, I am appalled by my lack of competence. This time, however, there is no public reprimand. Why I'm dreaming about dispensing medicine is clear enough; I'm doing this several times a day, and last night, I gave the 8:00 pills at 8:28. Why? Because I just forgot. Not a big deal, but apparently bothersome enough to appear in a dream.

The toddlers and cocker spaniels in the attic? I'll have to think about them for a while.

408 hours (not counting weekends)

2008-03-19T14:28:00.012-04:00

By the end of this month, I will have missed 17 days of school, the most consecutive days ever (by far) in 20 years of teaching.

7 days more than I took for the birth of my son.

17 days for my husband grudgingly to allow me to help him after heart surgery.

17 days to get caught up on work.

17 days to do the laundry whenever I want.

17 days to miss at least 5 deadly after-school meetings.

17 days my alarm will not ring at 6:00 a.m. but at 8:00, according to the pill schedule.

17 days to appreciate the sort of freedom my retired friends enjoy.

17 days . . .

to receive emails from students: "hey huth we should watch the movie only Farshid and me and Liz are reading the book"

and "Hey mrs huth how is your husband clas is not as fun with out you. Hope yout husband gets sonn take care."

17 days to get calls from my sub, quiet desperation in his voice, asking me to please send in work that my students would want to complete.

17 days . . .

to realize that my home can be anywhere.

to know that my house is one of my favorite places despite its leaky and cracked spots.

to find that nesting instinct returning from so long ago as I try to make my son's room comfortable for my husband and me, as my daughter and I try to find a chair that will allow him to sleep comfortably (and is not too ugly).

to appreciate a house full of my family after months of quiet.

to realize that I can love my job, and leave it. And that when the time comes to leave it for good, that will be fine with me.

to enjoy being taken care of.

to understand the huge difference 17 days can make.

A very short play about my better qualities, I guess

2008-03-03T12:31:00.012-05:00

Scene: My classroom.
I've asked one of my 12th grade classes to tell me about other movies they've seen that fit our discussion theme of the problems characters have fitting into their society.

Christina: Juno has a character who doesn't fit into her world very well. She had a hard time dealing with everybody around her because she did everything differently.

Me: Good point. Can you explain what she did that people disagreed with?

Tom (urgently): Miss Huth, that girl, Juno, reminds me of you.

Me: Tom, you're interrupting Christina now . . .

Christina: That's okay. I can't wait to hear this!

Me: (pause, head tilting, eyes squinting, botox-needing furrow deepening): She reminds you of me because I'm a 16-year-old pregnant girl?

Tom (laughing bemusedly): No. She talks like you.

Me: Hmmmm . . . really? Please do explain.

Tom: She's got a quiet, low voice. And she says interesting things, but not in a simple way. Her vocabulary is way up there.

Josh: Exactly! Like when you turned around what Mike said before, and suddenly we all knew you were right. We just had to accept what you said because we couldn't argue with it. It made too much sense.

Justin: You also remind me of that character in Blades of Glory . . .

(Bell rings.)

Grizzly Children of Men in America

2008-03-01T15:50:00.009-05:00

All students assume that a teacher who shows a movie in class needs to have a break. In this case, students will respond predictably by ignoring the movie (that is, by sleeping or texting through it). Teachers who are wont to use movies as breaks from dealing with class expect this since their relaxation is the primary reason for the movie. They will show any movie they happen to have handy from The Lion King to Fried Green Tomatoes. This is especially common just before a vacation.

I will admit that I have spent the last three weeks showing three movies to my seniors. While I did not need a break from dealing with them as human beings, I did need a break from dealing with them as readers. For some reason, these seniors are some of the most reluctant readers I've dealt with in my 20 year career. So far this year we have painfully managed to complete Hamlet and Things Fall Apart (in addition to a research project in between). Aside from their seemingly random, too-rare flashes of interest, I come away from spending days, weeks dragging students through books frustrated, tired and depressed. Worse yet, I find it hard to remember why I liked the book so much in the first place. Therefore, I created a small film unit of three significant movies: Grizzly Man, Children of Men and In America. Each reinforces and elaborates on a very loose theme we've been following about how humans deal with their society.

When I began the unit, I had no real idea of how the kids would react to the movies. By nature a realist (pessimist??) I predicted they would tolerate the movies but not really like any of them. I thought they would find Grizzly Man too strange and slightly boring (it is a documentary, after all). I thought they would find Children of Men too difficult. I thought they would find In America too quiet and PG-13. Little did I know.

No book, no field trip, no classroom experience has achieved such consensus, and I have no idea why. While students had a favorite movie of the three, all students told me they liked each movie. No exceptions. They all liked each movie.

Even stranger to me is their response during certain parts of the movies. Some, I predicted. I knew, for instance, that In Grizzly Man, they would love the part where Timothy Treadwell, in his strangely high voice, curses the hat-stealing fox. That and where he curses out the National Park Service.

In Children of Men, I predicted they would enjoy the violence, as in the scene in the car towards the beginning. And they did. But the universal cries of despair at the seemingly unclear ending were a surprise.

I had no predictions for In America, however, except that I didn't think they'd like it. First, it's PG-13 whereas the other two are rated R. Second, it's a quiet movie, the most touching, two qualities my occasionally raucous 12th-graders usually seem to lack. Nevertheless, it was deemed the favorite movie of the three.

At various points during the movie, I could hear my otherwise tough, old-beyond-their-years students sniff and stifle their crying. Some actually went for the tissue box on my desk. They gasped in disbelief when the two little girls continued to pound on Mateo's door during their first Halloween experience. Most interesting to me, however, was the universal reaction during the arcade scene when Johnny bets the rent money in order to win an ET doll for his daughter. As if it were the most graphic, blood-spattered scene in a teen slasher movie, they sat, hands over their eyes, unable to watch the horror unfold. The whispers resonated in the room: "Oh, no, he's not going to do that!" "Stop! Just stop now!" "She don't care if you win the doll!" "Dang! No, no!"

They even appreciatively watched the bonus feature describing the making of the movie.

So where did this experience leave me? It left me dreading having to teach more books. It left me wondering why books can't elicit the same appreciation, the same satisfying feeling of an experience shared.

Nevertheless, reality kicked in yesterday during class discussions of the three movies, a debriefing of the experience, in preparation for writing about them. Despite my initial perception that all students liked all movies, the reality was that probably half of any class saw all of all three movies. But they liked the bits and pieces they saw, for sure. So it was sad, but no surprise, when I found myself overhearing small group discussions that attempted to fill in the lousy attendance gaps: "So, the guy in Children of Men, Timothy, right? He lived in New York City. He was in the junkie apartment and his son died. The woman in the boat named her baby after his son."

Oy.

They'll be my mirror

2008-02-26T14:03:00.010-05:00

How do people without students know who they are? I can't imagine having to judge my appearance or state of mind without their insight.

From Anton: "Do you know that your hair swings from side to side when you walk? It's like the Brady Bunch."
Unfortunately, I understand the reference, that I apparently have the Jan Brady walk that causes her long hair to perkily swing back and forth with the movements of her head. Although my hair is neither long nor blond, I spent the rest of the day concentrating on walking with my head very still. It was not easy. I eventually gave up.

From Katie, Justin, Maurice and Laquaisha, at various moments during the day: "Miss, you look mad tired."
Yes, in fact I did, and in fact, I was.

From Jahida: "Miss Huth, you'd look better with some red tips in your hair. I'll do it for you."
Although I did not take her up on her kind offer, I have no doubt that I would look better if my hair were any number of different colors.

From Quintel: "You look mad skinny now. Are you working out or something?"
Hmmmm . . . why can't males ever understand that females don't want to be "skinny" ? They want to be "slender" or "slim." I will grant him, in his youth, my assumption that he meant this kindly.

From Amber: "She (me) doesn't want to hear anymore of your stupid jokes! She's got work to do!"
While I was amused by the lame jokes, I did have work to do. Since I was sitting politely trying very hard not to look at my email, I'm not sure how she knew this.

This is just a small selection . . . but from just this week alone, my students have let me know that when I walk like Jan Brady, my boring-looking hair swings back and forth, possibly hiding the circles under my eyes from listening to too many jokes and not doing enough work.

If only they paid as much attention to their classwork.

Charon at the edge of the river Hudson

2008-02-23T19:05:00.014-05:00

Mosh pits are interesting things. Seething, sweating, tattooed cauldrons of latent homosexuality run amok, mosh pits are alternately revolting and fascinating. I recently found myself in the unfortunate position of feeling like the gatekeeper to the mosh pit at a small venue where one of my favorite bands, Flogging Molly, was playing.

My vantage point, right by a small, hip-level wall overlooking the pit and mere feet from the stage, was a prime location. Erin, Geof and I were able to maneuver to and then maintain this position through the two opening acts and finally to the headliner. I, however, was on the end, the end by the stairs leading to the pit.

As Flogging Molly took the stage, I found myself having to reexamine my position in the universe. On my left were my husband and daughter and relative calm. On my right, however, was a rather violent stream of humanity struggling frantically to reach the pit below us (which was down the stairs to my right).

First, I watched. One shirtless, drunken and/or stoned and/or something I'm not even aware of young man decided to stand by me, closely, elbows flailing level with my face. He apparently thought I was invisible. I continued to watch his elbows, his beer bottle, his vacant eyes, along with the "surfers" whose feet were a tad too close.

When he shoved himself into me, hard, in a futile attempt to widen the opening to the pit, perhaps, I made a decision. Standing with my feet firmly planted was not enough. He was not even aware that I was a human being whom he had chosen to shove in a most impolite fashion. To him, I was certainly not even a human being old enough to be his mother (my own daughter standing next to me as evidence of that). I did know that I was annoyed as hell at being shoved, hard, by a sweating, drunken idiot man-child. So in the interest of self-preservation (mostly) I shoved him back, equally hard. In the direction of the pit. He seemed to appreciate it.

For the rest of the night, I found myself standing my ground at the edge of the stairs, a Charon ready to ferry the doomed to the River Styx. As the masses flung themselves into me in a misguided attempt to enter the pit, I helpfully bumped and pushed them away from me and toward where they wanted to be.

Aside from having far too many sweaty, tatooed and drunken bodies pushing into mine, the concert was amazing. I'm slightly ashamed, however, at the side of me that appeared that night, the side that was almost gleefully urging the young, the drunken, the vacant, away from me and into the mosh pit.

Paying to be shot: Is that why tuition is so high?

2008-02-21T09:07:00.010-05:00

The day after the most recent shooting at a college, some of my students expressed concern. They are, after all, seniors whose college applications are being processed right now. For the first time, they are beginning to picture themselves on some campus next year.

Some wondered if any college would be safe. Some told me how sad they felt for the students who were killed or injured, and their families. Some wondered why there were shootings on campuses only now, as if these were manifestations of our troubled, war-focused times. *

One student told me that he was thinking of not going to college next year because he resented having to pay all that money to be shot. (My answer was that technically, he wouldn't be paying to be shot . . . I'm sometimes astounded by the things I find coming out of my mouth in this job.)

When they ask me if they'll be safe next year, my sadly honest answer, the one I believe I must give them is, I don't know. I think so. I hope so. As parent, as teacher, in loco parentis, I want to assure them of their safety, that things will be okay. I don't want them to worry.

I remind them that campus violence of this magnitude is extremely rare. I remind them that much of their safety at college remains within their control, that they should lock their doors, not walk alone at night, be careful about parties and driving . . . They shake their heads and laugh gently. "Oh Mom," they seem to say, "it's so cute that you think we don't know that." So as teacher, as parent, I continue fruitlessly to dispense advice, to try to shoo the scary monsters out from under my kids' beds.

I wonder why the big violence seems more probable than being raped on a date, getting in an accident while driving drunk or being attacked or robbed because of walking alone or leaving a door unlocked. Then I remember what they've already seen: the school shooter who kills 30, the planes crashing into buildings killing 3,000, the thousands claimed by war. Is this enough to skew their sense of the reality of violence? How big do the numbers have to be to be scary? (My guess is at least double digits.)

Certainly every generation grows up with, deals with its own horrible violence, its own war, its own shocking public massacre. This group, however, seems less shocked than fascinated, less frightened than resigned. They are so much older than I was.

*They are occasionally too self-centered to believe that anything significant or interesting happened before their birth in 1990. In 1966, my father's very good friend, Bob Boyer, a visiting physics professor, was one of 14 killed by Charles Whitman on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin, for example. Yet, they somehow believe that campus violence began with their generation, and more disturbingly, that it is de rigueur.

Movies without answers; futures full of questions

2008-02-16T19:17:00.005-05:00

One of the constants of teaching is that students will never ever agree on anything. If I have five classes reading the same book, I might have a general consensus within a class on the book's quality. However, I will never have five classes that agree that the book is good. Or that the book is crap. I won't even have three classes that agree on the book's goodness or crappiness. Such is the nature of teaching. Those of us who do it accept this, albeit with clear annoyance. On the other hand, this reality allows us to choose books with a strange sense of abandon; since someone will always like the book and someone will always hate the book, whatever book, what real difference does my choice make? Ah, such freedom.

Strangely, however, I've finally found one small thing that all five of my classes (and seemingly all students in each of the five classes) agreed upon: that is that the ending of Children of Men totally sucks. Without giving away the specific ending, it will suffice to say that the end (final long shot of the scene quickly cutting to black and then the movie's title) was universally greeted with groans and loud moans of despair: "Noooo! Tell me that's not the end!" "Are you kidding me??" "But what happens??" "We don't know whether she gets to the boat!" "Maaaaannn!" "Jeeeeeez!" "That sucks so bad!"

Now, while I'm grateful that I was able to show a well-respected movie reinforcing our current vague theme of how man deals with his place in society and actually have my students respond, I'm nevertheless puzzled by a couple things. First, why can't they figure what probably will happen next? Second, why is it so important to them to have all the answers laid out?

Perhaps they are so literal-minded that they cannot read the (fairly obvious, I think) figurative clues. Perhaps they don't trust their instincts. Perhaps they would prefer to read Jane Austen or Charles Dickens and have little summaries of all the characters' fates at the end.

Somehow, I don't think they'd prefer to read Austen or Dickens . . . but still I wonder why they need to know all the "answers" at the end.

Me? I prefer the open ending, the lack of answers. Without "answers" the possibilities, while not endless, while still needing to fit within the criteria the author or filmmaker has set, are much richer than with the neatish closing of Austen, Dickens or even say an Animal House that tells us that Bluto Blutarsky goes on to become a senator (or something similarly ironic).

I much prefer to ponder the possibilities without having the answer key pressed into my hands. I can handle it. I don't want to know. I want to imagine. To me, the future looks better without the answers but then again, I'm at a different point in life than my students. Perhaps to them, a future without answers looks pretty scary.

Snow days are better when you're young

2008-02-13T19:19:00.007-05:00

The problem with snow days is that sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the reality. Such was the case today. When my alarm went off at 6:00 this morning, I immediately checked the TV to see whether my school was delayed or closed. We were closed, for the first time this year. I cheered quietly, so as not to wake Geof, and crawled back into bed. When I returned to sleep, however, I found myself dreaming very intense and disturbing dreams. While I often have trouble remembering whatever dreams I have in the middle of the night (or whenever such things occur), those dreams that occur after I would normally be up are easy to remember and sometimes bizarre. At some point, between 6:00 and when I woke up for good just before 10:00, I had several dreams of a type that I hate: I categorize these as "The dreams in which I must face my shortcomings."

Usually they involve school. Occasionally, I'm in college and realizing at the end of the semester that I've not attended a single class. More often, these dreams feature me being somewhere else while I have a class to teach. I have, for some reason, decided to go out for a beer. Or I have decided to take a nap. Or I have just been unaware that I had a class at that particular time. These dreams always end with me hearing someone in the main office asking me over the PA system to report to wherever I'm supposed to be. I'm mortified, aware that this is totally unlike me, and I wake up vaguely ashamed.

Sometimes, my students decide to stage a coup, often involving lots of swearing, shouting and standing on desks. From these dreams I awake frustrated, angry and feeling vaguely powerless.

This morning's dream was a combination of the two common themes: Even though I thought we had a snow day, it turned out that we didn't. Therefore, administrators and students spent the morning looking for me because I was home sleeping, secure in my belief that we had a snow day. When I finally (for some reason--guilt??) went to school, I faced the annoyance and anger of my superiors and my students. I had failed them both. I was stupid, inappropriate, lazy and just dead wrong.

An inauspicious beginning to my snow day.What should have been a day to relax and perhaps perform some useful task ended up being a day where I was dogged by a sense of my own limitations and vague unrest. It took me until this evening, really, to shake the feeling, and it's only now, as I write this in front of a fire with a Guinness next to me, that I feel fully prepared to deal with the world.

Books so far and what I wish I were reading

2008-02-10T19:02:00.000-05:00

1776, by David McCullough
McCullough is one of the most literate and accessible historians. A favorite writer of mine, crossing all genres.

Amnesia Moon, by Jonathan Lethem
Post-apocalyptic fiction, read in one sitting. Much less depressing than The Road, but what isn't?

I wish I were reading Harriet the Spy right now and discovering "The Walrus and the Carpenter" for the first time.

When we realize it's depressing to consider people eaten by bears

2008-02-09T21:16:00.000-05:00

I've had a vague sense of foreboding this week, and I think it's due to watching Grizzly Man three or four (or five) times a day for the last three days. That and the constant rain. My students seem to be reacting similarly: fascinated and repelled, relieved to see it end, yet unwilling to stop watching, hoping for more of the story.

On to Children of Men next week. I may have to watch This is Spinal Tap on my own just to recover.

Harlan Pepper! Would you stop naming nuts!

2008-02-04T18:54:00.001-05:00

I have come to accept that my life is mere repetition. Every aspect requires it.

As a mother, the repetition becomes little mantras ensuring success: Do you have your homework? Drive carefully. Call when you get there.

If I say these things, ask these questions each time, the future is assured in my favor.

As a pet owner, the repetition is always directives ending in sheer futility and exclamation points aimed at one of our three dachshunds: Stop licking my floor! Stop eating the firewood! Get out of the kitchen!

Saying these things ensures nothing.

As a teacher, the repetition is both a tiny prayer for success and an exercise in sheer futility: That was due yesterday. Yes, you may hand it in tomorrow. Yes, I'll be taking some points off. You need to pay attention because we'll be discussing this later. You missed my explanation because you came in late. I will fill you in after class.

The problem with those who must repeat themselves is that they find themselves often ignored (hence, the repetition. Or are we ignored because the repetition is necessary and ultimately boring? Who knows?). We see ourselves as lonely, frustrated voices that speak the truth, so many Cassandras foretelling doom or prophesying good fortune. Doesn't matter because no one's listening anyway.

All of which brings me rather ungracefully to my point: In the midst of repeated explanations of why we were watching the R-rated Grizzly Man (because the main character separates himself from society, and this is a theme we've followed in literature this year from Hamlet to Okonkwo in Things Fall Apart and will continue to follow in Into the Wild), why I needed permission slips even though they are 17 and 18 (because the movie is R-rated and the school district is not the real world), and finally how a grizzly bear could hold (as the movie rather baldly specifies) four garbage bags of human remains, I noticed one of my children pondering this last topic.

As the others debated the issue and I, for once, stayed out of the discussion, it being the end of class and all, one student, who never speaks in class, not ever, but who occasionally smiles and always appears to try, to want to please, finally summed it all up for all of us: The reason for the four garbage bags, he said was because "that bear ate them like he was eating a candy bar without taking off the wrapper." A brief pause, and then a flash of recognition from the class, horrifying, yet somehow gratifying all the same . . . Ohhhhhhhh. Ewwww! Man!

A strange ephiphany, but an epiphany nonetheless. Such are the small accomplishments in my world of repetition. For now, my children are safe, my pets are not gnawing my firewood or licking my floor, and my students eagerly await the day two showing of Grizzly Man. I'm not sure I can ask for more than that.

Books so far and the wonderful taste of orange juice

2008-02-03T13:24:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, I've not finished any books this week. Several factors have conspired to keep me from reading. First, I had to spend an evening at school trying to convince 8th graders and their parents to choose my "house" at the high school. Second, I spent two evenings watching Lost, mostly old but one new episode. Finally, I found myself succumbing to the nasty illness Geof had spent two days in bed with and so spent Saturday in bed myself fighting achiness and intense headache. I'm much better today and might be able to read a bit more of 1776. We'll see.

When I was little, and sick, I never stayed in bed. Instead I would lie on the pull-out couch in the sunporch and draw. Usually I would have nothing at all to eat or drink, but occasionally, orange juice was the only palatable thing. Yesterday, alternating between chills and fever, I could not get myself out of bed, but for much of the day the only thing I wanted was orange juice. And then one dry frozen waffle. And then some ice-cream. Okay. Perhaps I've overestimated the power of orange juice, but nevertheless, I credit it for unparching my throat, rehydrating my wizened body and awakening my appetite, even if only slightly.

And I'll have to look for sweater buttons next weekend.

Aunt Ethel's Sweater, Mary Poppins and the Gold Fish Scale Purse

2008-01-30T20:06:00.000-05:00

Tonight I find myself dressed in my favorite winter wear as a child: stretchy long underwear-type pants, a long underwear top and ski socks. Because I'm a grown up and my sensible self knows the thermostat should not be set above 66, I have added a big Irish knit sweater, one my great aunt Ethel ("Aunt") knit for my mother when I was eight or nine, and which I took over during my college years. Aunt was funny, a wonderful pianist and knitter, and the woman who patiently allowed me to throw up on her kitchen carpet during Easter vacation when I was seven and my parents were running errands, and then helped me to the bathroom.

Slightly pilly and missing two buttons, this sweater has survived various moves, formula stains, the 'late 80's and early '90's when I insisted on wearing it three seasons a year as my all-purpose outerwear, and most recently charcoal, chimney flue dirt and my dog's antiobiotic residue. It is a beautiful sweater, probably my most important piece of clothing ever. I should replace the missing buttons.

My Mary Poppins spoon (circa 1964) sits on a shelf in my dining room where I can always see it. The one time I lost sight of it, she (of course it's a she) disappeared for 15 years until I finally found it at my parents' house, in, of all places, a silverware drawer. Since then, I've kept her in plain sight in case I need her. My mother ordered her for me when I was four with cereal box tops I think because I used to sing all the songs from the movie, loudly and badly, on my swing set. Plus Dick VanDyke always reminded me of my father.

When I was in college, my grandmother, Aunt Ethel's sister, started giving me my "inheritance" while she was still alive. I acquired salt cellars, a pair of little opal earrings, a mother-of-pearl manicure set, a tiny clasp for attaching my bra and slip straps together so as not to embarrass myself with visible straps and my favorite, a little gold purse, like a change purse, covered in what looks like gold, hexagonal fish scales. It is surprisingly cold and heavy. Inside is salmon-colored cloth and a tiny oval metal box. Inside the box is an even tinier plastic key. I picture Gram getting the little plastic key at an arcade and storing it carefully inside the gold purse that is not even as big as a deck of cards.

In lieu of a cheesy conclusion, I will end by resolving to look for replacement sweater buttons this weekend.

Random thoughts from my seniors

2008-01-29T19:39:00.000-05:00

I expected today to be quiet and peaceful. My students were to be writing persuasive arguments about Things Fall Apart. Instead, in between fielding questions about concession paragraphs and whether Okonkwo is really a tragic hero, I found myself quietly addressing the following:

1. Whether I use a lot of hand lotion because my skin looks so soft.
2. Whether I agreed that the best part of the cereal is the last little powdery bits in the bottom.
3. Why I need to have permission slips for them to see R-rated movies even though they are 17 and 18.
4. Whether I thought Quintel had skin cancer on his wrist where his skin was slightly darker and slightly less sensitive (he told me) than on the other part of his wrist.
5. Whether I thought Eric had skin cancer on his arm by his tattoo.
6. Why SUNY Oswego would send Roger a letter complimenting him on his essay without sending him an acceptance letter.
7. How Ramon liked reading Walden (his own choice) when he was in the hospital during Regents week.
8. How silly it is for anyone to lease a car instead of buying one.
9. That the general consensus of the class was that I did NOT need botox even though they make me squint my face in funny ways when they ask bizarre questions, which causes a frown line on the right side of my forehead.
10. Why they were not going to collect money in order to fund my botox injections.
11. Why there are so many American Pie and Bring It On movies.
12. Katie's announcement that she has a very short attention span.
13. Whether it would be better for my husband to come in to visit or whether I should tape record them secretly so he could see first-hand what they were like.
14. Why my mouth twitches when I try not to laugh.

3 minutes as the world passes my door

2008-01-28T07:28:00.000-05:00

Slam, thunk, dull metallic thud, shit! no way! what? naw, he did not say that! I've heard of him, whisper whisper whistle he was in the hospital bang slam shriek hall sweep! what? AB2? hell no! electronic walkie-talkie voice all right! she don't know what she's gonna do today blah blah for next week blah blah voice from the ceiling today's inspiration choir meeting is canceled let's go man get movin' it don't mean shit metallic slam drone drone drone solid wooden slam see my girl? that study hall is whack scuffle rattle static-y buzz all right scholars drone drone blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah drone drone blah blah blah blah blah drone

Backyard Rink

2008-01-27T17:17:00.000-05:00

Mmmm . . . skating . . . it's exercise AND fun. As a kid, I spent more time skating in my backyard rink than doing anything else. At least this is how I choose to remember my childhood in snowy Rochester, New York. I probably spent at least as much time fighting with my sister and reading (both non-seasonal activities).

I had an invisible friend, Clare, who would skate with me, and I particularly remember convincing a neighbor (pretty easily, I might add--more a reflection of the age of the neighbor rather than of my talent) that I was training for the 1972 Olympics. I have no idea why I needed an invisible friend to skate with, especially since I reveled in skating alone, the entire rink (such as it was) to myself. Nevertheless, I had Clare and I guess she became my audience.

It was about this time that I wrote a poem that received much acclaim in my 5th grade classroom. Go figure. It is, as I remember it, as follows:

The sun peeks through a sky of gray
a sliver sending rays
to unlock us from a world of gloom
and make it a happier day.

I probably called it "Untitled." Oy.

Today Geof and I went skating for the first time (in my estimation) in ten years. For about 45 minutes we skated on the pond in our little Central Park, down the street from our house. It was amazingly fun, particularly when we spun each other around corners trying to keep holding hands. Clare was not with us.

Books so far

2008-01-26T12:51:00.000-05:00

Rotten: No Irish-No Blacks-No Dogs, by John Lydon with Keith and Kent Zimmerman
An interesting if disjointed look at the life of John Lydon and the rise and demise of the Sex Pistols.

Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991, by Michael Azerrad
Began this book about a year ago. This is no comment on the book's quality or my appreciation of it, however. I've read this book in pieces, trying slowly to absorb the many levels of detail that chronicle the history of bands from Black Flag to Beat Happening. It is funny, depressing, fascinating, dense and, as Chuck Klosterman tells us at the end of Fargo Rock City, "serves as the perfect antithesis" for his own book. Yup. Definitely.

Currently reading David McCullough's 1776. It's about time I got to this one, but I was too tired the night I began it this week, so "currently reading" is probably a too-optimistic designation; I should begin it anew.

Lately, my poems are like an old picture of me at age 12, when I was homesick and hadn't eaten much of anything for about 10 days . . .

2008-01-23T22:58:00.000-05:00

I'm wondering about my non-prose writing lately. It's become quite skinny and broken, hunching along, jerky and painful. When I was young and feeling a similar inclination to write, my lines were Whitmanesque; my poems usually tripartite. Oy. Nevertheless, I'm embracing this strange ride for a while. Perhaps what is on my mind deserves to be presented in skinny, broken, hunching, jerky, painful lines.

Reading, Writing, Sipping, Peeing

2008-01-22T08:22:00.000-05:00

Because it is the first day of Regents exams, school is strangely peaceful. I can sip my coffee. I can read my email. I can go to the bathroom at 8:43 if I need to. The only question anyone has asked me so far is whether I'd like a copy of today's newspaper. Yes. Yes, I believe I would. I have stacks of work waiting for me, research projects, Hamlet essays and study guides, piled neatly on the table behind me; for now, however, I can read and write and sip and pee. The work can wait, at least until I remember that this is the only chunk of time available to me this week for such random pursuits. After this morning, my time is as heavily scheduled as it is during a normal school day. Ah well.

Honeydripper

2008-01-21T08:41:00.001-05:00

John Sayles, graduate of this high school, and his partner/producer, Maggie Renzi, visited us on 18 January to discuss his new movie, Honeydripper. My students were part of a group selected to watch the movie on Monday and participate in the discussion on Friday. Although some of the questions the kids asked were less than insightful, JS answered each with kindness, thought and great detail. Overall, a very satisfying and pretty cool experience.

I place Honeydripper with other JS movies I enjoy that are more tightly edited and cohesive, such as Lone Star, Eight Men Out, The Secret of Roan Inish and Matewan. Tim, who met JS after the showing of Honeydripper at Proctors on Friday night, has highly recommended Brother From Another Planet, so I must watch that soon for another point of reference.

The two JS movies I find the most frustratingly meandering are Silver City and Sunshine State. I sometimes think that I want him to be a different kind of storyteller, that my criticism is unfair and that I should try to appreciate his occasionally loose style on its own merits. I have more patience with novels that take a long time for exposition than I ever will with movies. Must be because I can put a novel down and I must watch a movie in one sitting, even those I see at home.

When I watched Roman Polanski's Knife in the Water last night, I had the same feeling, that it was 98% exposition.

As I write this, I'm reminded of my words to my students last week about reading Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart: Try to be patient! The first third of the book is exposition, and it's essential for understanding the rest.

O, irony. It rules my life.

Books so far

2008-01-19T12:25:00.000-05:00

The Ice Master: The Doomed 1913 Voyage of the Karluk, by Jennifer Niven
About one of my favorite subjects, doomed arctic expeditions. I appreciate doomed antarctic expeditions as well.

Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen
Sideshow freaks, a 93-year-old narrator, illicit love: What more could you want? A quick and easy book.

Isaac's Storm, by Erik Larson
Another one of my favorite subjects, freakish metereological events. No pictures though.

Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison (revisited after 20 years)
Reminded me anew of why I don't enjoy Toni Morrison.

Currently finishing Chuck Klosterman's Fargo Rock City. My favorite passage so far follows:

In "Fallen Angel," a teenage girl makes an announcement at supper: "I've decided to move [dramatic pause] . . . to California [longer dramatic pause] . . . and I want to leave on Friday." A few seconds later, she gets off a bus in L.A. and immediately becomes a whore. . . . At the conclusion of the video, another small-town girl gets off at the same bus stop, and one assumes she is destined for the same slutty future. Actually, this video may have been a form of subliminal marketing for the band. It seemed to be delivering a peculiar rock message: "Stay with your parents! Never go anywhere! Stay in your bedroom and listen to more Poison tapes!" It's kind of like the ending of The Wizard of Oz.

To borrow Erin's expression of appreciation: "Ahh. Chuck Klosterman!"

They are

2008-01-17T07:37:00.000-05:00

The talented one who never hands anything in.
The thoughtful one who disappears for three weeks.
The arrogant one who misses all his college application deadlines.
The dedicated one who agonizes alone at 3:00 in the morning.
The outrageous one who antagonizes or sleeps.
The funny one who kills himself.
The lazy one who finally chooses to work.
The curious one who wants to know how to be happy.
The tired one who sleeps wherever she can find a spot.
The hot one who wears tank tops in New York January.
The smart one who decides senior year is too long.
The pregnant one who wants someone to love her.
The rich one who thinks it's not clear how he gets his money.
The mother one who cries in class because she's so tired.
The sad one who misses her father.
The lucky one who figures it all out.
The friendly one who has no one to listen to her.
The angry one who is suspended from school for a year.
The heavy one who doesn't know how beautiful she is.
The despairing one who returns with rows of scabs on her arm.
The insecure one who calls his teacher Mom.
The lonely one who wears black and thrives in college.
The dangerous one who tries to write his paper in jail.
The deluded one who knows he will never be caught.
The cute one who believes a smile solves everything.
The desperate one who tries it all.

Questions

2008-01-16T21:11:00.000-05:00

Why
does all
my poetry
sound
as if
it
were meant to
be read
by William
Shatner and
more importantly
why
don't I
care?