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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Toddlers, cockers and pills

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.

A very short play about my better qualities, I guess

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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!

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.

Random thoughts from my seniors

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

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

Honeydripper

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.

They are

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.