The End of the World as We Know It (with apologies to Michael Stipe)

bSoooo....

I love election time. So much ammunition for me to stew over. The current debate here in Massachusetts is whether or not to let "supermarkets" sell wine. Here's the actual verbiage:

"Question 1: Sale of Wine by Food Stores - This proposed law would allow local licensing authorities to issue licenses for food stores to sell wine. The proposed law defines a "“food store" as a retail vendor, such as a grocery store, supermarket, shop, club, outlet, or warehouse-type seller, that sells food to consumers to be eaten elsewhere (which must include meat, poultry, dairy products, eggs, fresh fruit and produce, and other specified items), and that may sell other items usually found in grocery stores. Holders of licenses to sell wine at food stores could sell wine either on its own or together with any other items they sell."

I have to wonder why we are even asking ourselves this question. Granted, if this was 1780 and we were in Massachusetts, I get it. But only two other states don't allow this practice...
The opponents of Question 1 say that it will cause more auto accidents, (by those winos), more underage drinking (all those high school students who love a 68' cabernet to chug... as if Stop & Shop, a billion dollar company would risk $$ by selling to minors), and generally bring about plagues, a new form of the holocaust, and some sort of alien invasion. The fact is that studies have shown prices of wine in Massachusetts are higher on average because wine stores have a monopoly on their sales. The fact that other competitors could undercut their profits has some liquor-barons really ticked off. I love it.

But I do have one complaint. Why now?

I mean, this couldn't have passed about a few years ago when I was a binge-drinking college student? Now I am old and too tired to care.

Ahh...you wacky parents, you.

We had parent's night last week. It was a Tuesday evening. Things like that make Wednesday morning come WAY too early...

While I am on the subject, parent mini-schedule night is always a painful excursion into the dog and pony show that I have to put on daily between 7:30 and 3:00 each day, only it's remixed and made acceptable for adult ears. The parents follow an abbreviated schedule of their child and sit in on each class for about 8 minutes while I kick my old school rhymes about how I will teach the class. They look, listen, and all appear to have a look on their faces that is either utter confusion about my little ditty or a pitiful look of "don't flunk my child even though he is American and should be able to communicate in English, yet lacks the ability to smash a subject and a verb together in the creation of one coherent sentence."

I jest. I don't want anyone to think that I don't like my job or my students. It's just the parents and grading that I hate. If I could get rid of one, or both, of these two things, life would be just ducky.

Anyway, I don't know if parents get together and talk about this when I am not around, but it needs to be outed. Inevitably on this night some parents will approach me and tell me that their child "loves" my class and "talks about it all the time at home". Now, maybe I am a sucker, but I fall for it. Those kids are now predisposed to good grades. I can't help it. Worst of all, I know it is a scam. If it's not, I am officially going to make it one. I wonder if back when I was in Algebra II or Art Fundamentals, (two classes in which I (ahem) did less than wonderful), had my parents lied to the teacher and told them how much I loved and talked about the class, would I have gottern better grades? I don't know, but I have to think so. As a matter of fact, when my first child (who is not officially in existence as of right now, unless my wife hasn't told me something) goes to school, I will go to all his/her teachers and tell them that my child comes home daily singing their praises.! I may have my kids write flattering haiku's about the genius of their teachers and "accidentally" have them fall out of my pocket in the teacher's presence. Who knows?! It works on me, it's worth a shot on others, I suppose. I can't be the only sucker. (As I cross my fingers and hope...)

On an additional note, although on principle I refuse to discuss individual students and their progress/lack thereof on this night, some parents find it necessary to have discussions about their child. Folks, let's begin with me telling you that in the second week of school, I have no clue which one is yours...they are all the same to me at this time. I just gave you between six and eight minutes of my finest improv in the hopes that you sleep better at night knowing the guy teaching your child is not only competent but also somewhat charismatic or at partially whacked out enough to interest high schoolers to read "1984".

This job is nuts.

For What It's Worth...

I just attempted to teach my sophomores a lesson on orthodoxy, free speech, censorship, and intellectual cowardice all relating to Orwell. In the process I referenced US/Iraq relations, Voltaire, the Brady Bunch, the Constitutional Amendments, Star Trek, Jerry Springer, and nazi babies.

I enjoyed myself. I was natural. I talked to them, not at them. I smiled often and even laughed at my own jokes.

It was the last period of the day on the 8th day of classes this year. Don't tell me not to smile until the holidays. That shit was funny. And they'll remember it, too.

Don't Smile? What if it's funny?

I read another blogger today, this one by a student teacher. It's amazing how poorly collegiate education programs prepare new teachers for the ever daunting "real world". They never tell you how much your feet are going to hurt, the neverending parental inquisitions, or that sometimes you won't really have the right things to say, let alone what to say when that happens. It has taken me years to keep my mouth shut in the face of adolescent anxiety and drama. There is no substitute to experience. I thought I had it all figured out until a student of mine had a seizure in class last year. That changes perspectives...

Speaking of which, the poor young woman mentioned in it that she couldn't be one of those teachers who doesn't smile until...Christmas, I think...a clear reference to the age old maxim of teaching. Here's the thing...it's wrong. Ok, it was wrong for me. I naturally revert to comedy as a defense mechanism and believe me, nothing puts you on the defensive faster than a room full of teens raking you across the coals of their adolescent indifference. If you can't laugh, smile, or show a human side, you are DONE.

Now let's understand, my dear captive audience, that I do agree with having strict boundries and clear expectations. It turns out that most high schoolers lack common courtesy because no one has told them what they should and shouldn't do. (my commentary on teachers having to replace parents is forthcoming). They want structure, they need direction, and they crave attention. If you can't supply that, you shouldn't teach. I am off on a tangent now....

...OK...here's the thing. There is nothing more phony about a teacher who isn't, on some level, themselves in front of a class. Granted, I understand that math teachers by definition lack personality...seriously, they love numbers. I can't even begin to understand them. But we teachers of words have to connect to the literature and the students...and that can't be done every day with a frown, especially if it's not who we are.

So to all you young teachers out there, wondering how in the name of all that is sacred you are going to make it to the end of September remember this:

It's good to smile. It makes you human. Kids need real, human connections these days more than they need to be frowned upon. So if the moment is right, the opportunity presents itself, and you have the courage, do something drastic and smile.

You'll feel better too.

Tell Me I'm Pretty

By the way...that was my first blog ever.

If anyone in the world happens to read it, please drop a comment on me. I would even be gracious to read one that told me I am an embarrassment to English teachers world-wide for flagrant comma abuses and absurd recurrent elipses.

At least I know then that you read it...

My Ninth One-Year Plan

There is nothing as depressing as entering a store, such as a Target let's say, in early August only to be bombarded with "BACK TO SCHOOL" sales. I think for us teachers this marks the beginning of the beginning, so to speak. Whereas most adults, and by most I mean those with school age children, approach the back to school bonanza as a welcome sign that other adults in this world will soon take responsibility for their children between the hours of 7am until 3pm-ish, perhaps later if they are involved in a sport or club, for me...(sigh)...I prepare to suck it up for my ninth one-year plan. Let me explain...

Eight years ago I was a bright eyed and eager college graduate from what most would consider a well known and respected Boston-area University. (No, not that one. They didn't accept me...What the hell is a "Crimson" anyway?) I had recently excavated myself from a period know by my friends at the time as "the dark-days", which consumed the entire second half of my senior year of college, and wasn't all too sure what to do with my life. Granted, I had double majored in English and Education but the idea of going back to high school after I fought so hard to get out in the first place didn't seem to make much sense to me. I did the most logical thing I could think of to preserve my sanity...I became a bartender in a local Irish Pub in the Boston area. There certainly would be very few high school age kids in there.

Life was great. I worked hard, made good tips, slept in 'til noon everyday, and enjoyed my job immensely. I knew, though, that Mom and Dad would not be pleased if I told them I was taking the education they mostly funded and was using it to decorate the foam of Guinness Draughts with shamrocks (which is not easy to do, mind you). I sent out resumes...I had one interview. Apparently, I rocked. They hired me.

It was a train wreck.

I distinctly remember wanting to not return to school after the Christmas vacation (and yup, it was a "Christmas Vacation"...It's a (gulp), Catholic school, more on that later, if interested). I returned, learned that the plight of the first year teacher is one that is nationwide, and decided that if I quit after the 1st year, I was a quitter. If I quit after the 2nd year, I had made a choice. That was my plan. A 2-year old job is easy to explain leaving...examples?

"I wasn't challenged by the students." (Lie).
"There wasn't any opportunity to get involved in the school." (Lie)
"I don't like working with kids." (Lie)
"There was no opportunity for professional development." (Big Lie)
"The money wasn't any good." (Ok...true, but there's that whole "higher purpose" thing...)

So I didn't leave after year one, but I had plans to get out of there after two, no doubt about that.

Funny how things work...That was eight years ago.

Anyway, I still hate going to Target.