whisper whisper whisper... hush...papers ruffling...eyes darting back and forth... murmurs...
"Oh, she's scary.." said Deezireh.
"Yea she was pissed!" Peterson's eyes got real wide.
That's what my kids were saying 5 hours later.
At 9:45 in the morning however, the room was dead silent, as a wrathful, visceral, scathing verbal deluge of outrage spewed from deep in my gut to the guilty ears of two of my children.
Paula and Ilieh had been arguing back and forth about who had raised their hand first for approximately 10 minutes. They bickered like an old married couple, unabashedly, obliviously, and uncontrollably, as the class just sat back and watched in horror. The other 25 kids in the class knew exactly what was about to happen, and they were sure as hell gonna stay out of it. They had all just learned the word "fester." They could see it in my eyes, and in the way my hands started to clench real tight on the books I was holding, and in the way my veins started to become more conspicuous on my forehead; they knew something inhuman was festering inside of me, as I watched and waited for Paula and Ilieh to recognize the gross selfishness of their behavior.
Like a clap of thunder so startling that they both jumped out of their seats, I threw my books on the floor as hard as I could, and emitted fury like a pit bull in a dogfight. My teeth were bared, I was angry as hell, and Paula and Ilieh looked like two deer caught in headlights. I'm not sure I actually said anything coherent, it was mostly just animalistic noises. Nevertheless, it had the desired effect. After that, it took me 20 minutes of absolute silence so that I could calm my voice down enough to speak at a measured, moderated, tone.
They've been angels ever since.
Welcome!
- Mystery Me
- I started writing this blog in 2008, toward the end of my first year of teaching. These posts about my experiences as an NYC Department of Education teacher have been (and continue to be) assembled over a period of several years. They don't necessarily need to be read in chronological order, but my very first post, "Context" (March 2008) might be useful as an introduction into this lunacy. While most of my stories highlight the ridiculousness of being a public school teacher, I should note that I love my students and care deeply for them. So as you read, please keep in mind that I do in fact have a soul, as well as a heart; and that heart of mine brims with pride every time I think about my students' talents and breaks with pain every time another one gets screwed by the system.
March 27, 2008
March 25, 2008
Ghetto Pillsbury Dough Boy
DeJuan is my favorite kid in class. By far. He has so many nicknames I need to keep lists of them. My three favorites: Pip-squeak, Oompa-Loompa, and Pillsbury Dough Boy.
He has the roundest, cutest chipmunk cheeks in the universe. From time to time, I swear chestnut crumbs fall from his mouth onto his desk. His lips are the color of a cherry coral, and his short little body is identical to that of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He has grimy, fat, little fingers-- you know-- the kind you imagine Gretel had when the witch finally decided she was plump enough to eat; and when I poked him square in the belly-button today, a sound reminiscent of my dog's squeaky toy was emitted from his cute little, baby-tooth-smiling mouth.
On several occasions, I find myself having ridiculous urges to eat him or to pick him up and swing him around my body in a graceful spin move as if I was Brian Boitano and he was my Christie Yamaguchi. Other times, I hold the top of his head in my palm (he's right at elbow height, its perfect) and refuse to let go. On more than one occasion, I've found it eerily enjoyable to stick my pencil up his nose and in his ears. And when he gets really upset about something, he bows his head so low that he can't walk straight without running into something. He has the most endearing pout I have ever seen, and I can only be mad at him for about the 3 seconds that I'm yelling, and in the snap of your fingers, my anger turns into laughter, as I look at his puppy-dog eyes, chipmunk cheeks, and fat bottom lip.
Whenever this happens, (and believe me, my anger gives way to a disturbing, eerie kind of cackling laughter more than it should), my class looks utterly perplexed. I revel in their confusion, milk their perception of me as a lunatic who's about to go off the deep end at any minute, and continue on my merry way.
He has the roundest, cutest chipmunk cheeks in the universe. From time to time, I swear chestnut crumbs fall from his mouth onto his desk. His lips are the color of a cherry coral, and his short little body is identical to that of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He has grimy, fat, little fingers-- you know-- the kind you imagine Gretel had when the witch finally decided she was plump enough to eat; and when I poked him square in the belly-button today, a sound reminiscent of my dog's squeaky toy was emitted from his cute little, baby-tooth-smiling mouth.
On several occasions, I find myself having ridiculous urges to eat him or to pick him up and swing him around my body in a graceful spin move as if I was Brian Boitano and he was my Christie Yamaguchi. Other times, I hold the top of his head in my palm (he's right at elbow height, its perfect) and refuse to let go. On more than one occasion, I've found it eerily enjoyable to stick my pencil up his nose and in his ears. And when he gets really upset about something, he bows his head so low that he can't walk straight without running into something. He has the most endearing pout I have ever seen, and I can only be mad at him for about the 3 seconds that I'm yelling, and in the snap of your fingers, my anger turns into laughter, as I look at his puppy-dog eyes, chipmunk cheeks, and fat bottom lip.
Whenever this happens, (and believe me, my anger gives way to a disturbing, eerie kind of cackling laughter more than it should), my class looks utterly perplexed. I revel in their confusion, milk their perception of me as a lunatic who's about to go off the deep end at any minute, and continue on my merry way.
He called her a Jerk.
THIS IS FUCKING HARASSMENT WOMAN! I yell into my phone as I listen to yet another 2-minute long voice message from Ms. Sherry Annette Fern:
"Hi Ms. Mystery, time now, 4:56. Ms. Mystery, Roberto called Mildred a jerk today. And another boy made fun of her breasts because they're big....Mildred! Who was that boy?!....You have to tell me. Think carefully. I need a name!... Anywho... these kids, they come to school to learn, not to be teased. She just can't help that they're so big. She's a big girl. But that's no reason to be called a jerk. Ms. Mystery, you better set this right, before I come over there and fix it myself. Tell them to stop picking on Mildred. She ain't done nothing wrong. And I told her not to curse back, but if they be cursing at her, well then I told her to curse right back. Just as long as you don't catch her. 'Do it when Ms. Mystery's not listening,' I tell her. Anywho, I'll know you'll make it .... beeeep."
The voice mail machine cuts her off. Shockingly, she doesn't call back to finish her message. Most times she leaves voice messages so long that she has to leave her messages in thirds. Apparently, 2 minutes isn't enough time before the beep, so she averages about 6 minutes per each entire message, from beginning to end (not counting pause time in between dials).
After quickly thanking the heavens above for the brevity of her message, the anger hits me:
FUCK! They're in 4th grade! NO SHIT your 9-year old daughter's gonna be picked on when she's lugging around sagging Double Ds down to her knees that you can see through the mesh shirt in which you dressed her this morning!
And let's be honest lady, when was the last time the word, "jerk" hurt anybody's feelings...ever?
Never.
"Hi Ms. Mystery, time now, 4:56. Ms. Mystery, Roberto called Mildred a jerk today. And another boy made fun of her breasts because they're big....Mildred! Who was that boy?!....You have to tell me. Think carefully. I need a name!... Anywho... these kids, they come to school to learn, not to be teased. She just can't help that they're so big. She's a big girl. But that's no reason to be called a jerk. Ms. Mystery, you better set this right, before I come over there and fix it myself. Tell them to stop picking on Mildred. She ain't done nothing wrong. And I told her not to curse back, but if they be cursing at her, well then I told her to curse right back. Just as long as you don't catch her. 'Do it when Ms. Mystery's not listening,' I tell her. Anywho, I'll know you'll make it .... beeeep."
The voice mail machine cuts her off. Shockingly, she doesn't call back to finish her message. Most times she leaves voice messages so long that she has to leave her messages in thirds. Apparently, 2 minutes isn't enough time before the beep, so she averages about 6 minutes per each entire message, from beginning to end (not counting pause time in between dials).
After quickly thanking the heavens above for the brevity of her message, the anger hits me:
FUCK! They're in 4th grade! NO SHIT your 9-year old daughter's gonna be picked on when she's lugging around sagging Double Ds down to her knees that you can see through the mesh shirt in which you dressed her this morning!
And let's be honest lady, when was the last time the word, "jerk" hurt anybody's feelings...ever?
Never.
Ms. Mystery, what's a pole?
Holly: Ms. Mystery, what's a "pole?"
In my head: [DID YOU REALLY JUST ASK ME WHAT A "POLE" IS!?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, "WHAT'S A POLE?"!?
YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT TEQUILA IS BUT YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A POLE IS?!!?!]
But on the surface, my face is stoic and calm. My demeanor is motherly and forgiving.
"Oh, pole, of course. You know... think of a basketball hoop. You've got the hoop/net part, and then you have that big long thing that sticks out of the ground that its attached to. That big long thing... that's a pole."
"Ohhhhh so like a stick?" Holly says. Roberto just looks at me, wide-eyed with utter fascination.
"Uh, yea, sure. Why not."
Some teachers say there's no such thing as a stupid question. I say bullshit.
In my head: [DID YOU REALLY JUST ASK ME WHAT A "POLE" IS!?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, "WHAT'S A POLE?"!?
YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT TEQUILA IS BUT YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A POLE IS?!!?!]
But on the surface, my face is stoic and calm. My demeanor is motherly and forgiving.
"Oh, pole, of course. You know... think of a basketball hoop. You've got the hoop/net part, and then you have that big long thing that sticks out of the ground that its attached to. That big long thing... that's a pole."
"Ohhhhh so like a stick?" Holly says. Roberto just looks at me, wide-eyed with utter fascination.
"Uh, yea, sure. Why not."
Some teachers say there's no such thing as a stupid question. I say bullshit.
March 24, 2008
"Context"
One of the vocab words today was "context." I defined it as: the surrounding or related information that helps you understand something; the background information. I inadvertently find out four hours later that my kids don't know what "background" means.
Fucking great.
This is the first time I'm writing in this blog, so I figured I'd give you a little bit of a... context... to what you're reading, so that it alll makes sense from here-on in.
Context:
I just graduated from college last May 2007. Now, I'm living and working in NYC, the city that never sleeps. Most of my friends are in law or investment banking. However, instead of following my peers into the corporate world, I joined Teach for America. Why? I don't know. Kids make me feel awkward. But I did it. And here I am, working as a full-time 4th grade teacher in Harlem at a high-needs public school.
Experience working with kids? None.
Experience in education? None.
'Loves kids?' Certainly not.
Knowledge of the Lattice method of multiplication? You're guess is as good as mine.
Unrelenting passion to 'close the achievement gap?' Maybe a little?
An interesting ride? Most definitely.
Fucking great.
This is the first time I'm writing in this blog, so I figured I'd give you a little bit of a... context... to what you're reading, so that it alll makes sense from here-on in.
Context:
I just graduated from college last May 2007. Now, I'm living and working in NYC, the city that never sleeps. Most of my friends are in law or investment banking. However, instead of following my peers into the corporate world, I joined Teach for America. Why? I don't know. Kids make me feel awkward. But I did it. And here I am, working as a full-time 4th grade teacher in Harlem at a high-needs public school.
Experience working with kids? None.
Experience in education? None.
'Loves kids?' Certainly not.
Knowledge of the Lattice method of multiplication? You're guess is as good as mine.
Unrelenting passion to 'close the achievement gap?' Maybe a little?
An interesting ride? Most definitely.
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