Believe it or not, my job doesn’t consist of a bunch of students standing on our desks and yawping barbarically all the time–like I wish it did (and if you don’t get the reference, repent immediately by renting Dead Poets Society). My job doesn’t consist of every student waiving their Hermione Hands all around until I call them so they can express some longwinded thought. Believe it or not, my classroom is not all love notes all the time.
Tag: English Teaching High School
To My Students at Christmas time, Because there are at least twelve of you creepy kids who have (confessed that you) googled my name, found my blog, my twitter, my instagram, and my facebook, and at least six of you who are probably reading this now. Weirdos.
Posted onTo my students at Christmastime: What do I want you to know most? About English? About High School? About Life?
My Juniors Think I Am a Nazi.
Posted on… And I don’t just mean they think I am mean or unfair.
It started with a student who thought it was cool to draw Swastikas on my desks. High schoolers are weird.
The first time it cropped up, it was a tiny little Swastika. I was faced with the dilemma: Make a big deal out of it and risk goading the Nazi in my class to continue, or just let it slide and hope the perpetrator will get bored after their graffiti failed to incite. Apparently, “letting it slide” only ensured that the Swastikas got bigger and more noticeable. Teacher Fail.
Penrod’s Army
Posted onThis was me on my first day of teaching High School. Spare the jokes please. I know I look like I should be a high school student myself.
Screen Fast, Thoreau Style
Posted onIn an effort to get my students in the spirit of Transcendentalism and to “Simplify, simplify, simplify!” I have asked my students to create their own personal “Walden” of sorts.
The Power of Nice
Posted onI used to think that “niceness” was a soft attribute. I was heartily convinced that the way to be in life was like Christina Yang–calloused, driven, exceptional and seldom nice. Nice was a boring quality. Nice felt like Comic Sans and an exclamation point. Nice was a pastel butterfly on top of a crib. Nice meant weak.
That’s not to say I was always mean. I liked to call myself “driven” instead. I was capable of being nice, but usually and especially in high school, nice was not inherent; nice served a purpose.
I Care So Little About Football
Posted onI care so little about football. I learn the bare minimum so that when my students try to engage me in a conversation about football (which is hourly) I can reply with something like: “mumble mumble, oh yeah backup refs mumble mumble.”
Teaching: I am a Moose in the Headlights.
Posted onI’m a talker. I’m a sharer, as previously acknowledged. I’m an “experience the world through reliving it verbally” kind of person.
So it’s very strange, but I just haven’t really wanted to talk about my new job as a teacher very much.
My Exhaustion is Thorough, but Not Expended.
Posted onDear Blog,
You’ve never been less important to me. Did you know I have a million other priorities? Did you know that I feel guilty for even clicking into blogger at times like these?
Did you know that my exhaustion has never been so completely thorough?
Did you know that I feel like every ounce of extroversion I have ever felt has been sucked from me as though I have been strapped up to “The Machine” in The Princess Bride?
Did you know that there are students that aren’t very nice? Did you know that there are some students who argue with teachers? Did you know that students don’t believe that reading is important or even relevant to them?
I have a suspicion that you did know these things, Blog. You sat with your wry smile thinking about my silly optimism, knowing I’d fall of the grid, knowing that teaching would consume me, knowing that there was a cruel world out there that I was refusing to see.
But guess what, blog? I bet you didn’t know about Thompson* (name changed), who stayed after class too tell me that he was a mute, and only talked to nice people, but felt like he could talk to me because I was a nice person?
I bet you didn’t know about Marissa* with her piercings and her teeth decals and her earnest desire to succeed at English, even though it was her second language.
I bet you didn’t know about Brad*, who told me I was a good teacher at my deepest moment of secret need.
To the Thomspons and the Marissas and the Brads out there, you are the reasons I teach this week. Thank you.
A Nap About High School
Posted onToday was a special day, and here’s how I know it: I napped for an hour. A Whole Hour.
I am a frequent napper but usually only for five-ten minute bursts. I call these “synapses,” because they are short like a synapse and help me get something working again. But today, I had a genuine nap, though it was nothing special in and of itself. In fact, it gave me a headache afterwards.