9/18
Last Thursday a colleague of mine called me to ask if I could fill in for him. As we were team-teachers during one of my long-term assignments, I could not refuse, plus it saved me from waking up at 5:30 to check available jobs online. I have a long history with the school, and while you might think there would be bitterness considering that I did not get a full-time job there, I feel that I've done a damn-good job of taking everything in stride.
Getting there in the morning was not an issue, as it's a relatively straight shot from my house, and I arrived about 15 minutes early (heeding the rule). After a few formalities at the front desk, I headed to the familiar English/Social Studies office to check for lesson plans.
The hallways made me laugh. The school, being under construction, was completely gutted over the summer: carpets, flooring, many walls and ceilings.... gone. It's - very literally - teaching in a half-constructed building. As a result, you hear EVERYTHING. The halls echo, the chairs scraping on the floor make my teeth rattle, and the lake of wall coverings make it so you can hear even the students whispering to one and other (maybe that's not such a bad thing).
My reintroduction to the staff was pleasant: old colleagues greeted me, and new employees introduced themselves. The most satisfying part of being back is hearing the students who recognize me in the halls, or as they walk into the classroom: "DUUUUUDEEEE!!!!"
One of the things that bothers me about substitute teaching is never really getting to know the students in the classes that I'm covering. It always helps to return to a place that I have worked and had an influence in the past, and be recognized, not only by my own peers, but by the students whose lives we influence on a daily basis. There is nothing better than being greeted by a big smile as my name is over-enunciated for all to hear, and a fist-bump never hurts either.
After all, it's not a bad thing to want a little bit of recognition for what you do.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
$70/hour
9/17
I got a call the other day to fill in for an English teacher who would be gone for the afternoon. The robot voice on the phone said I should show up at 11:00, prepared to take over the final three periods of the day. Seems simple enough...right?
It actually was pretty simple, in fact it was incredibly simple. It turns out that, due to an odd rotating block schedule that the school employs, and the fact that the teacher had the last-period class on a field trip with her (I didn't know this to begin with), I was only responsible for covering a single period of Creative Writing. I've taught creative writing in the past, so I was excited it was on the schedule. CW can be a lot of fun, and it's always interesting what the students can churn out when they really try.
So I arrive at the school at 10:45 - it's my policy to always be early when I'm subbing, especially for a 1/2 day assignment - and collect the documents and key from the main office. The sub plans tell me to report to the computer lab - not an issue - and when I find it there's a cluster of students waiting for me.
"Are you the sub?"
"You got it..." I say as I find the right key to unlock the lab.
"Dude, you're late. Class started 15 minutes ago."
I feel my face flush. I hate being late, especially when another teacher is relying on me.
"Really? They told me to show up at 11:00." Stupid computer, the system didn't account for the block schedule.
The students filed in as I read through the plans. It appeared that, for the next hour I would be responsible for taking role, handing out a worksheet, prohibiting the use of games, and hoping that they truly do "know what they're doing"; a bold statement when deal with most high school students. I was pleasantly surprised, as the majority of the students got right to work, furiously mashing away at their respective keyboards in order to churn out a creative piece of their choice.
The time passed slowly, as it always does when I have little opportunity for interaction with the students. I spent the time looking over shoulders, reading snippets of student work, and ensuring that none fell to the nearly irresistible temptation of addictinggames.com.
An hour later the bell rang, I waited for the students to print their work and file out, and locked the sauna-like lab behind me as I left. I located the teachers' classroom after a few moments of searching, and threw my stuff behind the desk. I reviewed the lesson plans again, and even though the schedule said their was another period left in the day there were no plans to speak of. This isn't a big deal for me, as I have enough experience to know how to occupy a class without a prescribed lesson, so I settled into the teachers' chair to wait.
The bell rings.... no students come in. OK, maybe they're all late. 20 minutes go by.... still no students. I pull out my book - Bram Stoker's Dracula, which by the way is awesome - and get lost in the adventures of the Harker's, Van Helsing (not the Hugh Jackman bootleg version) and Dr. Seward. I look up 30 minutes later to an empty classroom, and decide to go ask the secretary what the hell the deal is.
She smiles up at me when I walk in. "Oh - I forgot to tell you she has her last period on a field trip, so you can leave if you want."
I gladly hand over the sub folder and rosters, and thank her as I turn to the door.
"Sorry about that," she pipes up "enjoy your afternoon!"
I turn to look as I walk out "Oh no problem, have a good one!"
I pull out of the school at 1:30; a full hour and a half before the day is technically over.
Sweet, I just got paid to watch students type for an hour.
I got a call the other day to fill in for an English teacher who would be gone for the afternoon. The robot voice on the phone said I should show up at 11:00, prepared to take over the final three periods of the day. Seems simple enough...right?
It actually was pretty simple, in fact it was incredibly simple. It turns out that, due to an odd rotating block schedule that the school employs, and the fact that the teacher had the last-period class on a field trip with her (I didn't know this to begin with), I was only responsible for covering a single period of Creative Writing. I've taught creative writing in the past, so I was excited it was on the schedule. CW can be a lot of fun, and it's always interesting what the students can churn out when they really try.
So I arrive at the school at 10:45 - it's my policy to always be early when I'm subbing, especially for a 1/2 day assignment - and collect the documents and key from the main office. The sub plans tell me to report to the computer lab - not an issue - and when I find it there's a cluster of students waiting for me.
"Are you the sub?"
"You got it..." I say as I find the right key to unlock the lab.
"Dude, you're late. Class started 15 minutes ago."
I feel my face flush. I hate being late, especially when another teacher is relying on me.
"Really? They told me to show up at 11:00." Stupid computer, the system didn't account for the block schedule.
The students filed in as I read through the plans. It appeared that, for the next hour I would be responsible for taking role, handing out a worksheet, prohibiting the use of games, and hoping that they truly do "know what they're doing"; a bold statement when deal with most high school students. I was pleasantly surprised, as the majority of the students got right to work, furiously mashing away at their respective keyboards in order to churn out a creative piece of their choice.
The time passed slowly, as it always does when I have little opportunity for interaction with the students. I spent the time looking over shoulders, reading snippets of student work, and ensuring that none fell to the nearly irresistible temptation of addictinggames.com.
An hour later the bell rang, I waited for the students to print their work and file out, and locked the sauna-like lab behind me as I left. I located the teachers' classroom after a few moments of searching, and threw my stuff behind the desk. I reviewed the lesson plans again, and even though the schedule said their was another period left in the day there were no plans to speak of. This isn't a big deal for me, as I have enough experience to know how to occupy a class without a prescribed lesson, so I settled into the teachers' chair to wait.
The bell rings.... no students come in. OK, maybe they're all late. 20 minutes go by.... still no students. I pull out my book - Bram Stoker's Dracula, which by the way is awesome - and get lost in the adventures of the Harker's, Van Helsing (not the Hugh Jackman bootleg version) and Dr. Seward. I look up 30 minutes later to an empty classroom, and decide to go ask the secretary what the hell the deal is.
She smiles up at me when I walk in. "Oh - I forgot to tell you she has her last period on a field trip, so you can leave if you want."
I gladly hand over the sub folder and rosters, and thank her as I turn to the door.
"Sorry about that," she pipes up "enjoy your afternoon!"
I turn to look as I walk out "Oh no problem, have a good one!"
I pull out of the school at 1:30; a full hour and a half before the day is technically over.
Sweet, I just got paid to watch students type for an hour.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Gathering of the Fake Teachers
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
As recent events have illustrated that confining myself to one or two school districts is a bad idea, I recently contacted all districts within 40 miles of home asking to be considered for a job, or at least placed on their sub-lists. While a few of the responded, only one of them was within a reasonable driving distance. The down-side to expanding to a new district is the requisite “training” that all new recruits must endure. Granted, the opportunities that this new district will afford will ultimately be beneficial, however as I drove to the main office I was dreading the afternoon I would have to spend there. First, I was instructed to arrive at 11:30, which precluded me from taking an assignment subbing elsewhere. Oh well, I always appreciate being able to sleep in (even after an entire summer of doing so). More disturbing was the fact that the meeting was supposed to last until 3:00, which led me to wonder – very bluntly – what the hell we were going to do for nearly four hours.
My questions were answered when I arrived at the office, collected a stack of informational photocopies, and proceeded to wait 30 minutes for the first presenter to arrive. The wait wasn’t bad, although it did make me rethink my choice to cut off an unassuming Asian family whose mini-van I almost ran off the road as I cut them off in my haste to arrive on time. My table-mates, who were all new to subbing, were very pleasant and interested in the process – I assured them that their zeal would fade with time.
While I appreciate the institution (it means I don’t have to go back to manual labor as I wait for), and love the experience of being in various classes and schools, there is nothing more aggravating that feeling like an unappreciated piece of the scenery in the classroom or department. While the students can often treat you like an unpleasant smell – something to be dealt with until it goes away – the teachers can likewise be less than welcoming to subs: reacting more to the fact that you take up a seat at their lunch table than if you successfully get through the school day.
Regardless, my words to the new subs were encouraging, and we settled into the orientation. It was as I expected. A twenty minute welcome was followed by a ten minute demonstration on how to use an Epi-Pen, and then a twenty minute break for coffee and cookies (we were totally famished after thirty whole minutes of listening, so the time off was welcomed by all). The break was followed by a solicitation for a teachers-only bank account, and then a thirty minute video encouraging us to have a positive attitude in everything we do. By that time it was blatantly obvious that we – a room full of substitute teachers – were being given the same presentation that all other employees were required to receive, and as such were then subjected to a forty five minute video regarding everything from proper management of school budgets to the appropriate ear-protection when using a ride-on lawnmower.
By 2:00 every set of eyes in the room were anxiously dancing between the clock and an in-depth presentation of the means of prevention of blood-borne pathogens (BBP’s) which apparently can be contracted AT ANY TIME. As we’re being cautioned to wear gloves when handling any bodily fluids, it took everything in me not to share the fact that I would be the first one out of the room if a student vomited blood like the scenario in the video.
In the end, I learned two things. The first thing I learned is that the members of human resources don’t consider subs to be “real” teachers as evidenced by the comments made throughout the presentation:
“So… when you get a real job here…”
“Oh… you’re not real employees?”
“Of course, you can get a bank account with us if you’re only a sub, you’ll be a teacher eventually right?”
“You’ll need to know this when you have an actual teaching job…”
And my favorite: “You don’t need to fill out the whole form; you’re not a real teacher.”
Each of these comments was followed by some form of muttered apology, but by the end all of the attending teachers felt very similar: we’re a necessary afterthought.
The second thing I learned was how to accept temporary assignments on the internet.
As recent events have illustrated that confining myself to one or two school districts is a bad idea, I recently contacted all districts within 40 miles of home asking to be considered for a job, or at least placed on their sub-lists. While a few of the responded, only one of them was within a reasonable driving distance. The down-side to expanding to a new district is the requisite “training” that all new recruits must endure. Granted, the opportunities that this new district will afford will ultimately be beneficial, however as I drove to the main office I was dreading the afternoon I would have to spend there. First, I was instructed to arrive at 11:30, which precluded me from taking an assignment subbing elsewhere. Oh well, I always appreciate being able to sleep in (even after an entire summer of doing so). More disturbing was the fact that the meeting was supposed to last until 3:00, which led me to wonder – very bluntly – what the hell we were going to do for nearly four hours.
My questions were answered when I arrived at the office, collected a stack of informational photocopies, and proceeded to wait 30 minutes for the first presenter to arrive. The wait wasn’t bad, although it did make me rethink my choice to cut off an unassuming Asian family whose mini-van I almost ran off the road as I cut them off in my haste to arrive on time. My table-mates, who were all new to subbing, were very pleasant and interested in the process – I assured them that their zeal would fade with time.
While I appreciate the institution (it means I don’t have to go back to manual labor as I wait for), and love the experience of being in various classes and schools, there is nothing more aggravating that feeling like an unappreciated piece of the scenery in the classroom or department. While the students can often treat you like an unpleasant smell – something to be dealt with until it goes away – the teachers can likewise be less than welcoming to subs: reacting more to the fact that you take up a seat at their lunch table than if you successfully get through the school day.
Regardless, my words to the new subs were encouraging, and we settled into the orientation. It was as I expected. A twenty minute welcome was followed by a ten minute demonstration on how to use an Epi-Pen, and then a twenty minute break for coffee and cookies (we were totally famished after thirty whole minutes of listening, so the time off was welcomed by all). The break was followed by a solicitation for a teachers-only bank account, and then a thirty minute video encouraging us to have a positive attitude in everything we do. By that time it was blatantly obvious that we – a room full of substitute teachers – were being given the same presentation that all other employees were required to receive, and as such were then subjected to a forty five minute video regarding everything from proper management of school budgets to the appropriate ear-protection when using a ride-on lawnmower.
By 2:00 every set of eyes in the room were anxiously dancing between the clock and an in-depth presentation of the means of prevention of blood-borne pathogens (BBP’s) which apparently can be contracted AT ANY TIME. As we’re being cautioned to wear gloves when handling any bodily fluids, it took everything in me not to share the fact that I would be the first one out of the room if a student vomited blood like the scenario in the video.
In the end, I learned two things. The first thing I learned is that the members of human resources don’t consider subs to be “real” teachers as evidenced by the comments made throughout the presentation:
“So… when you get a real job here…”
“Oh… you’re not real employees?”
“Of course, you can get a bank account with us if you’re only a sub, you’ll be a teacher eventually right?”
“You’ll need to know this when you have an actual teaching job…”
And my favorite: “You don’t need to fill out the whole form; you’re not a real teacher.”
Each of these comments was followed by some form of muttered apology, but by the end all of the attending teachers felt very similar: we’re a necessary afterthought.
The second thing I learned was how to accept temporary assignments on the internet.
Testing the Teacher
Saturday, September 12, 2009
This morning my peaceful slumber was once again interrupted by the grating blare of my alarm, and while it was not to wake me for single serving service in a public school, it was definitely school related. Weeks ago I signed up to take the teacher-certification test in Social-Studies. This was recommended to me by a number of colleagues who had realized I was only certified to teach History. While this distinction is a bit ambiguous in my mind (not a bit actually, I think it’s f’ing ridiculous) I signed up for the test. In doing so, I shelled out $160 (it would have been $130, but apparently a month in advance is considered late registration) and committed to an 8:00 AM start time. For the record, this is the sixth of such tests I have taken, for a grand total of over $900 in testing fees alone. Granted, the first two were in a different state, but considering that each state makes their own requirements I had to start over at the beginning when I moved. At east I didn’t have to do my student teaching again.
So the morning of the test rolls around, I roll out of bed, shower, etc. and roll up to the test site 15 minutes early. In my mind 15 minutes should be enough to find some parking, meander into the school, and wait to be seated. To my dismay I’m met by a line of cars at a standstill extending out of the ½ mile access road. Come to find out , the genius team behind scheduling failed to account for the fact that both football and baseball games would be starting at the same time as the tests, so the parking lots were overflowing with not only bleary-eyed teachers, but annoyed parents (Go sports-rage!) and oblivious kids.
As my admission ticket says that those who arrive late may not be admitted, panic begins to set in, and I scramble for a parking space, nearly hitting a family led by what appeared to be a midget in football pads (it turned out to be middle school football). I rush across the parking lot, into the building, and up against a cluster of teachers and teachers-to-be ironically milling about in the school commons.
As we wait for a sweaty woman (I’m talking sweat-lodge sweaty) to point us to our testing rooms, I begin musing with the person beside me about the method and purpose of the test. Our conversation is predictable, and it leads back to a common belief that these tests are yet another annoying hurdle for the state’s educators. Drawn in by our comments, another neighbor makes a comment that the test has nothing to do with teaching. To be fair, the testing board does not claim that it measures teaching ability, in fact it explicitly states that the purpose is to “…demonstrate that teachers have the appropriate subject knowledge for their teaching assignments.” My new friends and I agree that even to this end, the tests seem sweeping and unfair. It becomes clear that we feel as if we’ve been standardized; placed on a bell curve; churned out by a machine. Essentially, the test holds us to a standard by which we can be judged (districts want to see scores, not just know you have passed), meaning that our future assignments depend not on performance, but on a number. In my mind, while this is the way of the world, it is also incredibly ironic as all of my teacher-preparation classes have stressed the importance of performance-based assessments, as traditional means of assessing (such as tests) hold students to an unfair standard without accounting for individuality.
Our conversation ends with the squaw of a radio, and we filter into our testing rooms about 30 minutes late. Another 30 minutes later I finally have the test open in front of me, and a bubble sheet on my right hand. The test is 110 questions long, and I wear out three pencils in the process of completing it. The items are presented with the normal, make you second-guess ambiguity of multiple choice questions, but are generally straightforward for anyone with a passing knowledge of social studies. What scares me is the idea that people will see a number on a scale, and incorrectly assume that it represents my ability to teach. Just as teachers often look at test scores as representative of a student’s ability to learn, it is a myth that needs to be done away with. Either that or I need to kick the tests’ ass so it’s not an issue.
This morning my peaceful slumber was once again interrupted by the grating blare of my alarm, and while it was not to wake me for single serving service in a public school, it was definitely school related. Weeks ago I signed up to take the teacher-certification test in Social-Studies. This was recommended to me by a number of colleagues who had realized I was only certified to teach History. While this distinction is a bit ambiguous in my mind (not a bit actually, I think it’s f’ing ridiculous) I signed up for the test. In doing so, I shelled out $160 (it would have been $130, but apparently a month in advance is considered late registration) and committed to an 8:00 AM start time. For the record, this is the sixth of such tests I have taken, for a grand total of over $900 in testing fees alone. Granted, the first two were in a different state, but considering that each state makes their own requirements I had to start over at the beginning when I moved. At east I didn’t have to do my student teaching again.
So the morning of the test rolls around, I roll out of bed, shower, etc. and roll up to the test site 15 minutes early. In my mind 15 minutes should be enough to find some parking, meander into the school, and wait to be seated. To my dismay I’m met by a line of cars at a standstill extending out of the ½ mile access road. Come to find out , the genius team behind scheduling failed to account for the fact that both football and baseball games would be starting at the same time as the tests, so the parking lots were overflowing with not only bleary-eyed teachers, but annoyed parents (Go sports-rage!) and oblivious kids.
As my admission ticket says that those who arrive late may not be admitted, panic begins to set in, and I scramble for a parking space, nearly hitting a family led by what appeared to be a midget in football pads (it turned out to be middle school football). I rush across the parking lot, into the building, and up against a cluster of teachers and teachers-to-be ironically milling about in the school commons.
As we wait for a sweaty woman (I’m talking sweat-lodge sweaty) to point us to our testing rooms, I begin musing with the person beside me about the method and purpose of the test. Our conversation is predictable, and it leads back to a common belief that these tests are yet another annoying hurdle for the state’s educators. Drawn in by our comments, another neighbor makes a comment that the test has nothing to do with teaching. To be fair, the testing board does not claim that it measures teaching ability, in fact it explicitly states that the purpose is to “…demonstrate that teachers have the appropriate subject knowledge for their teaching assignments.” My new friends and I agree that even to this end, the tests seem sweeping and unfair. It becomes clear that we feel as if we’ve been standardized; placed on a bell curve; churned out by a machine. Essentially, the test holds us to a standard by which we can be judged (districts want to see scores, not just know you have passed), meaning that our future assignments depend not on performance, but on a number. In my mind, while this is the way of the world, it is also incredibly ironic as all of my teacher-preparation classes have stressed the importance of performance-based assessments, as traditional means of assessing (such as tests) hold students to an unfair standard without accounting for individuality.
Our conversation ends with the squaw of a radio, and we filter into our testing rooms about 30 minutes late. Another 30 minutes later I finally have the test open in front of me, and a bubble sheet on my right hand. The test is 110 questions long, and I wear out three pencils in the process of completing it. The items are presented with the normal, make you second-guess ambiguity of multiple choice questions, but are generally straightforward for anyone with a passing knowledge of social studies. What scares me is the idea that people will see a number on a scale, and incorrectly assume that it represents my ability to teach. Just as teachers often look at test scores as representative of a student’s ability to learn, it is a myth that needs to be done away with. Either that or I need to kick the tests’ ass so it’s not an issue.
The Return of Mr. Dude
Friday, September 11, 2009
My return to the world of substitute teaching was more refreshing than I imagined that it would be. Many times when I enter another teachers classroom as a substitute I find myself loathing the experience; critiquing the lesson plans and judging even the arrangement of the desks. Friday was different. I found myself replacing an eighth-grade social studies/PE teacher at a local middle school at which I worked frequently last school-year. As the teacher knows (and requested) me, I was left an engaging lesson plan, and a fun group of kids to teach it to.
Let me pause for a moment and say that “engaging” is a relative term here; most days I expect to be trusted with nothing more than handing out worksheets and pressing play on the DVD Player (once I was even left a note: “You don’t have to rewind because it’s a DVD”).
Regardless, as the sea of acne and hormones flooded in through the early-morning air, I was greeted by excited cries of “Mr. Dude!” a nickname I was first given last year. I smiled at the recognition, and as the students piled in I could tell that I was going to have a good day. Faced with six periods of social studies, all with the exact same lesson plan, I put all my energy into making our discussion of credit card debt interesting to the average 14-year old. Each class discussion followed the inevitable path from cosigning for credit cards and managing your money to attempting fraud to “what would happen if you died, and you didn’t have – like – family or anything…who would have to pay your debt then?” My otherwise repetitive day was punctuated by a single PE class for which I was left a note saying: “Got to the locker room, then the gym. Play kickball, or basket-ball or something.” You have to love a thoroughly planned lesson! Luckily the brusque PE/Health teacher was there to curse the lack of lesson plans and impatiently drag a cart of basket-balls into the gym for me.
The class that followed was amusing to say the least. As a group of students played 3 on 3 on one side of the gym, the rest of the 25 kids spent the 40 minutes shooting, throwing, kicking and otherwise propelling basket-balls around the gym, first at the hoops, then the walls and ceiling, then – inevitably – each other. Those who did not want to participate in this free-for-all huddled in the corners or sat against the walls of the court, although they were often out of luck as this separation made them the target of a poorly-aimed ball punted from half-court. Though I was enjoying the spectacle, the teacher in me finally kicked in, and they calmed down again after I banished the worst offenders to the hallway. Early last year I noticed that every time I came home from subbing, I always had a new story to tell about a single student that stood out from the rest for one reason or another. Sometimes appearance, sometimes accomplishments, sometimes the weird stuff that they say propels them to the front of the pack.
I have to mention my favorite student, or as I like to call them, the student of the day:
I first noticed this student when they shambled in from lunch five minutes early. At first (and second) glance I could not tell the gender of this individual, as they had long blonde hair past their shoulder blades, and tight fitting black jeans that would have made disco-era John Travolta jealous. These girl-jeans (as they could only have been such) were jet black, as was the t-shirt that was tucked into them. My doubt about the gender of this individual was assuaged when I offered a word of greeting and was met with a “Hello\...” which resonated a full octave lower than my own voice. His long hair aside, I realized that I would not have given this petite young man a second thought had it not been for the floor-length Lord of the Rings cloak draped around his eighty-pound frame, and upon which his greasy blonde hair was flopped; like a miniature elf in black Seven's. Whipping out a library book, he slouched into his chair with the cloak wrapped around him – apparently for warmth – and proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes picking his ears, nose and teeth with his uncut fingernails, and wiping the refuse into the pages of a Terry Goodkind novel.
My return to the world of substitute teaching was more refreshing than I imagined that it would be. Many times when I enter another teachers classroom as a substitute I find myself loathing the experience; critiquing the lesson plans and judging even the arrangement of the desks. Friday was different. I found myself replacing an eighth-grade social studies/PE teacher at a local middle school at which I worked frequently last school-year. As the teacher knows (and requested) me, I was left an engaging lesson plan, and a fun group of kids to teach it to.
Let me pause for a moment and say that “engaging” is a relative term here; most days I expect to be trusted with nothing more than handing out worksheets and pressing play on the DVD Player (once I was even left a note: “You don’t have to rewind because it’s a DVD”).
Regardless, as the sea of acne and hormones flooded in through the early-morning air, I was greeted by excited cries of “Mr. Dude!” a nickname I was first given last year. I smiled at the recognition, and as the students piled in I could tell that I was going to have a good day. Faced with six periods of social studies, all with the exact same lesson plan, I put all my energy into making our discussion of credit card debt interesting to the average 14-year old. Each class discussion followed the inevitable path from cosigning for credit cards and managing your money to attempting fraud to “what would happen if you died, and you didn’t have – like – family or anything…who would have to pay your debt then?” My otherwise repetitive day was punctuated by a single PE class for which I was left a note saying: “Got to the locker room, then the gym. Play kickball, or basket-ball or something.” You have to love a thoroughly planned lesson! Luckily the brusque PE/Health teacher was there to curse the lack of lesson plans and impatiently drag a cart of basket-balls into the gym for me.
The class that followed was amusing to say the least. As a group of students played 3 on 3 on one side of the gym, the rest of the 25 kids spent the 40 minutes shooting, throwing, kicking and otherwise propelling basket-balls around the gym, first at the hoops, then the walls and ceiling, then – inevitably – each other. Those who did not want to participate in this free-for-all huddled in the corners or sat against the walls of the court, although they were often out of luck as this separation made them the target of a poorly-aimed ball punted from half-court. Though I was enjoying the spectacle, the teacher in me finally kicked in, and they calmed down again after I banished the worst offenders to the hallway. Early last year I noticed that every time I came home from subbing, I always had a new story to tell about a single student that stood out from the rest for one reason or another. Sometimes appearance, sometimes accomplishments, sometimes the weird stuff that they say propels them to the front of the pack.
I have to mention my favorite student, or as I like to call them, the student of the day:
I first noticed this student when they shambled in from lunch five minutes early. At first (and second) glance I could not tell the gender of this individual, as they had long blonde hair past their shoulder blades, and tight fitting black jeans that would have made disco-era John Travolta jealous. These girl-jeans (as they could only have been such) were jet black, as was the t-shirt that was tucked into them. My doubt about the gender of this individual was assuaged when I offered a word of greeting and was met with a “Hello\...” which resonated a full octave lower than my own voice. His long hair aside, I realized that I would not have given this petite young man a second thought had it not been for the floor-length Lord of the Rings cloak draped around his eighty-pound frame, and upon which his greasy blonde hair was flopped; like a miniature elf in black Seven's. Whipping out a library book, he slouched into his chair with the cloak wrapped around him – apparently for warmth – and proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes picking his ears, nose and teeth with his uncut fingernails, and wiping the refuse into the pages of a Terry Goodkind novel.
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