Humor

"That was so funny, I can't take off my smile!" - Arnulfo

"Don't call them armpits. We're ladies. Call them underarms. Once they start to get all stinky and nasty, then they're armpits." - Agilita

"Suck my balls!"

A day to be reckoned with--- when I came out from my usual fifteen minute lunch, two of my usually well-behaved boys were sitting on the wall. Apparently, they had used their lunch time telling other people to "suck [their] balls!" After a little bit of interviewing (and A LOT of crying), two other boys were singled out as having said it, too. I was VERY disappointed, and wanted them all to call home. I would usually send them to the office so I wouldn't have to repeat such language in front of the rest of my students, but the office was too busy, so I had to do the calling with my cell phone as the rest of the class looked at book orders. Mr. D'Alessio, the vice principal, came by, and scared the boys by asking them, in their face, what they said. Of course, none of the students wanted to tell the vice principal, "suck my balls" so they all looked ashamed. Mr. D said, "I'm guessing, somethign not very nice." They all nodded their heads.

Later, after a lot of phone crying and "Mama! Mama!" I e-mailed Mr. D'Alessio to tell him what exactly had been said. This veteran junior high teacher replied with a "So?"

"Today was just the poisoning"/ "Imagine a semi..."

This week has been incredible. Now, please, pause and think about what the word "incredible" implies. Unbelievable. Logically impossible. Almost frightening.

Let's begin with Wednesday, when I told the kids that the following day was International Talk Like A Pirate Day. They were very excited about the prospect and showed them how to make hooks with their hand and say, enthusiastically, "Arrrrggghh". Well, poor Arnulfo was making a hook and saying "Arrrgh" a little too enthusiastically while holding his pencil, stabbing himself in the eye, and following his "Arrrgh" with the cry of a wounded animal. He immediately began bauling. His shoulder partner, Angelie, has the seat in the far corner and has to move her chair up to let people pass behind her. She was so enthralled by Arnulfo's crying ("He's really crying Miss Sells") that I had to say, "Angelie! Please move up so Arnulfo can go to the nurse." The kids were saying, "Miss Sells, he's crying! He's really crying!" I had to say calmly, "Well, I would be crying, too, if I stabbed myself in the eye with my pencil while making a pirate hook." After school, he told a first grade teacher that he had stabbed himself in the eye while talking like a pirate. Oh, my!

On Tuesday, we had a serious incident on campus where a seventh grader put sleeping pills in another student's water bottle, causing him to pass out in the nurse's office. The police were, obviously, involved. Out to dinner that evening with my third grade teacher friend and the school librarian, the librarian asked, "Was there another fight today?" thinking he had seen some scuffle on the playground. "No," his wife answered, "Today was just the poisoning." What kind of place do we work at where that comment would be stated!?

Yesterday, two fourth graders picked up a dying pigeon from the playground and took it into my neighbor's classroom while she was teaching math. Any person reading this who really knows me, knows that I have an irrational fear of pigeons. While taking my kids out to computers, these two kids came toward me, grinning, with a scared looking pigeon in their hands saying, "Look what we brought you Miss Sells!" knowing I would freak out. I freaked out. I mean, I REALLY freaked. When one of the fourth graders saw me on my way back to my classroom, he started running toward me screaming "Rabies! Rabies!" (this is an unusual child). Anyway, when I had the chance to talk to him privately after school, our conversation went like this:

Me: "Colbie, what you did today really hurt my feelings. You know that I'm seriously afraid of pigeons, don't you?"
Colbie: "Yes, but why, Miss Sells?"
Me: "It doesn't matter why. People are afraid of things for very different reasons. But it's never okay to make what someone's afraid of into a joke. Are you afraid of anything, Colbie?"
Colbie thinks for a while and then says, "I'm afraid of semis, because once one ran over my arm." (I have no idea if this is true, but I'm guessing a truck did run over his arm once. This kid is just that strange and lives in that sort of neighborhood where something like that could happen.)
Me: "Well, Colbie, how would you feel if I thought that was really funny so I teased you about it. Imagine a semi.... Imagine if I brought a semi in front of your house and waited in front for you, just to scare you."
Colbie's eyes widened. "I wouldn't like that at all, Miss Sells."
Me: "All right. So what do you owe me?"
Colbie: "I'm sorry Miss Sells."

Empathy.

Musically Deranged

We have a music teacher at our school with a great love for music, but what has been demonstrated as an incompetence with teaching. I happen to have music on Fridays. Well, last week, though the teacher mentioned nothing to me, my students told me that one of my students was playing "guns" with the rhythm sticks. Today, I decided I would stop by about ten minutes into the lesson to see exactly what kind of mayhem my students were causing. First of all, I immediately noticed the sudden change in the atmosphere when I opened the door. If you did not know this, the sight of a teacher (especially their own teacher) stops third graders in their tracks. Several students were looking at me from their seat, others were standing, and ONE was on the floor!

"Is it time already?" asked our obviously senile music teacher.
"No, I just decided to check on them." I stated in my best "I-am-very-upset-right-now" teacher voice.

Since it didn't seem like the teacher was actually in the middle of a lesson, I spoke to several students about sitting correctly in their chair, not touching their neighbors- basically correcting the majority of the misbehavior I was noticing. I pulled Arnulfo, the student who was on the floor when I opened the door, and spoke with him outside.

"What did I tell you before I let you in this classroom?"
"To behave."
"What are you doing now?"
"Not behaving."
"Do you think you'd be able to control yourself if I put you back in there?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? - because I have no problem with having you set this one out."
"I'm sure."
"If I hear one more thing about your lack of self control, you will NOT want to know me."
"Okay, Miss Sells."
"Do you know what I mean by that?"
"Yes. You'll, well... you'll basically attack me."
(I had to suppress a smile) "That's right. Go back in there."

What do I do with a class of students who will behave with me and the other specials teachers, but not with one? And on a Friday afternoon?! Aaaah!!!

Curb the Cursing

I'm not big on cussing. I'm not one of those people who drop f-bombs on frequent occassions or have a hard time controlling my language around children. However, yesterday, I found myself having to rein it in.

I have to keep reminding myself: These children are only eight years old. They have only been alive for eight years. What do you really expect out of them?

Here's a sample from my day yesterday:
Me: Get out your library book if you have it. If you don't have it, you don't have to tell me.
Several students: I forgot mine at home!
Me: Again, only get out your library book IF YOU HAVE IT. If you forgot it, I don't care.
Several students: I don't have mine!
Me: Listen. Get your library book out. If you don't have it, you don't have it. If you forgot it, okay. Just get it out, if you have it.
Students: I left mine at home!
Me: Library books out. If you don't have it, you don't need to say anything.
(Arnulfo raises his hand)
Me: Yes, Arnulfo
Arnulfo: I don't have mine.

Holy s&*@! In these sort of situations, you can't blame it on the language barrier. You can't say its their home life. They just AREN'T listening! I simply don't have the time or patience to say everything fifteen times.

New Student Headache/Blessing

At about 8:30 yesterday morning, there was a slight knock on my door. Outside were two women and a little girl, one of the women holding a pink slip signifying an enrollment. I quickly learned that this particular student spoke no English. She stepped silently into my classroom and grasped my hand desperately as I guided her to her seat. Luckily, I had cleared the desk of a withdrawn student the night before so there was a place for her. Also, this space happened to be next to one of my Spanish-speaking sweethearts who was more than willing to help our new class/family member adjust.

I have forgotten over the summer how taxing it is to have a monolingual in the classroom. Last year, I had two: Jose, a student who was unmotivated and silent, unwilling to participate (he left a month after his enrollment) and Cipriano, one of my all-time favorites (yes, it's true: teachers have favorites). This little boy was set in learning English. He was focused and hardworking; refusing to let others help him by translating. He ended up being able to speak and read English pretty well before his family was forced to leave the area in February. I cried when he left.

This new student, Karla, is absolutely precious. She speaks to me in Spanish frequently: "Maestra! Maestra! Blah blah blah lots of Spanish!" I can understand a lot of what she says, but my personal Spanish word bank is very small. I know the Spanish for my numbers up to 10, party, beans, men, cheese, and a couple of colors. I am pleased she is comfortable enough to talk to me, even if it's not in my native language. Luckily, my kids are quick to come to her aid. It's almost heartbreaking to see her looking up at me with her huge brown eyes and a smile, pointing and asking, "Si, maestra? Si???"