The Griping Substitute

My job has been extraordinarily monotonous lately, thus the lack of regular posts.  Things have been so slow in fact--and this is amazing considering how ridiculous middle school students are--that I haven't had a funny anecdotes to tell in, gosh, months.

Instead, I'm going to complain.  You don't have to read this.  This is for me.  Catharsis.

The last week of school is pointless.  Disagree?  Tell me about it!  Who in the United States does not have close personal experience with the futility of the last week of school.  I could get into the academic and State Department of Education implications here, but that's not my gripe right now.  I always figured we could at least fool the students and parents into good attendance, support, and performance this last week by lying.  Put the last day of the school on the calendar a week later than it really is, and then tell kids the last day of school, "Oh, by the way, school's over!  Have a good summer."  Think of the problems this would solve!

As a teacher I hated the last week of school because academically it's worthless.  As a result of that worthlessness, it's pretty much impossible to maintain any kind of discipline because you've got nothing to hang over the kids' heads.  The skillful teacher can work around this, and as long as the school or district don't require final grades before the last day of school, then you might yet have a little leverage.  More than that, if you have a good relationship with your students, though, you can manage some fun activities, enjoy or movie, or go outside and play games.  As a sub, it's a different matter entirely.  Already largely without power, things are immensely more difficult this last week than any other.  My head is just about ready to blow up.

I hate the last week of school for a compounded reason: since the teachers have given up--either burned out or just done with curricula--they are unable to pass along any leverage to the subs covering for them and said subs therefore do nothing but deal with insolent, bored, hormonal teens for an hour and a half at a time, particularly as we're not allowed--well, at this school, I'm not allowed--to do anything otherwise to distract them, like take them outside to play games.  They don't know me and won't do what I ask--and why should they? --because they don't necessarily like me, they don't know me (and there are some exceptions, but not enough to dominate the rest of the unruly eighth grade population), and don't even trust me enough to start in on a game or something.  And right now, chowing down on a cold hamburger with naught but mustard, mayo, and cheese (the cafeteria ran out of ketchup, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles during first lunch), I wonder if what I thought earlier today is true.  Do I dread the end of school because I'll have to find temp work in some factory or something in the next few day to carry on for the next four weeks?  Maybe not.

Teachers who don't adequately provide for their subs should be--

I was going to say "shot," but maybe that's a little harsh.  Maybe reprimanded.  Sheesh, I'm too nice.  No.  Teachers who don't adequately provide for their subs should be made to be a sub for a week for a teacher just like them.  Just like principals should be forced to work a semester in a classroom.  Just like students should be made to do custodial work.  Just like parents should sit in the classroom with their crappy kids....  

Okay, I'll stop.

Gripe completed.

A Decade's Enough

Yesterday I taught ... er, "taught" ... a day's worth of middle school drama classes.  Despite the fact that I've had virtually nothing to do with drama, save playing in pit orchestras, since high school, the classes went surprisingly well, and I couldn't help thinking--and posting on FB later--how I think I could actually make a pretty adequate drama teacher and really enjoy it.  However--and this by way of a combination of, 1, accolades for teaching I've received, 2, pressure to improve and improve, and, 3, my own uncertainty regarding my actual (not perceived) teaching abilities--maybe it's best that I'm done with the classroom.  Not to compare myself to the superstars (they're just the most readily available and recognized examples, though I'm sure I know a deaf dinosaur of a science teacher who would similarly qualify), but consider Michael Jordan and/or, oh, I don't know ... Paul McCartney.  Okay, maybe they're not the best examples; though the attempted returns after "retirement" or the general demise of their groups--in other words, though they didn't exactly "go out on top"--they're still better remembered for the remarkable--astounding--achievements from the height of their careers.  I don't think I ever taught like Jordan played ball or like McCartney wrote music.  Yeah, I'm a good teacher.  Yeah, I'm good with kids.  Yeah, I love my subject.  And, yeah, I think I've done some good stuff.  If I leave now, am I leaving at the "top of my career"?  Were I to stick around, would I get all beleaguered in the bureaucratic demands of the profession and crack?  While pushing for my own ideals and maturing past the recklessness that marked (more on that in a minute) really quite a lot of whatever was called "good" or "great" about my teaching and education achievements, would I lose that spark/fire and just become some zealot slave driver, beating down the kids claiming from atop my beat-up soapbox that THIS STUFF IS IMPORTANT AND WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU KIDS THAT YOU WON'T DO IT!?  I've felt vestiges of that....

More than halfway through my first year teaching in Saginaw, Michigan, a student returned to class with reportable news he'd overheard while awaiting a sit-down with the counselor.  "Mr. Center," he said, "They're calling you a lose cannon in the office."  Though inclined to take offense--and truly my hackles went right up--I was eventually, actually, pretty okay with it.  Not that the office might not be satisfied with my methods (to which they were referring), but that the results thereof were enough to garner the attention that recognized I was doing stuff differently.  I could justify everything I did against the state and district curricular requirements.  Kids were enjoying classes.  Kids were performing well--significantly better, in fact--on tests and, my personal favorite, were winning more creative writing competitions than ever their grade levels had (and many accolades to my brilliant successor, who has improved still upon those marks!).

I've always been guilty of flying by the seat of my pants--of "faking it 'til I make it" --and I'm coming to realize (because that's EXACTLY what I did yesterday with the drama classes and, again, they went really well) that the desperation and enthusiasm and my own personal excitement at the discoveries thereof....  But you can't do that forever.  Eventually, the "lose cannon" thing becomes routine which becomes easy from which eschews nothing surprising or exciting or terrifying which results in boredom which leads to everything that's bad about teaching, not least of which is an over-structured/under-creative environment certainly for students but, more importantly (yes, really), for the teachers.  I've said it before: any significant success I've had as a teacher was not because I'm an expert "teacher," but because I'm flipping crazy-excited about my subject, really know my subject, happen to be good with kids, and share everything I discover with them.

No way would I be able to do that forever.  Right?  And doesn't the death of a teacher who remains, zombie-like, in the classroom do more damage than good?  Sheesh -- maybe it's good they don't pay teachers well enough.

Corny Reminiscence and Cornier Fondness

Yesterday my wife and I received a wedding invitation in the mail.  I recognized the family name on the return address, but didn't make the connection (it was the parents' name with the surname, after all, and I know relatively few grownups) until we opened it and saw the photograph.  A former student of mine is getting married next week.  Big deal, right?  I mean aside from the whole fact that weddings are wonderful and happy--among the happiest--things, why would I be at all surprised?  I've had thousands of students, and odds are a few of them will get married once in while; why should I be particularly surprised or elated?  I'm not a young teacher anymore (remember: it's not the years, but the mileage), and, just like me, my past kids--as with everyone else in world, mortal or immortal--are getting older.  This particular young lady was a seventh grader when I taught her in one of my first classes down in little Payson, Utah.  I remember her clearly: a bright and vivacious young lady, sociable and eager.  She worked hard, did relatively well, and said goodbye at the end of the year with a sigh of mild regret, but marked enthusiasm for the coming summer and the subsequent advancement to eighth grade and the junior high school up the street.  In other words, she, just like almost everyone else in her class, would surely forget me and move on.  No big deal.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that this young lady is the daughter of one of my wife's cousins, whom my wife happened to see at a family reunion a couple weeks ago.  And of course I have to keep this in consideration (seeing someone at a family reunion can build up certain levels of internal, familial guilt for lack of communication over the years or whatever else) and not be too flattered that she maybe fondly thought of me after nine or ten years.  When Angie returned from the reunion, which I was unable to attend for a conflict of schedule, she had lots of items to report, indeed among them her seeing this former student of mine, who, apparently, was quite upset that I hadn't shown up.  After all, she was engaged and really wanted me to meet him.

In Mormon culture--at least Utah-Mormon culture--you invite friends and extended family (depending on the volume of the extended family of course, which, as you might guess, can get quite sizable) to the reception.  Immediate family and a very few of the best friends, get invited to the temple ceremony, where the actual marriage, or sealing, takes place, "For Time and All Eternity" --a truly amazing, reverent, awing, and sacred ceremony, at which there is terribly limited physical space for onlookers.  This young lady, whom I haven't seen in nine or ten years, and whom my wife just spotted at a family reunion, has invited the two of us to her temple sealing.

Now I don't think it's any great mystery that (1) I love being a teacher.  Also, (2) I happen to love--again, no great mystery--my subject, English (in lieu of my own classroom, I'm currently dedicating two blogs to it, after all).  Finally (3), I love kids and am a fair natural at getting along with them, relating to them, "getting" them, and so on.  If I've experienced any success (which I measure objectively and qualitatively by the making-a-difference marker) as a teacher, I think it's for these three traits, and not for any particular skill of instructional strategy or classroom management or any of the other things that otherwise qualify teachers, of which I know many, as good or great.  Along these lines, I also work hard at my job.  I want to do it well, and everyone likes to hear that their efforts are appreciated.  Lately--scattered throughout this past school year--I've received several messages from former students thanking me for having been their teacher, which messages flatter and humble me, and often bring a tear or two or a flood to my eyes.  Combine this with the fact that I really feel--deeply and to the corny little core of my heart--that my students are my kids.  Now imagine what this wedding invite did to me!

(If you are a former student of mine, please do not take this as a subversive message meant to incite guilt for failure to invite me to your wedding.  Really.  I probably won't be able to make it anyway; travel's expensive, after all, and I'm only a frickin' teacher for crying out loud!)

More than anything else, this whole thing reminds me of how important people and relationships and kindness and hard work are and all the other crap that goes with them.  I've been reminded similarly of how important my former teachers were and are to me.  I've even followed the example of some of these former students and written to a few of my old teachers (thank Goodness for Facebook, right?).

And now, well, this message is clearly petering out, losing its momentum (if it ever had any), and I've got no great or elegant/-oquent conclusion.  I just feel good, which is a good thing to feel, especially as this is my last year teaching.

*sigh*

SEX SELLS ... er ... I mean CELLS

I'm currently grading the booklets and extra credit from the 7th Grade Science, Genetics unit (about three weeks late, but there you go).  I just finished scoring a young lady's booklet who made an innocent, I'm sure, spelling mistake, which mistakes are certainly not uncommon for 7th graders.  When I taught English, years ago, it was surprisingly common to see the word "graj," meant to indicate "garage."  The mistake I found today, however, has a bit more resonance.  On a page of class work focusing on the topic of meiosis, this young lady mistakenly spelled the male sex cell not "sperm," but "spurn."  Freudians, unite!

Good Kids

Writers and directors who put together movies in which the handicapped kid is mocked by the popular kids, or by any kids, or even just ignored are either stupid or ignorant.  Yes, kids get teased and cruelly, but they are never--and let me make this clear: NEVER--the kids with "legitimate" and visible special needs.  The 7th and 8th graders I work with now, as well as all the other high schoolers and middle schoolers I've worked with over the last decade, are silent heroes, helping, guiding, encouraging and all without even being asked.  Of course, this doesn't spare geeks and the preternaturally awkward, but that's not my point (and, yeah, if we split hairs, we all have special needs).  Certainly we're not entirely innocent, and such helping hands don't absolve humanity from other atrocities, but seeing such service warms my heart.

On an entirely different note, I have a student whose first name is "Amisi," pronounced (seriously) "ah-MEE-zee."  I can hardly believe the kids don't giggle every time I take roll; maybe I'm still just too accustomed to high school.

Consistency Teaching

Things have been pretty stable lately.  This is darn amazing.  So much so that I sometimes forget that I'm only a substitute teacher and that our in comes nowhere near to match our out.  But life, it seems, can't be content with permitting anyone's complacency.  More amazing--and markedly pathetic, really--it doesn't take very much to remind me how fragile things really are--how much I so entirely rely upon others, and, more than anyone, one Other.

For the past couple months now, I've been subbing for a seventh grade science teacher.  While I've learned that eighth graders are not universally worse than seventh graders (I taught eighth grade science next door before this, you may remember), the general pejorative classroom management issues have been offset by the convenience of daily, full-period "preps" (generally, in block schedules, like that of this school, teachers get one prep every other day).  While I can't say I've particularly enjoyed my work this go 'round (I'm not preparing the lessons, and while this makes things simpler--less demanding--it lends a certain degree of detachment--of disassociation), it is yet satisfying to work with kids and teach them something and whatever else and all the other personal benefits one might gain from teaching.

My current gig was originally set to last out through the first week of May.  I got an email this past Saturday that says otherwise.  I've got somewhere between two and four weeks left here, and then....  Who knows?  Objectively, this is just fine.  It's a big school.  There are lots of subs needed.  It's an even bigger school district.  You do the math.  I've got pretty much nothing to worry about.  Yet I worry.

In my previous job, I made good money.  Subbing, I don't.  Despite this, there was far more financial stress before than now, because back then I had no idea when/if I was going to get paid, if it would be a full check, a partial check, or if my boss would find some way of worming out of paying some portion of my check for whatever little fiscal invention he might tease out.  Here, subbing, I know exactly how much I'm making, when it will come, how much will be held for taxes, when my statements will be available, and so on.  It is remarkably consistent.  This is remarkably comforting!

But consistency, no matter where it is, so often reveals itself an illusion.  The pieces are all inter-reliant.  If one thing doesn't fall into place--like having a job to go to! --then the rest sloughs away.  It's an emotional thing, this stability--this consistency--and, really, how often are emotions stable?  I find that I'm a remarkably stable person by appearance, but that doesn't mean things are churning tumultuous beneath the surface.

I didn't have a specific thematic intention when I began this post.  And now as I write, I find my mind bending constantly (that's an important word here, measurable as it is against "consistency" and "stability") toward God.  Really, the consistency is not an illusion.  It is my faith in it that havers.  I am inconstant.  My job stability falters.  Not God.  And as Life reminds me that I'm not in control, I am reminded (intentional passive!) that God is.  Really, He's never let us down.  We've always had our needs provided, and often miraculously.  Regardless of all the inconsistent parties and influences around me, One is not.

And thank God!  The next thing will come with or without my foresight, and food will still be on the table.

TWO THINGS THAT, TODAY, HAVE MADE MY DAY

ONE:

I have been accepted to Ohio Northern University College of Law, which response is the first, positive or negative, from the seven law schools to which I have applied.  What a relief!  That means, whether I'm accepted anywhere else or not, well, I'm going to law school in the fall.  What's more, and while I can't say for sure that its role was integral in my acceptance, this validates, at least to a point, my maverick approach to writing my personal statement.  Take that, naysayers!

***

TWO:

Today is my last day subbing for 8th grade science.  (HERE's the first entry, typos and all, from my tenure in this particular classroom.)  While reaction to my time here really requires a full entry, I'm going to leave it at this: it's been a great experience, I'm actually pretty good at teaching science, and I'm really going to miss these kids--even though they're eighth graders.  All that aside, a young lady in my first period class said something really funny today.  Context: Someone needed to borrow a pen.  He took one of mine.  I let him, because he's always returned pens in the past.  When he was finished with it, I told him to just go ahead and throw it to me.  He threw it.  I didn't catch it; more accurately, I missed it.  The young lady in the back laughed, so I threw the pen at her.  (I did wait until I knew she was ready.)  She missed.  I laughed at her (this is all quite good-humored, by the way).  "And you made fun of me?" I asked, so she said: "Hey, I'm a girl.  What's your excuse."

Unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything to say that couldn't, potentially, get me into trouble.  So I only laughed with her.

A Good Class is a Goofy Class

Last week began to remind of teaching for real, not because of any particular subject matter, but because of the absolute goofiness that cropped up in a couple of classes.  I guess it was a matter of comfort--teacher to students--as anything else.

We're talking about waves in 8th grade science right now.  Our working definition is, "A wave is the propagation of energy through a medium."  Amplitude and frequency are both measurements for how much energy is being propagated.  We talked about how this is why your ipod runs out of batteries faster at a higher volume.  We also talked about higher frequencies--for audio waves, this means higher pitch--indicating higher energy consumption (disregarding the energy required to drive the speakers) and someone said, "I knew it!  Justin Bieber does destroy ipods!"

*

I don't remember the discussion that brought up the '80's, but one boy concurred with the general concensus: "Yeah, the '80's was a real bad year!"  When the class all turned dumbfoundedly to stare at him, he corrected himself: "I mean, it was a real century, I mean week, I mean," and he struggled a moment before finally recognizing it as "time."

*

girl: "Every time I think of Mr. Center, I think of a centipede for some reason."

boy: "What, like Mr. Centerpede?"

Mr. Center: "At least once a day."

*