Funny Essays

“I sort of agree that money can buy happiness.  If you have bills or payments due, that’s why you got money by your side.  Another reason is if you depressed that’s why you have money to buy you something to eat.  Money is useful in some ways.  I mean for a regular dood like me, shiiiiit, I can shure as hell use some money right about now.”   – 10th grade male

Test Scores: Down

I doubt my students got dumber, and the tests did not get too much harder.  Somehow, my test scores took a turn for the worse, though, and basically are in a tailspin.  This will call for a mobilization.

If you would like to help these kids in any way, contact me or keep your ears open for ideas that I am running.  Test scores aren’t everything in life, but many students are not developing the skills they need to read at a tenth grade level.  You can help.

The sad thing is, though, that this problem is in every city in the country but we rarely hear about it or are invited to help.

More Stories

I should be planning lessons now.  I should be sending my administrator my data on my problem students.  I should be writing referrals for undisciplined young ladies who don’t come to my lunch detentions because they think they can get away with what they want because no one has showed them how to respect adults.  I should be doing this and that, but  my day is too long without substantial time for myself.  I am running out of time for myself.  When I get home at nine most nights and look at the clock on the stove, I say to myself: only two hours to cook, eat, read a book or watch the yankees, then sleep again.  Two hours to yourself a day is not enough.  So I am doing this:

More stories from A 215:

• Teacher:  “how is the group project going?”  Young lady:  “So I told my mom, your hair looks fine as it is.”  Teacher:  “Oh.  Does your mother have her hair in a weave?” Young lady: “My mother’s hair is NOT a weave!”
• Fight in the breakfast line.  Student knocked out cold.  Fifteen students came to my classroom filled with ADHD but no food.  They were about to revolt.  I turned off the lights and made them read by lamplight to quiet music for 10 minutes.
• I went to send for some pop-tarts.  I generously give pop-tarts to students who are working.  Most don’t recognize they do not have a right to a pop-tart.  One student does no work, demands a pop tart.  I don’t give it to him.  He stands up and leaves.  Another student: “My boy just straight up bounced.  Now there’s a man who takes his breakfast to heart.”
• “It is tuesday morning and I am tired.  I am tired of teaching books to children who should be learning home-training instead.”
• Young 10th grade woman:  “I have to doo doo real bad.  Real bad!”
• “She’s got more issues than a magazine.”
• “It’s like the young woman pulled a pin out of a grenade.”
• Young man to me: “I’m about to pop your chicken, cuz.”
• Young woman:  “Mr. Jones, let me borrow your pen.  I need to pop this.”  “Pop what?”  Young woman: “This thing on my face.”
• Teacher:  “Ma’am what seems to be the problem today?”  “My problem is you.  I don’t like you and I don’t like your class.”
• Young black woman: “I hate black people.  Love me some Caucasians.”
• Teacher: “How do you think that made me feel?” Young woman: “I don’t care about people’s feelings, I don’t care about anybody in this world.”

Student Fables

I had my students write these fables for our creative projects.  They spent three weeks on it.  The point was that the fables should have a moral of modern street-smarts at the end of it.

Here’s is what one of my male students came up with:

Your Parents Are Not Always Right

“About 20 years ago there was this guy named Joe.  He was an exceptionally good looking guy, good at sports and highly intelligent.  One bad thing about him was he was not good with the ladies.  He tried everything to find a way to talk to this girl he had a crush on since pre-school but nothing worked.  So he asked his mom for advice and she said bump into the girl and try to get her to talk to you.  So the next day he did and instead of her responding positively like he hoped she would, she punched him in the neck.  This goes to show you that parents are not always right.”

Another boy:
Humphry and Elroy

Once upon a time there were two brothers Humprhy and Elroy. Humphry was a very mean little brother he always borrowed money from Elroy without paying back and he would also play tricks on poor Elroy. One day Humphry got into some trouble. Him and his friends were tricking people in the court yard of the castle out of there money with card tricks and the king was riding by and saw what he was doing. So they were about to cut Humphry head off in the guilateen when Elroy screamed noooooooo and told the king that he would give anything if he let his brother go the king.So the king smiled an said anything and Elroy said yes. So the King said your farm or nothing. Elroy said but my farm is all I have the king said the farm or noothiing ,so Elroy gave up his farm. Humphry was set free and when they got home Humphry tried to tell Elroy thank you but Elroy just sighed and told Humphry just don’t talk to me and Humphry said “well f#%& you too then” and walked outside. As soon as he walked outside he was ran over by a horse drawn cairrage.

Mission: Test Scores

One thing that I enjoy about inner-city teaching is the sense of mission.  There is mission in the sense that these children need adult mentors to look up to.  There is mission in the fact that many do not have positive home lives where they are encouraged to reach their full potential.  There is even mission in the academics, where we can talk about real life issues like one-parent homes, street smarts and giving people second chances.  However, since there is mission in the academics, that means that there is also mission in the test scores.

I will spare you the details: alot of teachers argue over the “No Child Left Behind” bill because it makes teaching all about test scores.  There are teachers out there who teach only to the test because, in the end, that is how both their students and they are assessed.  Kids pass the test, state board is happy, admin is happy, you keep your job, you’re happy.

This is not education.  It is filling a bucket.  I won’t ever do that.  However, test scores make or break my classroom.  So my mission this year is to find a way to improve these students’ scores on the bubble tests (general reading comprehension, analysis, higher level thinking) without compromising my beliefs.

I have about 30 students out of 95 that are failing the bubble tests everytime, and averaging everyone together, my classes are not hitting the benchmark.  I have the toughest of the tough in the 10th grade: majorly at risk and a few years behind.  To catch them up to speed will take all year.  This is a mission that I could possibly fail, but without the risk of failure, there isn’t any sense of mission at all.  I signed up for a risky mission, and I have one.

If any friends ever want to come to help tutor my kids, just let me know.  I will make sure you get community service points, maybe even a write-off on taxes.

Losing mind, keeping perspective

I don’t have the time to make this one long, but I wanted to record a piece of my consciousness during its most hornet-nest state while I am here.  There are some days, once the kids have filed out to sports and I close my door, that I actually think I am losing my mind.  There are so many events during the day that push me to the edge of my control, and the biggest advice I have received during all of it is to keep your cool no matter what.  Thick skin, the refusal to let things actually bother you and change your mood, is essential as a teacher they say.  What many students naturally want is to rip the teacher to shreds, and when they eat at you until you crack, they could not be more pleased.  None of them are conscious of this desire of theirs, but when the opportunity arrives they always take it.  That’s why even among the worst of situations (having students stand up and defy me to my face, say I’m not coming to your lunch detention, I’m not doing your F’ing do now), somehow I have to learn to see above it all and keep my cool.

These kids are desperate for power and control of their world so that they can have some peace about chaos.  To some extent, so am I.  When the kids win at being off task so that I can not get them back into the learning mode, I feel that I have failed.  I am not a teacher at these moments, but some man who cannot control a group of sixteen year olds.  I fight a power battle with these students every day.  Sometimes I win, sometimes they win.

What I am trying to remember is to keep perspective:  when the weekend is over, it almost always feels like a blank slate.  Despite who won last week, they have forgotten about it.  Their cares change with the wind, and every week is a new chance to win them on my team.  My current philosophy reads that as long as I keep things positive and show them that they deserve attention, just because they are human, that I will win this war in the long run.  Some of them will never be mature enough to understand how much their teachers work for them, but some of them might.  I plan to win the war by earning their respect instead of only demanding it.

Inner City Stories

I thought I learned alot last year about how to be a teacher, but I am pretty sure that working with at risk students who have not been taught how to behave by parents and who don’t trust anyone for that matter could be the most difficult thing I have ever done in my twenty four years of life.  Here are some stories:

• A girl has asked me if she can leave class to unhook her bra
• A guy has undone his belt and readjusted his underwear in the back of the classroom while everyone was watching
• A number of students, when I have confronted them about poor behavior, have stood ninety degrees to me without making eye contact and have asked me “ok, are you done now?”
• I’ve received a few notes reading “Just to let you know, be careful next time you get smart with me, you might not like it.”
• A girl nearly cussed me up and down for removing her from class for refusing to work with “young male teachers.”
• A handgun was found at school
• A girl gave a blowjob in front of a crowd of ten people in the courtyard at lunch
• A student from my morning class barged into my afternoon class, walked right up to the front chair, sat down, and demanded that I sign his form to change classes – wouldn’t leave when I told him he was hopelessly rude.
• A student wrote a summer reading project about a book called “G-spot.”
• A student refused to come into class because she had just purchased a popsicle and demanded ten minutes to eat it
• A 24 pack of water outside my door – stolen
• My digital camera – misplaced — FOUND!
• My ipod – used for a lesson, placed on the back shelf near my stereo, five feet away from desks – stolen.
• Student throws my lunch detention note in the trash then runs away from class twenty minutes early – school officers chase him down
• sometimes 4/24 students turn in homework
• student cries because she has to change classes
• loss of control in class when supposed to be taking test because students love getting under my skin
• Teacher: “why were you late?” Girl:  “because I was taking a shit”
• Teacher: “what’s one thing about you that makes you unique?”  Girl: “I enjoy being evil.”  “You mean like being mean to people?”  “I love to give people a hard time when they don’t deserve it.”
• Student: “I have never apologized to anyone before in my life.”

There’s just too much to say right now.

“Esta muerto”

When I was backpacking in Spain, I witnessed a car accident.  It was a beautiful day in Valencia and I had spent most of it on the beach with my hiking backpack next to my chair.  I took a bus around 4:00 back to the center of town so I could buy my train ticket to Alicante later that night.  Since Spanish bus routes are difficult and confusing, I got off on the wrong bus stop and was out of cash.  I had nine blocks left to walk to the station, so I began walking.  I crossed a major intersection that led out of the nine story tall buildings and into a blue-sky public park full of brilliant Spanish sunshine right in the middle of the city.  It’s called El Rio and it snakes its way through Valencia from the sea port until you get out of the main district.  The roads go over the park trees, and you have to take steps to get down into the park.  The park is filled with fountains and landscaped gardens whose flowers color coordinate famous Spanish crests and other landmarks.  It is also filled with people taking off their shoes for a dip in the fountains and orange trees lined in geometric groves.  It is a saturday afternoon paradise.

I went down to pick some oranges.  They were rotten and full of white grubs, much to my horror on biting into one.  I had a terrible taste in my mouth and was heading back up the stairs with my backpack when I think I heard a distant shattering of glass.  It was soft.  I climbed the rest of the steps to see nine people gathered around a small European car that had flipped over onto the driver’s side and had rested there.  Glass was strewn across the street and there was a lady on a scooter down the street frantically communicating to some people on their cell phones.  The nine people and I remained clueless as to what to do.  Your first reaction in a situation like this is “someone should do something” but then you say “the police have been called, what can I possibly do?”  And then you tell yourself “Go and see if the people need help” but then you think “but I am not a trained professional – I would probably mess something up.”  And by this time you have become a voyeur, just a member of the crowd with their mouths open not knowing what to do but unable to pull themselves away.

There was an arm hanging out of the passenger side window.  There was also a shoe underneath the driver’s side door.  Then I saw the puddle growing larger as it crawled out of the bottom side of the car by the shoe.  Someone had to check.  I went up to the car and took a distant look on my tip toes without getting to close.  The arm was full of hair and looked strong – the man must have been in his late twenties and active.  I raised up on my tip toes to see if he was moving.  The puddle was more now, and the drips from the broken glass windows, the shoe, and the arm had made it clear enough.  I suddenly lost my stomach.

I never gathered details on how it happened.  I can only imagine that he dodged the lady on the scooter as she was turning, and perhaps he hit the curb hard and rolled.  I couldn’t easily ask people either.  We stayed until the rescue squad cut out the windshield and the door with the jaws of life and then raised him to a stretcher, all the while pushing us back so we couldn’t see.  I eventually left and continued walking to the train station, having witnessed my first fatality, and questioning a million things about the universe along the way.  I was sick, but the only thing I could think about was that it could have been me.  It could have been anyone I knew.  God decided either to take this man intentionally, or created a world where any of us could go at anytime in a freak traffic accident and was not in control of it – which seems to limit his omnipotence.  I think it’s fair to say from scripture that God did not wind the world up like a deist clock and leave everything up to chance – nor does he intend for any human to die.  How could his will be for us to be killed prematurely?  It must be some strange confluence of the two, I thought as I walked past the Corrida de Toros and listened to the crowd cheer for blood.  The world is not how it was meant to be, and tragedies are not how God would wish for his people to leave the world.  However, we can’t say that God isn’t sovereign over it.  He must be – he must allow these terrible things even though it is not what he wants.  I can’t say that I fully understood it that day as I got on the train and watched the arid mountains fly by my window.

But it does help me to see that our days our numbered – whatever it is that we shouldn’t die without doing or saying.  I made myself a list in the train and swore to begin very soon; the beauty in tragedy is that it can often teach those who experience its ripple effect how to live more presently and intentionally.  The horror floats away in rings like a rain drop on the surface of a pond, but bouncing off the minds of humans it returns from us into beautiful conviction.

Grafitti, Erosion, Eternity

My friend Matt and I took a trip through Southern Ireland to find the Blarney Stone outside of the town of Cork. This was an important quest for us because, unlike the impression I give when I write, I do not possess the gift of eloquence when I speak. Legend has it that those who are fortunate enough to discover and kiss the Blarney Stone will be gifted with the silver tongue of eloquence immediately. Winston Churchill, GK Chesterton, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and many others were among those who experienced this phenomenon, and now Matt and I were next in line.

The castle has an impressive keep that rises about 100 feet out of the mud and you get to venture through three different levels of the castle before you make it out to the parapets. As we were going through the castle, we noticed all of the signs that asked us not to add to the graffiti, but also the occasional sign that informed us that some of the graffiti remained from the 1800s. When we further investigated some of the carvings, we found this to be true. Some of the signatures were really amazing, and I was mesmerized looking over wall after wall of people who wanted to carve themselves into eternity. Would I be one of them?

Graffiti is certainly nothing new: it is as old as the first civilizations of cave painters. There is some impulse within humans to long for eternal glory. By this I simply mean having their names achieve the status of lasting through the generations, either for something they have accomplished or simply because of the fact that it is carved into a tree. There must be some common human need to be remembered, to leave a legacy, to matter after we are gone. Why else do people carve their names in everything, including my classroom desks?

Another sobering thought to accompany these is the sort of thoughts that find you when you walk through a graveyard.  I am not a graveyard frequenter, even though they make for nice photographs, but since almost every English church has one attached to its backyard, you spend some time in them.  If you have ever been to a graveyard that is more than 200 years old, you will notice the tragic reality that many of the carvings of gravestones have eroded over the years.  There are a few stones that still survive from the early 1800s, but the stones before that rarely do.  You have to bring wax paper and a pencil to be able to lift the names and dates off anymore.  This is a sobering fact that we should all deal with: we get 80 + years on this planet and that is it.  When we are gone, we are gone, and outside of relevatory texts like the Bible, that is all we can tell from our human observation.  As legendary as we would like to be, the fact is this: we will be put into a box in a ground, a stone will be put over our heads that reads our names for maybe 100-200 years before the rain and the wind erodes the rock away, and then we will be no more.

No one likes this fact, nor does anyone like to think about it.  But no one can help thinking about it, as we can tell from how much graffitti there is in the world.  We must think about it and act on it, or else our emotions will tear out of us and demand that we matter to someone somewhere, even if it is on a school desk.  If we can safely say that there is a need for us to matter and to exist, then it is also fair to say that it is part of the human condition – it is written on our hearts.  We need to take action and find the answer to that longing for eternal glory.  It could be the most important question any of us ever answer, and I can think of a place that says the exact same thing.

Posts coming up

Stay tuned for more UK posts coming up:

- My trip to the Blarney Stone Castle and reflections on grafitti, erosion, and tombstones
- Seeing a car accident in Spain
- Letter of the Law
- Stories from my first two weeks of inner city teaching