Mean Teacher II

2006-07-07T00:43:00.000-02:00

... In which I get all philosophical up on you:

Is education a privilege, or a right?

A corollary...

If education were a right (and I say this strictly for the sake of argument), is it actually possible to provide a quality education when an inherent property of that educaton is that everyone is entitled to it?

And I don't necessarily mean that in the sense that letting the unwashed masses study alongside the... er... washed masses somehow sullies the product, but rather that the machine that implements that which is mandatory in this reality somehow simultaneously strips the product of its quality.

And don't even try to enter in the discussion unless you've read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and actually know what I'm trying to get at when I say "quality."

There, that oughta keep somebody busy for awhile.

2006-07-03T19:32:00.000-02:00

So this morning I backpedaled out of this argument with my boss...

I had been crunching state testing numbers for our high school end-of-course tests, and had discovered that, at our technology magnet, the Hispanic subgroup had done better than ALL of the other subgroups (Asian kids, White kids, rich kids included), and everyone had done stunningly well.

I was sharing my excitement about this with my boss, and she said, "Yes, well..." then explained that this particular school had a policy of turning down the applications of anyone who hadn't scored on grade level, thus making it a clinch that nearly 100% would continue to be on grade level. Which, of course, they were.

Of course, as a department, we tend to frown on exclusionary practices, especially since LEP kids often are not well represented by their test scores, but part of me was a little chafed by this.

My boss explains that she doesn't want to see any kid miss the chance to be part of an excellent program because of exclusionary practices.

My stance is that a) when are kids who do well gonna get rewarded for doing well? Singled out? Allowed to go to the good school? And b) how long will the program stay good after they let all the boneheads in?

I didn't actually go so far as to share these thoughts with my boss, who's had just about enough of my shit for this month, but the question remains. All three of you who read, feel free to discuss...

2006-06-12T19:51:00.000-02:00

Good Christly Joe, it must be June.

Nobody on the planet, I don't think, except maybe Alaskan garbagemen (my uncle John did that) or civic septic tank de-sludgers (Grandpa did that) hates, hates, HATES their job more than a teacher in June.

The kids gave up two months ago. They're not even on their game when they're trying to piss you off. The air doesn't work. Your feet have gone all puffy. There's no more inspiring, uplifting, bringing knowledge to the masses. Hell, the kids went home on Friday; it's all over 'cept for the paperwork.

In my school district you can compound all of that with the fact that everybody already got their last paycheck a week and a half ago, even though Wednesday's their last day. And today is Kardex day.

I don't know if other school districts disregard their own faculty so severely as to inflict Kardex day on them, but ours sure does. The Kardex is some ridiculous piece of pasteboard that goes in the student's permanent record, with the year's information, such as attendance, report card grades (with corrections! in red ink! initialled by the teacher! if you can find them!), and end-of-course test scores, and every teacher with a homeroom has to complete one for every kid on their roster, and teachers without homerooms get to help, and it's the one day of the year when the teaching faculty gets to interact very, very closely with the registrar and the attendance secretary and it. is. never. pretty.

I was at Nearby High unpacking 111,693 dollar's worth of stuff for the SIFE center, which is a gas unto itself and just so fucking smug in the knowledge that not only am I getting paid again at the end of the month, but I never have to do another Kardex again.

I knew moving to Central Office had perks.

2006-05-26T21:12:00.000-02:00

I lost my work ID months ago, and, while I'm totally down with the philosophy that we should all display our badges for the safety of the children, the hard, cold reality is, I so can't be bothered to spend a morning in line at the security department to get a new one.

Anyhow, lack of an ID badge has resulted in a lot of skulking on my part, as I have to visit 17 different high schools and very few front-office secretaries know me on sight (and my fellow educators know what type of personality tends to man the desk in the front office).

So I was trying to rapidly skulk through a front office today to go say hi to a pal in the counseling department, when the secretary pulled me up short. I apologized and explained who I was and where my badge wasn't.

She was cool about it, "I just saw you out the corner of my eye and I thought you were a student."

I laughed, "Oh, well that's okay, you can mistake me for a student all day long, I don't mind!"

She eyed me over the top of her glasses, "Honey, have you seen some of our students?

Nuts.

2006-05-19T21:26:00.000-02:00

Happy Teacher Appreciation Month! (Late.)

Most edumacator types have been enjoying a designated Teacher Appreciation week during May, and so I'm a little behind on this. I did not benefit directly, myself, other than recieving three copies of a form letter from the superintendent of my district, which was more annoying than personally moving, what with all the extra paper to throw away.

Anyhow, folks have asked me more than once through these blogs what the ideal Teacher Appreciation gift is, and I have always answered "Barnes and Noble gift cards are good," and they are, but it's a boring and uncreative answer.

Well, my girl Anna (who made it to the top 10 finalists for Teacher of the Year in the second largest district in the state, gooooooo, Anna!) had a much more interesting Teacher Appreciation Week.

This year she has a class of strong personalities, as she charitably describes it, and they got a little out of hand while she was attending the Teacher Appreciation Luncheon and a sub watched her class.

Upon returning and discovering the poor behavior of her disciples, Anna promptly read them the Riot Act, then made them write letters explaining themselves, which further had to be signed by their parents.

Every letter came back the next day, signed. And Anna got some excellent gifts, including:

a magazine organizer decoupaged with photos of her students and quotes from them about her
a prayer
tequila

Now all three of those are damn good gifts.

2006-05-15T21:01:00.000-02:00

"English 10 --

Your paper, project and presentation will be due -- 100% finished, Jose N., on Wed. Jun 7 at 7:15 a.m. NO EXCUSES other than death."

2006-05-10T22:27:00.000-02:00

This article, via Drudge, tells of a teacher at a Latino charter school making racist comments about students of Mexican extraction. Can a teacher really be that stupid? Or, can seventh graders really be such sophisticated spin artists?

Honest to toast pointlets, if you believe any school-related article coming down the pike (you may have noted another of today's Drudge headlines, regarding an assistant principal asking teenage girls about sexual acts) folks in the education industry are about as dumb as a box of rocks.

Personal experience dictates, however, that students know the power of the "race card," and aren't remotely afraid to lay it down, if they think it will get a desired reaction (or distraction).

Also, I could've sworn Kristyn Hartman reported for our local Fox affiliate. When did she defect to Chi-town?

2006-05-08T23:33:00.000-02:00

I'm a foodie! I'm a teacher! I'm a repressed Anglophile! So you know I'm just spooging all over myself for Jamie Oliver's new show on The Learning Channel, Jamie's School Dinners.

Oliver not only can slap together some yumalicious meals (I learned a thing or two from The Naked Chef), but his socially conscious notions are as useful as they are ambitious, and I have a lot of respect for what he's doing.

2006-05-02T20:05:00.000-02:00

No Child Left Behind includes a component requiring that all classes be taught by "highly qualified" teachers. At long last, this is not empty rhetoric, but a defined parameter that absolutely must be met -- which you'd think was a good thing, wouldn't you?

Leave it to the Federal Government to fuck things up.

All over our district, teachers' names are popping up on principals' desks tagged as NOT "highly qualified."

Are they first-year teachers? No, they are not.

Are they lateral-entry teachers, who do not yet have certification? No, not at all.

Are they teachers certified in one area, but teaching in an area in which they are not certified? Nice guess, but nope.

Are they crappy teachers with action plans who couldn't teach their way out of a wet paper bag, as evidenced by ghastly standardized test scores? Hahahahahahahaha, of course not, silly!

All of those people are fine, and pop up on their personnel records screen as "highly qualified."

The teachers who are on this list are: our most experienced faculty and certified in the areas in which they teach (as well as several others, usually) and many of them also have their National Board certificates (which should give you a good idea what that piece of paper is worth).

And no, it's not a computer glitch, they really aren't "highly qualified," as defined by the Federales. And, if my office doesn't do some follow-up procedures with them before the end of the month (and we are, no worries) they really would be in some deep shit.

Why are these people in this mess? Because they were given their certification before the state required that they take the Praxis II, a standardized test of pedagogy within a specific content area. That's right, they are not "highly qualified" because 20 years ago they didn't take a test.

2006-04-25T15:06:00.000-02:00

Sometimes them liberals are funny. And a little bit right, too.

Shhhh. Don't tell no one.

2006-04-06T21:49:00.000-02:00

So, it turns out that spending $X in three days for the SIFE center is nothing. This time ' round I was given less than two days, and $X+106,093 to spend. In other words -- slightly less coy and algebraic ones -- I had to figure out how to spend over $111,000.

So, I went to the SIFE center with a few catalogues and said to the teacher, "Okay, you and me gotta figure out how to spend this money."

Then I spent the next hour and a half trying to convince this lady that really, when piles of money are on the table and we've got less than a day to spend it, it is NOT the time to be frugal. I am BEGGING her for ideas for spending the money and she is repeatedly saying, "Oh, I'm sure we can do just fine without this..." or "Well, I'll just get one of those, that won't cost too much..." I pleaded and cajoled and suggested and bullied and came away with a list.

So me and my peptic ulcer went home, took a few cleansing breaths, and spent the REMAINING $110,000 all by ourselves.* And do you know what happens when I do this? I know! 'Cause it's happened before. When the big truckload of goodies I would've DIED to have in my classroom they are all so SHINY and FUN is dumped on her doorstep, do you KNOW what she's going to say?

"I don't have room for all of this."

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled and delighted the sweet lil' refugee chilluns are getting such fantabulous goodies. If I didn't have 50 other classrooms to worry about, I'd spend all of next fall just playing with all the goodies myself (in fact, if the shipment drops before summer school starts, I very well may spend June doing just that, the stuff I ordered is that nifty). But the past two days of tooth-pulling has just further cemented my belief that MONEY IS NOT THE ANSWER, PEOPLE.

Money's nice. Having books and manipulatives and supplies and computers and whatnot is nice, and not having books and pencils and chairs and windows, as is known to happen in some districts, is unconscionable (so had to go look that word up). But the success of the class rests in something else entirely.

Two other things, in fact: the effort of the students and the quality of the teacher (effort of the teacher is important, but I've got a tale or two about teachers who kill themselves with work and stay up 'til all hours -- and tell me all about it -- who still suck total ass. But that's another post.) Fortunately, I think the SIFE center has an excellent teacher and that the kids could not be in better hands.

If she'd had a lick of sense, she would've said, "Shit, just give all the money to me."

*Actually, other people helped me spend the money on some computers and some large, expensive reading series, and all I was personally responsible for making specific selections with was about $15,000. But still, $15,000 is an assload of money. Besides, my Mom always says, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story."

2006-04-01T11:58:00.000-02:00

There is a special subset within the English language learner population that we refer to in this district as students with interrupted formal education, or SIFE. The majority of these students are Montagnard, Hmong and Somali Bantu refugees, although there are a few Hispanic kids who fit the definition as well.

Students from other countries who are fourteen and older are generally placed in 9th grade upon initial entry into the district, then bumped up, if possible, if and when records and transcripts arrive from their last school.

Part of the definition of a SIFE kid is that he or she has had five years or less of formal schooling. Most SIFE kids have zero to two years. They come into high school unable to decipher the alphabet, read numbers, or perform basic mathematic operations, as well as not being able to speak English. Also many arrive unfamiliar with the infrastructure of school -- plumbing, electricity, etc.

On the upside, they're generally in the US legally (I'm of the opinion that immigrant children, legal or not, had no part in their decision to come here, and therefore the question of their entitlement to public education is not only moot, it's pretty fucking mean-spirited, especially when you consider that children of illegal immigrants are actually in the vast MINORITY. But for those of you who don't agree with that opinion, no worries, the kids who are the topic of today's discussion are as legal as apple pie.)

Anyway, it's clear these kids have extremely unique needs. This year we finally created an "orientation center," a semi-self-contained class with special teachers dedicated specifically to the SIFE population, and housed at the high school that has almost all of the SIFE kids in the district (let's call it "Nearby High"). It's a great (and absolutely necessary) idea, and all the high mucky-mucks in the district are very impressed.

Meanwhile, a month or so ago we got official word that, due to alternate allocation of the summer school funds, there would be only the most minimal of summer schools programs offered this year (for kids who haven't passed the gateway tests to allow them to rise to 9th grade, and for seniors who only need one or two more credits to graduate). ESL has always had an immense program each summer offered to all ELLs throughout the district. Last year ESL summer school was housed at seven different schools and served two or three thousand students. But, since it's not a program for kids who need credits, it's considered an enrichment program and it got the axe this year pretty much from the git-go.

Then the ESL department chair at Nearby High and my boss simultaneously put in proposals for a summer program at Nearby High. The department chair wanted a program for SIFE kids and any other ELLs struggling in Nearby High's ESL program. My boss wanted summer school for all the SIFE kids in the district.

My boss's proposal was the one that got the green light. On Friday the 17th. And it was agreed that the summer programs department would provide $X money for books and supplies, as long as we could get the orders in before the budget closed. On Wednesday the 22nd. $X is not a lot of money, but it was still a lot of work to come up with how we were going to spend it (my job).

And we have these awesome little Excel order forms that do all of the math (subtotals, totals, shipping cost, sales tax, all!) as you fill them in. They are beautiful and awesome and I busted ass to fill them in for four different vendors. And I sent them in nanoseconds before the deadline.

And the secretary who processes these orders e-mailed me back, telling me I was using the wrong form. Attached was the right form, which was a Word template. I was so irritated my eyeballs nearly burst. Word templates are fiddly at best and recalcitrant bastards the rest of the time. Not only that, they don't do math. It wasn't the end of the world, because I had already gotten the math done on the Excel forms, and it was just a matter of tediously hand-copying, but still... grrrr...

So I redid the orders on the right fucking forms and sent them in. Try as I might, I couldn't get all X of the money spent, and had actually spent $X-300. No big whoop -- at least it wasn't over.

This Tuesday I got another e-mail from the secretary. Telling me the cost of my order had run over. By hundreds of dollars. Somewhere in the passage of time, our budget alottment had transmogrified from $X to $X-1200. My poor eyeballs didn't know what to do. I called my boss. Wasn't it $X? I asked. Yes it was, she said. Don't we have $X written down somewhere? Yes, yes we do. Well, WTF?

Forget it, she sighed. It's not worth the fight.

Well, if the orders weren't fixed, the poor deprived SIFE kids weren't gonna get shit, so I went back in and cut out some stuff (and just between you and me, I had actually way over-ordered a few items, so the new orders did not reflect any real deprivation to the program... but STILL!) And the extra bitch of it was, I had to do the new orders on those stupid Word forms and do the math BY HAND, which is frankly dangerous. Have you seen my checkbook? Have you watched me keep score in a Scrabble game? Not pretty.

Then my boss forwards me an e-mail in which she sent a copy of the original SIFE program proposal, including the statement that we'd get $X for materials, to the summer programs director with the query, "Do we have this right?" And the summer programs director, who had disapparated $1200 of our budget on a cranky whim, wrote back "Oh yeah, that looks fine."

This being after the new orders had been turned in.

Don't you want my job? Doesn't it sound INTERESTING?

Meanwhile, the ESL staff back at Nearby High refuses to get the memo that this program is NOT exclusively for Nearby High ESL students it is, instead, for ALL districtwide SIFE students. That it is NOT Nearby High ESL Department Chair's summer program, it's my boss's program. Everyone in my office has explained this to everyone at that school and, I swear to God, they act like they've not even heard the words.

Which wouldn't make me so bug-eyed except for this: these are kids with serious issues and major needs. Fucking around with these children does not need to be done. People stomp around this town wondering why test scores aren't up and nobody's learning, and the plain truth of the matter is that it's because all us assholes running the show feel a need to get off on our power trips.

Unfortunately, in this district student need does not drive the machine, bureaucratic nonsense does.

2006-02-10T16:08:00.000-02:00

When you get your class list you always try to imagine what the kids will look like. I had a Russian child on the list, so when Kristian walked in, with his dark blond hair and green eyes, I immediately assumed it was him. I was wrong. Kristian was Colombian, and would prove to be one of the brightest and saddest children I would ever teach.

With his tiny stature and unusual coloring, he was a striking little boy. And during that first year I had him, he always had a devilish grin. I had two outstanding students in that class: Kristian, who was intuitive, had a natural brilliance, and George, who was more analytical, and more driven. They immediately engaged in fierce competition, which George, a born swot, consistently won. And it was terrible: if George missed the 100% mark on any task, he was inconsolable; if Kristian lost at any competition, he went ballistic.

Right before Christmas it came to a head, and the two little boys beat the snot out of each other. Of course, they recieved lengthy suspensions, per district policy, but George's dad, an exchange teacher, came in to plead the boy's case and he got his sentence reduced to two or three days. I was displeased by this turn of events, because I could see George was about to hemmorhage, he was wound so tight, and the poor kid needed a vacation, but my opinion was roundly ignored.

Kristian's mom, who worked several low-wage jobs, never came in, and Kristian stayed suspended the full ten days. When he came back and found out what had happened with George, I think that was the beginning of the end.

His grades slid, his attitude worsened. The wit was still there, but it's application to academic pursuits ended.

The ESL population at that school was bursting at the seams, and the program was getting split up between three different school. I had chosen to move on to a new site. As it happened, Kristian was in the group that went with me.

Seventh grade was even worse for Kristian than sixth. Openly defiant at school, his grades only remained passing because he was simply too smart to fail, and his new teachers were not impressed. At some point during the year, he showed up to school missing most of his upper teeth. When pressed, he attributed the injury to a bike accident, and said his mom couldn't afford to pay for the dental work.

This got our attention, and efforts were made to find him a dentist and figure out what was going on at home (nobody believed the bike story for a minute). The most we ever learned was that mom worked all the time and there was an older brother in the home who probably knew where Kristian's teeth were.

I adored Kristian -- I'm fond of most of my troublemakers, because they're usually the bright, creative kids. And Kristian was especially funny and engaging. But when the teeth issue came down the pike, that was it for me in Kristian's book. The more I tried to figure out what was going on and help, the more he despised me. He was a little Napoleonic toughie who did not appreciate being percieved as weak.

The years when I was at the same school as Kristian were the years I had the largest classes in the most crowded schools. So, when Kristian's English proficiency moved him out of my class and his attitude moved him out of my influence, he drifted out of my sight and other students, students on whom I had a chance of making an impression moved into his place.

It normally doesn't bother me one bit when a student decides they don't like me -- I generally take it as a sign that I'm doing my job, but I liked Kristian so much and was so worried about the path his life was taking that this time it upset me, this time I felt I'd made mistakes and really wished I hadn't.

Kristian moved on to high school and I moved on to a different middle school and that was the end of it for some time. However, now that I'm in central office, and am responsible for all of the high schools in town (there are 17, and there's at least one -- if not 60 -- students that I've taught in every single one), it's been fun dropping in around the city and catching up on tall, pimply semi-adults that I last saw when they were tiny, pudgy sixth-graders.

Yesterday I went to the school where my BIL teaches and where there are many kids I've taught in the past, as I'd been invited to help out with the oral part of the yearly English proficiency testing. Lo and behold, who should show up on my doorstep, but my old pal, Kristian. He was still short, and pretty pimply and skinny, and that odd dark-blond hair was in a ponytail now. And those green eyes were still striking. He looked like a moody little poet, and he spoke without even the tiniest trace of an accent.

He remembered me, and even smiled and chatted politely, although his voice was so quiet, I had to lean in to hear. His false teeth were held in with a retainer, but nobody who didn't know the story would ever be able to spot them. He missed one question on the entire test.

I asked him if he was doing well in school. That mischevious grin lit up his face: "No, not really. I'm failing."

"That's a shame." I said. "You were one of the smartest kids I ever taught." I tried to salvage the conversation, give him a positive out: "Well, I guess you've got other stuff than school going on." (I imagined a girlfriend, a band, a romantic, consuming drug habit... something.)

"No. I just lost my job yesterday, so not really." And again he gave me the patented Kristian smile -- a little sad, a little well-what-can-you-expect?, and yet with a little of the old devil in there, way back in the back.

"Well, maybe that'll change. Maybe you'll show us all one day." I knew I was being lame, but I didn't want to let it go on that note.

"Heh," he said, and walked away.

On the one hand, from past experience I had fully expected him to be rude to me, so I was delighted we were able to even hold a conversation. On the other hand... what a conversation!

The thing about ESL students -- and perhaps it's true of all students, even -- is that I never can (or wish to) take credit for my blazing successes. The George's of the world have an inner drive of their own making, and it's all I can do to hurl the material at them fast enough to keep them happy.

The failures, of course, are always my own. Even though I can't truly say what I did wrong with Kristian, or how, indeed, I would ever have done it differently. But I wish I had done it. Or that someone had. And all that's left now is to hope against hope that he'll turn out okay.

2006-02-03T14:45:00.000-02:00

Huh, huh, you said "Satan," you're a devil-worshipper! Huh.

See, the cause of this problem, is parents too damn unlettered to know that Faust is ANTI-Satan. Meanwhile, the next generation won't be let in on this piece of common knowledge either, 'cause they won't be allowed to watch it because knowing the devil exists leads directly to serving him or some such shit.

Ignorance is a cyclical social disease.

2006-01-30T23:37:00.000-02:00

Wow! Six or seven people have actually stopped by to read. That makes me very self-concious about the fact that I haven't posted an original thought in quite some time.

Well, here's a good story about the dumbest damn thing I ever did as a teacher (so far):

Once upon a time I was stupid enough to agree to organize the field trip to the local amusement park.

Mistake number one.

Part of the funzies of that job was hiring buses to transport the kids to the park. I did this.

Then the school district got all hinky about "frivolous" field trips (I'm of the opinion that there's no such thing, but I've got a husband who claims that pretty much every field trip EVER is frivolous, so there are clearly Views on this subject) and said they couldn't be scheduled after a certain point in time.

This point in time was before when I had set up our trip. So I had to reschedule. My original choice of dates had been based on the fact that the preferred bus service was unavailable on any earlier dates.

So I set up transportation with a different carrier two weeks earlier.

And then there was all the fun of collecting money and forms and distributing information and threatening children with their very LIVES if they did not ACT RIGHT (oh wait, that was this afternoon at the grocery store, hang on, let me regain focus...) and all the other fiddly nightmares that all teachers know come with setting up a field trip.

Then the day came and we all went and sunburns and overindulgence and sicking up on the Borg Assimilator and whatever went down and it was generally agreed to be a fantastic trip.

And then we came back and went on with our lives. Two weeks went by.

One morning we are all baffled by the presence of four charter buses sitting in the front driveway. Why are there four charter buses in our driveway, we all wondered. There are no more field trips scheduled.

Guess who forgot to cancel the original buses? Guess how much chartering four buses costs.

If you can out-dumb that, I wanna hear about it.

2006-01-20T15:12:00.000-02:00

This is a very interesting article:

Self-Discipline May Beat Smarts as Key to Success

To which I say: YA THINK?

2006-01-14T01:51:00.000-02:00

What I love about this little story is that the teacher isn't getting bitch-slapped for being a drooling moron. They must have good unions in Ohio.

"Ohio High School Porn Homework Canceled."

2006-01-12T09:53:00.000-02:00

I'm afraid the riveting narrative has bogged down momentarily, because a) the Sedgefield Years had a lot going on and b) I currently have the focus of a gnat.

Still, this is the blog annex where the Education Stuff is going on, so I thought I'd share this: if teaching writing or ESL kids is of interest to you, then I Am a Pencil by Sam Swope is an excellent read.

Meanwhile, I'm going to go futz around in the sidebar and make links to some posts on the original Mean Teacher that were actually about teaching.

2006-01-01T10:46:00.000-02:00

Let me tell you a little something about selling shoes: you think teachers don't get respect? If we'll all hark back to the early days of the Fox sitcom, shoe salesmen really don't get respect.

I worked at an Easy Spirit store at the hoity toity mall where all the rich cows with foot problems shopped. Two things about Easy Spirit: their shoes are designed for comfort, not fashion, so one gets real bored with the merchandise real quick, and people with SERIOUS FOOT ISSUES love to shop there. When the big August sale rolled around, the store would fill up with these evil old bats stocking up on walking shoes and screaming at you because you were out of 9AAA in pewter. I felt desperately compelled to work my alma mater into the conversation at any opportunity, just to regain some of my dignity. Upon reflection, I imagine the net effect of this was to cause the evil old bats to pity my folks that I wasted such a valuable education on such a pathetic career.

I had re-submitted applications around the area school districts, and even wandered into a job fair, but I wasn't holding my breath. Then, the week before school began I came down with strep throat. I was already barely getting by (or rather, getting by with generous support and angelic tolerance on Anna's part) and losing a week's worth of wages was a terrifying prospect, but one that had to be borne, as I couldn't even get out of bed. Anna's patience was further tried by the presence of my phenomenally useless boyfriend, who "took care" of me during my illness by ensconcing himself on our couch with a liter of Jim Beam and demanding that Anna cook him something.

In a moment eerily reminiscent of my first career breakthrough with Gaston County, my mom was again the one who got the call. A middle school in Charlotte needed an English as a second language teacher very, very badly, and the fact that I had, on a total whim, checked that I'd be interested in teaching that subject apparently had fully qualified me. I called the principal in a feverish fug, managed not to make a complete ass of myself, and got the job.

In Gastonia, I had begun the year completely at sea. I had hated student teaching and had serious doubts about becoming a teacher. I hated Gastonia, I hated my roommate. All of my college friends had gone away and those who remained were a rock'n'roll dope-smokin' too-cool-for-school bunch with whom I had less and less in common each day. Anna turned out to be the one bright spot in the whole mess.

The first night I went out with her, a group of us had dinner at a Chinese restaurant. At the end of the meal I cracked open my cardboard cookie and read the slip of paper. Even in the moment I realized I had a genuine fortune in my hands -- I taped it in the upper left-hand corner of my windshield to help me remember, as I shuttled between Gaston County schools, headed off to the mall for another day of fun at the shoe store, then pulled into the parking lot of Sedgefield Middle School to begin my career as a teacher of English as a second language, that things were going to come together, and they were going to be okay. This is what my fortune said:

You are headed in the right direction.

2005-12-13T22:36:00.000-02:00

One of the first things my roommate Ann told me about herself was that she would be absolutely suicidal if she didn't get married by 30.

She was 29.

And a kindergarten teacher with and ass like a life raft and the most bizarre family that kept showing up in my home. I was a mondo slob, I'll admit, but I kept the mess totally restricted to my room. If I was gone on the weekend (and I tried like hell to be) and Ann had folks over, she'd take them on guided tours of my room.

On Hallowe'en she picked up some guy in a bar. He proposed over Thanksgiving. They got married in June, so she didn't have to kill herself after all, which, after enduring 7 months solid of wedding planning mostly carried out at full volume with her toad of a mother in my dining room, I felt was a shame. We don't stay in touch.

Meanwhile, Gaston County, recently ranked as fourth in the nation for per capita murders, was providing me with an education. Fall semester I taught mornings at a rural high school. Spring semester I taught mornings at a swanky suburban middle school. Throughout the year I spent my afternoons at Arlington Elementary -- the inner city nightmare.

Try to keep in mind that this is an elementary school I'm talking about as I give you a sampling of some of the problems: brother/sister incest, death from huffing kerosene, mother of a fifth grader younger than me (I was 23), the school locked down as two parents run around the grounds with guns trying to shoot each other and the math tutor was on crack yet nobody could manage to fire her. The deep, existential challenge there was: Good God, Almighty, what do these kids need to learn French for? Believe it or not, I actually did some good work there.

This is what I learned: I couldn't teach high school at that time -- there were boys in my class the same age (19) as the last guy I had dated. I couldn't teach elementary school -- I'm very anti-hugging and I tend to find it funny when small children cry. But middle school seemed to be juuuuuuust right.

Better than that quality insight, however, was the discovery of my new best friend, Anna, a 5th grade teacher at Arlington struggling through her first year as well. Not only did she provide me temporary respite from Ann throughout the year, but we became roommates as soon as Ann ditched me for a trailer in Alabama with her new groom (SO not kidding) and Anna's family adopted me for holidays as well.

Not only that, she's a hell of a role model as a teacher as well. I cite, among her many accomplishments, the fact that, during her second year of teaching at Arlington, when that craphole had been Taken Over By The State, and 60% of the teachers had been run out the door before Christmas, she not only was left alone, she was recognized for doing things right. Later, when she had moved on to a well-deserved nice school in Raleigh, she was one of the youngest teachers ever to get a student teacher, last year she got her National Board Certification and a teacher of the year award from the local Chamber of Commerce, and this year she's teacher of the year for her school, which puts her in the running for the district title, and so on.

And she's got this GLARE on her that you would not believe. Juvenile delinquents turn to dust and learn how to read in it's uncompromising beam.

Anyway, expect her to be mentioned again. At the end of my very trying year in a very depressing town (I refused to leave the house after dark, and I've walked through Paris at midnight by myself) I was thanked for all my inconsistent work by not having my contract renewed. Fortunately Anna, ever the lifesaver, had me hooked up with a new job.

Selling shoes.

2005-12-07T23:46:00.000-02:00

For a long time I was convinced that the stupidest thing I ever did was graduate from college.

After graduation, I went to work as a camp counselor at a church conference center. Meanwhile, I had sent out a good dozen job applications to school districts around the state.

A private school in Fayetteville invited me up for an interview. They paid for a motel room and wined and dined me and promised me the job. I got back to the conference center relaxed and pleased to know that I had my future well squared away.

Two weeks later, they were kind enough to contact me and let me know they’d given the job to someone else.

I got one other interview the rest of that summer. I showed up hung over and sporting endless fake tattoos. I think it’s fair to say I wasn’t fully committed to the process.

Self-destructive behavior was a general theme that summer. I’m fairly sure I couldn’t look anybody I knew during that time in the eye. There was a lot of booze and nudity, if you want me to paint you a picture.

By the end of the summer, I was packed and ready to drive to Denver to live with my aunt who was going through a divorce and needed help with her kids. The evening before I was planning on leaving, my mom called: Gaston County needed a French teacher so bad they were willing to hire me on the spot.

The guy who was planning to ride along with me as far as Louisiana got the short end of the stick on that one. I put him on a plane and went back down towards Charlotte. School had already started in Gaston County, but they were willing to give me a week to get my feet under me before I had to report to work.

At one apartment complex I especially liked, but totally couldn’t afford, I was told there was another late-hire teacher who needed a roommate. I got in touch with her, and the Year From Hell Began.

2005-12-05T17:06:00.000-02:00

The unfortunate thing about enjoying a high as elevated as a year abroad in the South of France, is that the corresponding low is pretty far down there. My senior year in college, which included my teaching internship and my French thesis, sucked balls, for me and anyone foolish enough to get near me. Honestly, I was mental.

My college’s education department was two whole professors strong. One, the redoubtable Dr. Mitchell, who had called my parents while I was in France and set this career track in motion (I describe her as the woman whose fault it is that I’m in education), was unflagging in her wholesale support of me. The other, and I’ll be nice and not name her, called ‘em as she saw ‘em and could only see the human train wreck I was during that time, and was as unenthusiastic about my career prospects as Dr. Mitchell was enthusiastic.

That was fun.

But the person I pity the most was my master teacher, under whom I did the actual student teaching. Even today, nine years after her retirement and three years after her far-too-early passing, folks in the district who knew her get misty eyed when one mentions her name. Not only was she an excellent teacher, but she was the soul of kindness and thoughtfulness and did as much for the adults she worked with as for the kids.

I must have driven her crazy. I was consistently unprepared, prone to bursting into tears at any criticism, and liable to blush whenever I had to speak to one student in particular who was really, really cute. I also never dressed appropriately and probably was argumentative.

I have a tendency to want to reinvent the wheel on a daily basis, which, for a teacher means, coming up with super-elaborate, extensive plans that require endless work in the execution. It’s cool if you’re experienced, organized and efficient, but it’s a recipe for disaster when you are, as I was, none of these things. I’d come in with all of these fancy ideas, but none of the understanding to see their flaws nor the energy to execute them, and my master teacher would do her best to talk me out of it.

Anyway, it wasn’t a fun time for anybody (probably least of all the students). Later, when I was applying for jobs, a letter of recommendation I had requested from the Professor Who Was Not Dr. Mitchell fell into my hands (as it were) and was remarkably unflattering (which you’re not supposed to do, if I understand the protocol, nay, the legality of letters of recommendation, but that’s okay). And then it was no longer such a mystery as to why nobody would hire me.

Clearly, I was destined for greatness.

2005-12-02T14:56:00.000-02:00

My career in teaching officially began in a phone booth at Vert Bois dormitory at the Universite Paul Valery in Montpellier, France.

The hefty rent of fifty bucks a month got me a bidet and weekly maid service (which, since it entailed the maid invariably dragging out all the luggage stored under my bed and depositing it in my unmade bed in a declaration of cultural disparity, I usually opted out of) but it did not get me a phone. Bi-weekly chats with the ‘rents entailed careful timing, expensive phone cards, and this plexiglass cubicle outside the laundry room.

I had become a French major for the sole purpose of spending a year abroad in France. To appease the nice people paying my tuition, I had mumbled some bullshit about wanting to teach, but really, my ambitions ended at a small bar on Place Juan-Juares, where I could read novels all morning and drink café au lait, while sneaking admiring glances at Jerome, the hot French waiter.

The mistake I had made was taking an education class with Dr. Grace Mitchell the year before. Apparently I had somehow caught her attention and she actually called my parents and told them to make me enroll in the intensive certification program when I got home, so that I could graduate with a teaching certificate.

I heard about this for the first time in the plexiglass phone booth. Cigarette dangling from my lips, a whiskey-and-hash hangover pulling my eyes closed against the glare of the Midi sun, I listened in shock as the nice people who paid my tuition disabused me of my fantasy of staying a student for the rest of my natural born life. I would enroll in the certification program, I would graduate on time, I would get a job and move on with my life, because the gravy train was scheduled to stop in June of ’96 and cigarettes and whiskey did not pay for themselves.

It’s a good thing I had such a fantastic time in France. I dyed my hair weird colors, never went to class, went to cool indy movies (I saw Clerks and Shallow Grave ages before you did), rode shaggy horses on the beach, ate incredible food – even at McDonalds, had an enlightening love affair with a Jewish comedian and bought some really sweet boots in Barcelona. It was the last fun I was going to have for a long time.