Category: Memoir

Memoir, Teacher

“Yes, Max, there IS a word worse than the F-word.”

suburbanprincessteacher

I knew it was too good to be true. My grade 5 students were diligently working on their writing in a manner befitting the Writers Workshop model in which I had just been trained. Each student was in a different stage of writing: some were still brainstorming, others were in the throes of getting their ideas down on paper, and some were editing and revising with a friend. The classroom had the electric buzz of learning echoing throughout.

I was working one-on-one with a student at the computer, practically spraining my shoulder patting myself on the back for coordinating such a great lesson, when suddenly, young Max piped up from the opposite side of the room. Max was (supposed to be) editing his work with his classmate, Gord.

“Mrs. H!” he stage-whispered.

I ignored him. He knew the rules. We don’t shout from across the room. Besides, I made it clear that students were to be working independently while I was conferencing with a student. Unless you are on fire, don’t bother me.

“Mrs. H!” he said, again, obviously missing my hand signals and eye daggers. “Gord says there’s a word that’s worse than the F-word.”

“Shut up, Max,” Gord said, pushing him.

Yes, Max, shut up, I thought.

“Don’t say ‘shut up’, Gord. Are you on fire, Max?” I asked, looking over at him. “No, it appears not. So, do your work, please.”

I tried to refocus. The Writers Workshop leader had said that students would work independently if you set the proper environment. She obviously didn’t have Max and Gord in her class.

Short pause.

“Gord says it starts with “k”,” he tried again, this time a little louder, obviously annoyed that I wasn’t giving his question the attention it deserved.

“Enough, Max!” I said more firmly. “Ignore, Gord and do your work.”

Gord smirked at Max and shrugged his shoulders.

The class had slowly gotten eerily quiet as this exchange had gone on. I was secretly pleased that they were all working so diligently and bent back to the student I was conferencing with.

Max tried again.

“He said it was really bad.”

I ignored him.

His voice boomed through the air, blocking out every other sound within 10-mile-radius.

“He said the word was kunt.”

The word hung in the room like smoke from a nuclear bomb.

Every set of 10-year-old eyes turned from Max to me and then back to Max, who just looked at me, pleased to finally have my attention.

Gord put his head down on his desk and shook it back and forth.

Time moved in slow motion as my brain scrolled through the possible appropriate responses to this situation. And yet I knew instinctively that this hadn’t been covered in any of my education classes. I stood up and walked to the centre of the room.

“First of all,” I began slowly. “It’s the “c-word”. That word is spelled with a “c” not a “k”.”

Deep breath.

“Second, I would have to say, that Gord….” I glared at Gord, who had just lifted his head off the desk and was trying not to laugh, “…is right. Many people would say this word is much worse than the f-word.”

“Why?”

The question came from one of the sweet girls who sat at the back of the room with her twin sister.

“Why is it worse than the “f-word?” she asked again. “What does it mean?”

She reminded me of Cindy-Lou-Who when she asks the Grinch why he’s talking their Christmas tree…why?

Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

“Well,” I began again, trying to figure out what I could say that would bring this line of questioning to a merciful end. “It refers to a woman’s private parts and it’s considered to be a very, very rude word. It’s insulting to girls and women and you really don’t want to be using it.”

There was silence.

Then the boys in the class exploded with laughter, holding their sides, some falling out of their seats. The girls, on the other hand, were indignant. They went after the boys with the fury only a gaggle of 10-year-old girls can muster.

“Ewwww!”

“You guys are disgusting!”

“That’s so gross!”

“You are so immature!”

As the chaos ensued, I motioned for Gord and Max to join me in the hall.

Max was white as a ghost.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” he said. “Am I in trouble?”

“You may not have known what it meant,” I said. “But you did know that it meant something that wasn’t appropriate. So I will be telling your mother about it. You and she can have a little discussion about school appropriate language. Now go back inside.”

As he walked back into the classroom, I turned to my potty-mouthed culprit, who was still trying not to laugh.

“You, my friend, ARE in trouble.”

Without a word, Gord turned and marched himself to the office. He knew what was coming but he also knew it was totally worth it.

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban

John Tesh says blogging about your diet will help you lose weight…thanks for the tip, Tipster.

suburbanprincessteacher

Fasting

First of all, where does that stupid word come from? Fasting…there’s nothing fast about fasting. It actually feels like time is standing still. How many more hours until I can eat? Has it really only been an hour??? When can I go to bed? Because when I go to bed, then I’ll go to sleep and when I wake up, I can eat!!!

It makes my brain hurt and my body tired…or perhaps it’s the other way around.

So, why I am doing it? Well, I signed up for this “nutritional program”. Cleanse your way to better health! Be a slimmer, healthier, happier you! Who doesn’t want that? I’m all about health. Nothing is more important to me. Well, sometimes chocolate. And definitely wine. But nope. Health. Health is #1. Of course, there is also that little matter of seeing pictures of myself in a bathing suit this summer. That was not nice. No one should have to see that. I wanted to get a t-shirt made that said, “Look away! Avert your eyes! You will turn into a pillar of salt if you gaze upon this sad spectacle!” But alas, I had no sign and no doubt scarred a few poor souls for life, through no fault of their own.

So, I signed up for this (expensive) program that promised better health, slimmer thighs and perhaps happiness for life. Supposedly there is a mountain of science behind the program basically saying that it’s been flown to us from a mystical land on the backs of unicorns. Just follow our plan, the magic fairies sing, and you too will look like Jennifer Anniston (Disclaimer: minus the hair…we can’t do anything about the hair. That’s a gift from God). This plan involves drinking 2 protein shakes a day: ideally, one in the morning and one at night. (I don’t like to say breakfast and dinner because then it just sounds sad.) At noontime, you get to eat one “healthy meal of 400-600” calories. Enjoy it because it’s the only solid food you will put in your mouth for the rest of the day. This wouldn’t be so bad if you could choose your 600 calories (let’s not be silly, here, who would pick the 400 calorie option?). A glass or two of wine, some cheese and crackers, an apple (for fibre and to keep the doctor away) and maybe a handful of veggies to keep the fanatics happy. But no. It’s all fruits and veggies and lean protein, blah, blah, blah. To make things worse (if that’s possible), wine, sugar, wheat, caffeine, and I believe possibly, air, need to be eliminated from your diet altogether. Lord save me from my own vanity.

I wonder if Jennifer Anniston eats this way? I once saw an interview with Cindy Crawford where she said she wishes she could get up in the mornings and look like Cindy Crawford, the Supermodel. Between airbrushing and personal chefs and private trainers, it’s no wonder these women look the way they do. And for us mere mortals to aspire to look like them is ridiculous if not bordering on the insane. (My husband would like to note that I crossed that border a long time ago. I hope you like sleeping on the couch, Big Fella!)

So, here I sit, at 3:30 on a Friday, with no food in my belly, other than two small powdered disks of I don’t know what (perhaps they are ground fairy dust designed to melt fat and erase wrinkles – oh please, please!).  And I wonder, WHY??? I don’t think Ms. Universe is about to come calling and Vogue hasn’t booked a visit in, like, ages. I’m can still see my own toes and don’t have Type 2 diabetes…yet. I’m already married and it’s much too expensive for my husband to divorce me now. So….WHY???? If you can tell me, please do. For now, I will sip my herbal tea and wait for tomorrow to come.

(Is 6 pm to early to go to bed?)

Memoir, Pop Culture, Princess, Rants, Suburban, Teacher

No one told me I’d have to raise my own children!

suburbanprincessteacher

Response to Brenda MacDonald’s Oct 15, 2012 column: Two Cents Worth

I’d like to add my two cents worth to Brenda MacDonald’s recent column in the Bedford-Sackville Daily News. In this week’s column, she laments the fact that she can no longer trust her sons’ teachers to teach them “the moral, value, life lesson, don’t-miss-a- deadline stuff”. Wow. My heart goes out to her. I mean, as a parent, I didn’t know either that I was actually expected to teach my children morals and values. This wasn’t in my “What to expect when you’re expecting” book! I mean, I understood that until they started school, I would have to teach them certain things like, “Don’t touch the stove or you’ll get burned!” and “Don’t flush your dinky toys down the toilet or we’ll have to pee in the yard!” But I felt safe in knowing that once my boys started school that responsibility, that heavy, heavy burden, would be lifted off my shoulders and placed on the backs of those miracle workers known as teachers. And when the last of my (two) children got on the school bus to begin his first day of school, I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. I felt light. No more worrying about educating my children on life lessons or morals or values. That job was now up to the teacher. I now have one child in grade 9 and another in grade 12 and I’m afraid I have a lot of catching up to do. You see I trusted their extraordinary teachers to teach them all of the morals and values and life lessons they would ever need. Thanks to Ms. MacDonald, I now realize how wrong I was.

Sarcasm aside, Ms. MacDonald’s initial concern that her child was given a 5-week extension on his middle school project and was not docked any points off his final grade is certainly valid. None of us likes it when we work our butts off and get our work done on time and the person in the cubicle next to us does the minimum amount and still gets paid as much or more than we do. (Yes, real life sucks, too.)

Ms. MacDonald admits that schools across the country have adopted no-zero policies, which means students can’t be penalized for what is considered a “behaviour issue” such as handing in a project late. Some parents and teachers are currently banding together to protest this new rule. The most high profile case on the books right now involves a teacher in Alberta who was suspended for going against the rule and assigning a child a zero. Ms. MacDonald dimisses the rapid spread of this policy across the country by saying, “I have no time such nonsense.” Nonsense or not, it is here, and teachers are required to follow the guidelines set forth by their provincial departments of education, their school boards and their school administrators. Shaming and blaming teachers (“I no longer totally trust them to teach my children anymore.”) is shifting blame to an easily identifiable group and allows Ms. MacDonald to ignore that other “nonsense”. A backhanded compliment like “don’t get me wrong, teachers are an admirable bunch” is as insulting as saying, “That dress is lovely. It really hides all the weight you’ve gained.”

Teacher responsibilities have grown over the years to include much more than the traditional reading, writing, and arithmetic. The obesity crisis, the bullying crisis, the identity crisis – all of these things are now being placed on schools. Fix our children, parents cry! Oh, and while you’re at it, make sure they can still read, write and do math better than children in other countries.

I did not, have not, and will not ever expect my child’s teacher to prepare my child for the “real world”. I want my child’s math teacher to teach him math and his biology teacher to teach him biology. I can handle the life-lessons, the morals, the values and “don’t miss a deadline” stuff. That’s what I signed up for.

Memoir, Raves, Teacher

Those perfect days

suburbanprincessteacher

Today was one of those days that makes you think, “Yeah, I chose the right career.”

My students performed two plays – just cheap little reader’s theatre plays right out of a book – nothing too crazy or creative. But they took these little plays and turned them into their own. They created props and backgrounds. They brought in costumes. They made posters. I just backed farther and farther away until they were working pretty much on their own. Keep in mind, that these kids are 9 and 10 years old. It was hard not to take over, change things, make it “better”. Instead, I sat on my hands, bit my tongue and just tried to control the chaos that creativity brings.

This afternoon they took to the stage. The kids who were behind the scenes, the stagehands and props people, were as excited as the actors. 600 kids, teachers, and parents watched them as they performed their 5 minute plays. After they were done, they were exhilarated. They said, “Can we do that again???”

You bet we’ll do it again.

Memoir, Teacher

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job.

suburbanprincessteacher

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. But…

Every day, when the end of school bell rings, I walk my 9 and 10 year old charges down the hall, out the front door, and down the walkway where they line-up to catch their buses. Now, this SHOULD be a simple activity because, really, the bus line-ups are no more than a 10 second walk from the front door of the school. However, there is a slight downward tilt to the walkway which of course signals, DANGER! The teachers are supposed to ensure the kids walk, not run, the 5 seconds it takes to get to their bus line-up. Well, of course this is a daily losing battle because being first in line when you are a bus student is almost as important as life itself. Everyday I end up walking backwards down this slight incline, screeching like a fish wife, “Walk! Walk people! Stop running! No running!” It’s not pretty and it’s only a matter of time before I slip on ice, fall flat on my face and smash out my front teeth, making me a hideous hag.

So, why is it so important for me to control the pace of the race to the bus? What would happen if they ran? I mean, not all of them would run. There are many children who wouldn’t (or couldn’t) run if they were being chased by rapid wolves. But the ones who would run…the ones who would race like the wind to be first in line, what might happen to them if we let them run free? Well, they might fall down. And chances are good that if they fell, they would scratch the palms of their hands or scrape their knees. Chances are slim to nil they would die. Personally, I think a few scratches and scrapes might do some of these kids some good. First of all, they will most likely not need me to remind them to slow down next time. Second, they might realize what pain really feels like and not cry every time they get a hangnail or beg for a bag of ice every time they bumped their toe.

Enforcing the walk only rule to the buses is not the only control freak issue we are forced to enforce. We also have the “no walking, standing or sliding on the ice” rule. Like most playgrounds, ours is covered with asphalt. This means when it rains and then freezes, we have a skating rink for a playground. When I’m on duty these days, I often wonder what horrible crime I committed in a former life to have to endure such hell. All of the children converge on the ice and start slipping and sliding, laughing and giggling. My job is, of course, to kill this source of joy. “Get off the ice! Get off before you fall down!” Because we all know, falling down is the worst thing that could ever happen to a child. So, we force all 600 children onto the one tiny piece of asphalt that is not covered with ice (probably because it is above a sewage back-up drain) and make them stand in one place, in below zero temperatures until the bell rings once again and releases them back indoors.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job.