Learning How to Manage

I realize that saying "I haven't been blogging lately" would be exceedingly obvious at this point. I also realize that promising regular updates in the future would be foolish, but I'll do my best anyway.

I've decided that a fantastic use of this blog would be as my personal venting place for my first year of teaching. The fact that most of my readership has practically abandoned me makes it all the better. If some stragglers make their way back, they can be treated to the burgeoning display of my psychoses, but if no one reads this, I'll just consider this writing to be wildly cathartic. It helps me to imagine an actual readership.

So the cause of my woe today is simple: classroom management.

I'm not sure how else to say this: I'm not an effective disciplinarian. I'm not consistent. I'm not subtle. I'm not confident in my abilities as a classroom manager. How much of this is a result of being new and how much of it is an innate failure as an authority figure remains to be seen. However, having spent two years as a college instructor and another year as a student teacher, one would imagine that managing a classroom would be second nature to me by now.

Now, that's not to say that my class is a complete zoo. In fact, two of my ninth grade classes and one of my eleventh grade classes listen to me quite well. We get along swimmingly, and the general tone is one of mutual respect and understanding. I suspect this is because the group dynamic in these classrooms is such that the positive elements are the most forceful.

I have a BIG problem with students talking during class. And I'm not talking about little whispering comments while stuff is going on - I mean full fledged conversations while I'm saying stuff at the front of the room. I've addressed it in many different ways:
Sarcasm: "Well, looks like there are some folks in here who think they're WAY too interesting."
Politeness: "Please save your conversation for later."
Asking: "Could you stop talking, please?"
Anger (not proud of this): "IT'S TOO LOUD IN HERE. BE QUIET... NOW!"
Bartering: "We're almost to the discussion part of class. Keep it down while I'm talking."

So right there... lack of consistency.

But the problem is that nothing seems to work for very long, and I just don't understand the mentality. I would venture to say that 85-90% of my students will do as I ask; however, there's maybe 10% of them who disregard my authority whenever possible. This also sets a bad example for the rest of the class. It makes me look like a pushover. This leads to more kids being a disruption. This particular pattern is especially noticeable in my fourth period class.

I was always such a spineless little pussy in high school. I did whatever my teachers said, even if it was a piss poor teacher. In fact, this trend carried through all the way through grad school. The idea that kids will just flagrantly disregard authority is something that I totally understand on an intellectual level, but on a purely emotional level, I can't understand why someone would act that way.

I don't beat myself up over a bad handout or a questionable lesson because I know I have a lot to learn. But when I can't manage a classroom because I can't understand how the kids are thinking, I question my ability to be a teacher at all. I've never been able to understand social interaction in everyday society very well let alone with developing adolescents. I sometimes wonder if I even have the emotional faculties to really deal with the kinds of behaviors that I'll be confronted with in high school.

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"I've been here eating eggs and ketchup all day waiting for this."

Serious Business

Where the hell have the updates been? Well, I'm busy, dammit!! I have lesson plans, discipline reports, seating charts, grading, quiz making, PowerPoint producing, porn watching, and reading to do. I can't be dropping everything to amuse a bunch of ingrates from around the interwebs.

....

I kid. I crave your love and attention!!! And look at the funny kitty in the poster. That's worth bundles of yuk-yuks!

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"Don't discourage the boy! Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals... except the weasel."

Exceptions Going Up in Smoke

In my continuing quest to post some stuff that I wrote at the Writing Project, I now provide you with a sample of an editorial that I wrote when the op-ed editor from the Pittsburgh Post Gazette came to visit our group. He raved about my piece when I shared it with the class, so I hope you all like it too.

I offer one caveat though. Writers often take liberties with the facts even when writing what most would consider "nonfiction." Stories have to be compressed, situations must be simplified, and specifics might be overlooked for the sake of a coherent and persuasive essay.

Second caveat for stupid people: Editorials, by their very nature, are try to convince readers of the author's point of view. If you think this is biased... well no shit. It's supposed to be.

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Let the Exception Go Up in Smoke

An Op-Ed Article for a Pittsburgh Newspaper

Last Saturday, I journeyed back hometown, a little riverside town that’s neither a cultural center nor a social hub in the area. It certainly lacks the diverse options for entertainment that cities like Pittsburgh have. On that typical Saturday night, seeking to drown my sorrows in alcohol with a few friends, I traveled to the town’s primary watering hole, aptly named “The Saloon.” The air in the bar was thick with friendly banter, music, and of course, clouds of cigarette smoke. By the end of the night, even though I never touched a cigarette, I smelled like my grandma’s ashtray after a Matlock marathon. My eyes were watering, and my throat was dry and imbued with a rich smoky flavor.

Of course, in 2008, Pennsylvania passed a state-wide restriction on smoking in public places—including restaurants and bars. However, unlike many other states like New York or Maryland, our law came with a caveat: any bar, lounge, or restaurant that made more than 80% of its sales from alcohol would be exempt. This exception, of course, meant that most bars could still allow smoking. The underlying reason for this exception was that bars would suffer financially if smokers were denied their vice.

Pennsylvania’s exception to the smoking ban is patently absurd, and it should be eliminated. Proponents of the exception point to bars with thriving food sales whose sales of beer and liquor have plummeted since the ban, and they argue that the ban should be lifted entirely. In fact, I would argue that a universal ban could actually help the bottom line. I spent the better part of my college summers helping my father remodel a local restaurant chain. I lost count of how many repairs and replacements were related to smoking in some way. Ceiling tiles had faded. Wallpaper was stained yellow. Air filtration units had been overpowered and destroyed. One of the managers told us that the smoking ban actually improved profits overall and led to more positive customer feedback.

I understand the owners’ position. I wouldn’t want anyone telling me how to run my business either, but the environment in these establishments has become unbearable. When I’m in one of my crankier moods and complaining about the smoke in the bars, my friend will insist, “If you don’t like it here, you can always go somewhere else.” Well, yes I can, but the smoke-free bars are smoke-free for a reason… not enough people drink there! Is it so wrong to want to drink in a real bar without developing lung cancer?

Smokers may love cigarettes, but they’re not going to love smoking and drinking alone if the ban were made universal. Their black lungs may keep them away for a few days, but their black livers will bring them crawling back.

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"Our numbers are down all across the board. Teen smoking, our bread and butter, is falling like a shit from heaven! We don't sell Tic Tacs for Christ's sake. We sell cigarettes. And they're cool and available and *addictive*. The job is almost done for us!"

I Can Haz Job Now?

Well, it took 2 and a half years, 120 job applications, and one broken soul, but I finally did it. The goal has been achieved.

I, ladies and gentlemen, am employed!

And not as a porn fluffer or a gigolo. I've finangled my way into a legitimate teaching position. That's right, dear readers. This fine specimen of the human genome is going to be teaching your offspring and improving the minds of the next generation. You may lodge your complaints at the nearest school board meeting.

Actually, to allow my ego to fully inflate to its maximum size, I should point out that I actually got TWO jobs. Two weeks ago, I interviewed with the same high school where I did some day-to-day subbing last year. Although I had good answers to the interview questions, I didn't think I did the greatest job. Despite my grandiose sense of self-importance, I was really nervous. I stuttered a bit, and I don't think my posture was particularly confident. Nevertheless, they called me the next day to offer me the job.

I accepted their offer; however, a few days later I had an interview with ANOTHER school, actually the adjoining school district to be precise. So I go into that interview with a bit of machismo. After all, I already have a job in the bank, so the stakes aren't so high. Of course, I'm still kinda nervous because this school has quite a bit of money to offer me, but I channel that nervous energy into some really excellent interview responses and some witty jokes that (surprisingly) did not offend the people interviewing me. I can use my creativity for good instead of evil... sometimes.

So I come out of that interview feeling confident, but I know that it's a more competitive position. Both jobs are actually one-year long-term substitute positions, but one can't be picky in this economy. Besides, the positions still pay the same as a full-time teacher. These are, to put it mildly, desirable positions.

As I learned yesterday, the second school offered me the job too... and with significant cash incentives. I'd rather not discuss the particulars of the schools and the salaries on an open blog, but suffice it to say, this second job is the more desirable position overall. I intend to accept it; however, I certainly don't want to burn my bridges at the first school, so I'll be turning that one down in a classy fashion. This gentleman won't be leaving a baggie full of dog shit on the principal's doorstep, no siree.

Actually, I got interviewed at both of these schools because two experienced teachers from the Writing Project recommended me. They teach at the two schools. This is networking at its finest. Of course, when I was turned down for a full time position at my student teaching placement in favor of the assistant principal's cousin, I was grumbling, "Goddamn personal favors getting people jobs that they don't deserve!" Now that backdoor handshakes and knowing the right people is getting ME the good spots, my opinion of favoritism has improved considerably.

Funny how that works.

I'm all excited about the full time position, and for the first time ever, I can actually contemplate buying some things. Even though I'm still earning a teacher's salary, it's still way more money than I've ever had. Compared to what I made as a grad student (the highest yearly income I ever had), I feel like Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money bin.

So put on your finery, ma! We're celebratin' at the Sizzler tonight!

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"A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary." -- Whoever said this never needed an annual salary.

I Have No Use for a Protocol Droid

A byproduct (and quite a delightful one) of getting a job is the substantially increased disposable income. Over the years, I've been using the same phone and the same iPod. I've gone without a fun little GPS for my tiny little car. I've had a bulky low-res camera. I never had a video camera of any kind. However, with money in hand, I've moved into the modern age with one fell swoop. Ladies and gentlemen, I purchased the new Droid X. (The "X" makes it sound sexy)

As an avid Star Trek fan, I've longed to have my own tricorder. For the uninitiated, the tricorder is the little handheld device that the characters could use to scan for lifeforms, spaceships, and plot devices masquerading as energy clouds. It also had access to limitless information. On one occasion, Mr. Spock found newspaper articles about one woman in the 1930s... while he was trapped in the 1930s thanks to a friendly sentient time portal. The thing was a miracle device... or so I thought.

Then I got to see the Droid in action. The damn thing puts the tricorder to shame. Kirk could have bested the Gorn in two minutes if he'd had a Droid in his pocket. I haven't yet figured out how to use my Droid to scan for lifeforms, but I'm betting there's an app for that. I already found an app that identifies the constellations in the sky based on how I hold my Droid. For instance, if I point my phone at the ground, the Droid will show me what's in the sky on the other side of the Earth straight at that point. Another app will actually allow me to speak in English and have the phone repeat what I just said in another language. That's right, bitches. It's a universal translator. Eat my shit, Spock! It may not translate Klingon, but it's damn close.

The Droid comes with a flashlight, a GPS, 16GB of storage, an HD camcorder with an HDMI adapter, a camera, Pandora radio, and automatic connections to my GMail and Facebook accounts. There might even be a blowjob app in there somewhere if I poke around a bit.

Lest you think I'm starting to sound like one giant advertisement for the Droid X (though I would be willing to accept a handsome fee from Verizon if they'd like me to do so), there is a problem with my Droid.... I can't see a damn thing on it!!

After the first few hours of orgasmic use, I noticed that my Droid started to flicker on the bottom third of the screen. These fuzzy black bars/lines would distort most of the visible field. It looked exactly like this:
Yeah, not easy to use that way. Now I bet you're wondering, "How did you find a picture of your exact malfunction?" Well, it turns out that I'm not alone. This week, Verizon released the following memo:
"Verizon Wireless and Motorola are aware of a very small number of DROID X units that have experienced a flickering or banding display. Motorola has resolved the issue and is continuing to ship the phones. Any consumer who experiences a flickering or banding display should contact a Motorola customer support center or Verizon Wireless."

Verizon estimates that no more than 1/10 of 1% of the Droid Xs were released with this malfunction. Apparently I just lucked into getting the seizure inducing version of the Droid. Why can't I beat the odds on the lottery?

I took my defective Droid back to the Verizon store, and they were only too happy to replace my flickering Droid with a pristine fully-functional one... except that they were out of stock. So in two days I will have my pristine fully-functional Droid shipped to me. In the meantime, if you try to call me, I may not push the right button to answer because I can't see the right fucking button. I'm glad I have an epic boner for technological gadgets because otherwise this would really sour me on the inevitable development of Skynet.

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"You, I suppose you’re programmed for etiquette and protocol."
"Protocol? Why, it’s my primary function, sir. I am well-versed in all the customs–"
"I have no need for a protocol droid."
"Of course you haven’t, sir. Not in an environment such as this. That is why I have been programmed in–"
"What I really need is a droid who understands the binary language of moisture vaporators."
"Vaporators? Sir, my first job was programing binary load lifters very similar to your vaporators in most respects.”

Wet Blanket

As I indicated in my last post, I've been working with the Western Pennsylvania Writing Project to create some original writing. I come up with some brilliance, and then the group workshops the piece, offering suggestions to make it better. One of the activities we do for inspiration is called a "Writing Marathon," wherein we travel around the city experiencing things that will inspire us. On one such excursion, we stopped to watch some children play in the dancing fountain outside the PPG Building downtown. This following poem is inspired by that incident, and it's an uncharacteristically serious piece of writing from me. I don't really fancy myself much of a poet, but I do fancy myself a self-indulgent egotist. That's why I'm posting this anyway, no matter how little it connects to the overall tone of this blog.

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Wet Blanket

What do we tell the children
When water shoots from the ground
As they’re dancing atop the fountain?

Do we explain
That these jets are pressurized
Through invisible pipes and tubes
Like sinewy branches
Beneath the concrete?

Do we explain
That these cascading, crisp droplets
Have been carefully chlorinated
And cleansed
And chemically treated
For their health and safety?

Do we explain
That high above them,
In the glass metropolis surrounding this aquatic square
The spires of industry reflect in the noonday sun.
That the employees within
Toil in bourgeois drudgery
To finance homes in fine white middle-class neighborhoods
That their dark eyes will never see.

Or do we experience
Forget
Allow laughter and delight
To seize our imagination
And wash away our rational explanations
Our burden of awareness

Innocence we can never have.
Magic we can never believe.

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"You can't write poetry on the computer." -- Quentin Tarantino

* JP's NOTE: I can say with certainty that more posts are forthcoming because I already wrote them and published them. They're scheduled to be released by Blogger tomorrow and the next day. You're welcome. Sing my praises with some vigor.

Writer, Heal Thyself

Oh, well look who decided to show up! So you think you can just waltz back in here and pretend that you didn't abandon me for two months?

Look, I was really busy. I tried to make time for you.

Oh, so I'm not a priority for you? I'm there for you every day. I listen to your problems, and I care about your day.

I appreciate that. I really do, but I just had some things I had to take care of.

Why should I trust you again? How do I know you won't just leave? My heart's been broken too many times.

Alas, dear readers, I don't know why you should trust that I'll be timely in this blog. The damn blog is like the monster under my bed that just demands to be fed constantly, which is a reasonable accommodation given the things that the monster must have witnessed from under there. Whenever interesting things are happening in my life, I'm too busy to post. Whenever I have free time, nothing cool is happening. I could always post things like "Hey friends! I took an epic dump today and then played spider solitaire for the rest of the night while eating saltines," but that shit is better suited to Facebook.

Well, I'll try taming this beast again (go ahead and look back over the posts for the least six months. I've made this claim at least 6 times so far). I've made some insignificant cosmetic changes already. Thank you, Blogger for updating your templates. The most insignificant of things can inspire me, so maybe this ridiculously inane change will do the trick.

So for the last two weeks, I've been taking part in the Summer Institute for Teachers, which is a six credit class that will result in me becoming a fellow for the National Writing Project. The program gives me connections out the wazoo (already scored a job interview through someone there), and it can lead to paying opportunities later on. But for the moment, this summer program has actually been providing me with a great atmosphere for invigorating my own writing, an opportunity that I'm relishing immensely.

I've been writing some poems, short stories, and especially creative nonfiction. For the last week or so, I've contemplated posting some of these stories to this blog for your enjoyment; however, several factors give me pause.

1. Some of my stories are about real people... real people who read this blog. One of the important components of writing truthfully and effectively is not censoring yourself because you're afraid of offending people. There are events and secrets from my life that have made their way into my writing, and some of you may find that offensive.

2. Related to the first point, sometimes I've taken liberties with the truth for the purpose of a story. For instance, a moment in my past may not have happened exactly as I wrote it, because I had to compress dialogue, combine characters, or alter events so that the narrative would make sense in five pages. Sometimes I exaggerate character traits because it makes for a better story. This is why the genre is called "CREATIVE" nonfiction.

3. Most importantly, throughout many (if not all) of my work, there's always some element of self-reflection that takes place. I noticed this yesterday (and wrote a piece on the theme with the same title as this post), but it's generally true with all of my writing. My personal flaws tend to become a satirical focus of the stories/poems that I write. Other writer folk might appreciate what I'm trying to do in those poems, but some of you assholes would probably just say, "HA HA!! JP'S A LOSER!" This is true, but I don't necessarily want that thrown in my face.

There are a few stories that I've written that are reasonably detached from reality. I may give those a try first. Yesterday we had a writing workshop with one of the associate editors of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, and I wrote a sample editorial that received high praise from him. That seems like something that's not entirely mock-worthy.

In reality, I'm probably worrying about nothing. There's probably not anyone out there who still comes this blog. I've created abandonment issues in my readership.

Maybe I'll write a story about that.

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"Hmmm... I don't recall ever fighting Godzilla, but that is so what I would have done."

Running the Race

I like my readers to be comfortable here on the blog. After all, it's been awhile since I've made a post, and I want everyone to feel warm and fuzzy after such a long hiatus.

So let's talk about racism again.

And as I say whenever I blog on this topic: I'm white, stupid, and I often dream of candy. If I say something ludicrously offensive, please accept my humble apologies ahead of time.

I'm eating lunch in the teachers' lounge today when race enters the discussion. This happens periodically in this school with zero non-white teachers and a 90% white student population. Specifically, two older male teachers are lamenting particular affirmative action policies in businesses. The one math teacher regaled us with the tale of how he developed industrial fasteners for a company that was hoping to make a lucrative business deal with the military to sell said fasteners. Unfortunately, the military refused their contract because they didn't have enough minorities working for the company. According to the math teacher, "We'd tried to hire minorities, but we'd interviewed 900 black applicants, but all of them failed the drug screening."

Now I have some problems with affirmative action policies, not because I don't believe that minorities don't need protection from the racist/sexist/homophobic power structure, but because the ill will seems to create more problems than are solved. Nevertheless, I had some qualms about the facts of the story. First, how did he have that kind of information? Second, I know quite well that companies can refuse to hire someone for the flimsiest of reasons. Who's to say that the official reason wasn't drugs but the "real" reason was that the hiring manager didn't want those brown fellows fiddling with his fasteners? Finally, what are the odds that ALL of those 900 black applicants failed the drug screening?

But hell, let's accept the premise. Let's assume that every single one of those 900 black applicants was actually a full-blown drug addict (ignoring the fact that you can test positive for drugs from, among other things, poppyseed cake). While neither teacher actually came out and started on about "I hate black people" or anything of that nature, the following general statements were agreed upon:
1. Black people are underrepresented in business (and the school) because they're unqualified.
2. Organizations for minorities are the most racist organizations in existence.
3. Poor black kids do not succeed in the school/workforce no matter how much help you give.

To provide another list, here are the reasons why I'm often uncomfortable discussing race and why I never said a word during this entire exchange:
1. I'm a giant white guy with the world experience of the postman from Mayberry.
2. I'm the English teacher and, therefore, filled with pie-in-the-sky impractical ideas.
3. My opinions are often derided as ludicrously naive because I'm young and haven't been properly jaded by enough bad incidents with black people.

Well, whatever. If I waited to talk about stuff until I thought I was fully qualified to do so, I'd never speak up unless someone had a bug up their ass regarding a comparative analysis of Captain Ahab's whaling ship and the hyperdrive of the Millennium Falcon. So here it goes. Here's why the lunchroom conversation pissed me off.

The two teachers seemed to be conflating cause and effect. The black people can't pass the drug tests; therefore, we're better than black people. Let's completely ignore the slew of economic conditions and media glamorization that leads young black kids to turn to drugs. Women and blacks have created their own organizations that discriminate against white men. Let's gloss over the fact that EVERY OTHER organization is pretty well dominated by white men.

It's all in how you look at it. I spent two weeks as a day-to-day substitute at the inner city high school closest to my apartment. In that school, the black students were clearly the most disruptive, the most unruly, and the most antagonistic. They seemed to have the worst grades, and they accounted for most of the security issues. That's not in dispute. It's not like there's a competing crowd saying, "Nuh uh!! It's the white kids doing all that." I don't think it's inherently racist to point out a particular racial trend. If the black kids are the ones being disruptive, that's the way it is. But a lot of people seem to put the cart before the horse here. The argument I've heard amounts to "Well, if the black kids wouldn't be so disruptive and cavalier toward their schooling, they wouldn't endure poverty, bad family lives, and drug addiction." The implication here is that black students are inherently inclined to bad behavior. But I think that this argument has it backwards. Here's how I would play it, "If we could pull the black kids out of poverty, their bad family lives, and the drug addictions, they wouldn't be so disruptive and cavalier toward their schooling."

It all comes back to economics (DISCLAIMER FROM JP: I can barely balance a checkbook so take this for what you will). Bad behavior, poor work ethic, and broken family lives are so often prevalent in households well below the poverty line. It just so happens that most poor families are black. Why are black families poor? Is it because black people inherently can't get their shit together? No, it's because white people had black people by the metaphorical balls (though sometimes the literal ones too, I'm sure) for hundreds of years. It's hard to work your way out of that. Maybe, just maybe, some of those allegations of "reverse racism" actually go a long way toward mending the inequalities that are inherent in our society and economic system.

Do minorities have to take responsibility for their own destinies? Of course. But we lovable pale males can't just sit back and pretend that black people are where they are because of their own stupid mistakes.

This lunchroom conversation weighed heavily on my mind all day, and that's always a sign that I need to write some of it down to work it out in my mind. It's incomplete, and a lot of people will probably annihilate my argument, but that's okay. This post was meant for me. It expresses my thought process about this issue at this particular time. I'm not trying to tell you how to think. I'm trying to explain how I think.

When I tell you how to think, the message will be loud and clear:
READ BLOG AND SEND JP FREE MONEY!!!

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"You see, Albert's got the right idea. He doesn't write about Negroes or Whites. He writes about robots."
"That's because he is a robot."

And Justice for Me

As told in a story that is disturbingly only three posts down even though it happened two months ago, a local asshole recently accosted me on the street, leaving me in a pool of my own blood and my own shattered ego. Fortunately, the gentleman didn't get away as he had the foresight to attack me right in front of a police officer and a paramedic. While criminal charges were not pressed against him (much to my regret after the fact), he was given a citation for disorderly conduct by the officer on the scene.

Since the incident, I've accrued almost $3,700 in medical bills thanks to what surely must have been a costly cat scan. Suffice it to say, I dearly wanted this asshole to pay for them. I managed to get in touch with the officer from that night, and he told me that I would be placed on the subpoena list for the gentleman's citation hearing should he plead not-guilty to the charges. He also told me to bring my medical bills to the hearing in the hopes that the judge would simply order him to pay my bills on the spot. I thanked him for his advice and waited to see what the asshole would do. I didn't have to wait long to find out that he was pleading not guilty.

So on Thursday morning, I traveled the sunny streets of the South Side to the district court. I'd dolled myself up to the nines - shirt, tie, black pants, gelled hair (like a felon with Magellan), and clean shoes. I was a classy motherfucker. As I walk into the waiting area, I immediately recognize the attacker sitting there. A look of panicked recognition flashes across his face that seems to say, "Oh shit! The bastard actually showed up. I'm so screwed." My attacker is dressed in an untucked gray dress shirt, green pants, and he has a mop of unkempt hair. He's also tubbier than I'd remembered. At least he shaved his beard from the last time I saw him (re: looking up from a bloody sidewalk).

We wait our turn for the judge, and we really don't have to wait long. About a dozen small cases are crammed into a single room as the judge cycles through them each in less than five minutes. Then our turn comes. My attacker looks dejected; I'm practically strutting.
JUDGE: "So we're dealing with a case of disorderly conduct. What happened here?"
The officer proceeds to provide a nicely detailed summary of the night's events (as outlined in my previous post on the matter). The judge looks at my attacker.
JUDGE: "So why did you attack this gentleman?"
ATTACKER: "Uhh... because he was holding hands with my girlfriend."
On the judge's face, a look of what I can only describe as incredulity makes an appearance.
JUDGE (with heavy sarcasm): "Oh, well that makes perfect sense. What a sane reason to beat someone on the street."
I obviously sense that the judge is on my side, and I start beaming noticeably.
OFFICER: "I believe Mr. P has medical bills here as well."
ME: "Yes I do, your honor." [Writer's Note: I didn't actually say "your honor," but in my mind, it makes me sound more like Jack McCoy]
So I hand the judge my medical bills, and he is, to say the least, appalled.
JUDGE: "Whoa! Look at these totals. Now I'm starting to think that some jail time is in order. I really don't think you've been punished accordingly."
At this stage, the judge begins a truly spectacular rant aimed at my attacker.
JUDGE: "Look, usually I understand some part of the crime. I understand a person's motives. But you just baffle me, sir! Who does this? I mean, Jesus! We live in a civilized society here. You can't just send a man to the hospital because you're jealous. Your girlfriend can hold hands with whoever she wants."
ME (butting in): "Actually it was his ex-girlfriend."
JUDGE: "Even worse!"
I was practically having a religious experience listening to this judge crush my enemy so thoroughly and righting the various wrongs of this experience. I don't know about God, but I do believe in the powers of this judge. At this point he turns to me.
JUDGE: "So what do you want out of this guy? You want his ass in jail, or you want him to pay the medical costs?"
ME: "The medical bills are most important, but the jail time would be a nice bonus."

At this point, the judge orders the attacker to pay my medical costs plus $300 for my inconvenience (a total of $4000), but he won't go to jail. His logic: if the guy goes to jail, he might lose his job. If he loses his job, he won't be able to pay the medical bills. The judge was dropping some straight Spock logic, so I couldn't disagree with that point. According to the terms laid out by Da Judge, my attacker has to pay me $500 by the end of May and then $150 every month until he pays it off. If he fails to make a payment, I contact the district office immediately, and his ass will be hauled in for contempt of court.

Added bonus: the judge issued a restraining order. He's not allowed anywhere near me. If I enter a room/building that he's in, HE has to leave. I'm tempted to start hanging around his neighborhood just to utilize this.

I left the courtroom feeling more self-satisfied than I have in a long time. This was also the only real legal victory I've ever achieved in my life, counteracting the laughably pathetic incidents involving my speeding tickets. This incident restored my faith in the American legal system - or at least in the idea of karmic justice. I was wronged by a man, and I couldn't have gotten more justice if Jack McCoy and Matlock had forced it down my throat.

So the story has a happy ending folks. My enemy has been vanquished, justice has been served, and money dollars have been awarded to me. I'm mildly suspicious that all of this good fortune only portends some sort of major disaster in the near future to balance out the scales, but that's something to worry about later. For right now, I intend to bask in the glory of my success for as long as possible.

Maybe I should call my attacker's ex-girlfriend and sleep with her just to rub salt in his wound... Nah, she's probably got three other ex-boyfriends who enjoy stabbing, shooting, and bone-crushing in their free time. I'll rest on my laurels, thank you very much.

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"Justice is a by-product of winning." -- Executive ADA Jack McCoy
(a bittersweet quote given the announcement that the original Law & Order has been canceled after 20 years on the air)

Job Search: Redux

So here we go again... round two.

Two years ago, my job search commenced. I scoured the want ads, Monster.com, websites, internet forums, and hobos on the street to find an English-related job in the corporate world. 90 job applications and 90 job rejections later, I gave up and returned to school to get my teaching certification for secondary English education. Now the day has returned. The moment of dread is upon me again.

It's time to do the job search once more.

The last time, I was casting my net wide - craning my neck to find any job under the sun that might accept an English major. Editorial assistants, proofreaders, tech writers, composition instructors, college Registrars, legal assistants, or anyone that sought the highly prized and financially valuable services of someone with a Masters in English. As expected, this search proved laughably futile. This is partially due to my own stupidity (as illustrated in glorious despair HERE) but can be mostly attributed to the simple fact that sarcastic but gorgeous English majors are a dime a dozen (a figure, incidentally, that English majors would be notoriously poor at calculating).

This time I have a more focused approach since I'm only looking for teaching positions. I've already applied to positions at two school districts and I've got four more on my To-Do List. While I'm waiting on long-term stuff, I've applied to substitute at my former student teaching site and my local school district (Woodland Hills). More stories to follow regarding my adventures as a day-to-day substitute at one of the more troublesome districts in the county.

Searching for teaching jobs bears almost no resemblance to the search for corporate jobs. For one thing, if I were willing to travel south, I'd have a job in a heartbeat; however, I'm terrified of living in a locale that's infested with scorpions, killer bees, alligators, giant flying cockroaches, and swarms of snakes. That eliminates most of the south. Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas, and of course the great state of West Virginia are still on my radar, but my primary focus is on Western Pennsylvania, and the PA job search is its own fickle mistress. For the uninitiated, almost every district in the state subscribes to a web service called "PA Educator." The districts post their job openings, and every teacher in the state signs up for the service. Then the educators use the site to filter out the teachers they want for the position.

On the one hand, this is sort of a relief. The employers are taking it upon themselves to seek me out. That makes me feel good. On the other hand, I feel like a powerless peon with no hope of helping myself. Nevertheless, I've learned from my year of failed job searching. I'm being much more proactive this time around. PA Educator can't stop me from sending in a very thoughtful and focused letter of interest. Their ridiculous search filter won't keep me from calling the school to make a favorable impression. And really, even without all of that, having a Masters in English certainly sounds impressive when you're looking for an English teacher... or at least I hope it does. Hell, the law of averages figures that SOMEONE must be impressed by it.

Don't let anyone kid you: teaching jobs are hard to come by. Even though openings are plentiful, there are thousands of applicants interested in the same jobs as me. I've got a tremendous amount of competition, and many of them don't have a dark cloud of misfortune hanging over their heads, and they're capable of speaking a sentence without saying something incredibly stupid or insensitive.

Interesting positive side: apparently the fact that I'm male and huge is a big bonus. That intimidation factor is important to a lot of schools. Of course, being judged on my looks and my gender makes me feel like a cheap piece of meat... which is AWESOME!!! School districts, you have my permission to hire me for the most superficial and demeaning reasons imaginable. As long as the money-dollars are forthcoming, my ego will be beaten into submission through sheer force of will and daily shots of tequila.

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"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs, alcohol and insanity to everyone... but they've always worked for me."

A Message to My Loyal Readers

Captain Picard will tell you where you can stick your complaints about the lack of updates.

My student teaching is over. My grad classes are almost over. My brain has almost returned to its normal levels of apathy. Give me a moment to catch my breath, and I promise to return with the yuk-yuks.

And why don't you folks comment more?? Jeez, give me some goddamn positive reinforcement when I'm writing well.

And make a life-sized gold statue of me and mail it in. Is that too much to ask?

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"Ha ha HA!! Mine is an evil laugh... now DIE!"

I Pity the April Fool

Go ahead, JP! You should hit on that girl at the bar. What's the worst that could happen?

Gather round, readers. I'm going to explain the definition of the term "worst case scenario."

April 1, 2010 - 6:30 pm
My Pitt class ended early on Thursday night, so my fellow English teachers in training grab a drink at a nearby bar. We're in high spirits (and enjoying spirits, as well) as we look forward to the brief holiday break.

April 1, 2010 - 8:00 pm
Most of the crowd leaves after an hour and a half, but one other guy and I decide to head off to a different bar for a little while. The week had been a long and difficult one, so I was happy to relax at a watering hole and enjoy myself. We spend a great deal of time discussing the trials of the single life and the various idiosyncrasies of our ex-girlfriends.

April 1, 2010 - 9:00 pm
As the night wears on, we start to chat it up with some cute girls sitting next to us at the bar. Because I'm not actually TRYING to impress this girl, I manage to impress her and we get along really well. The night seems very pleasant at this point, and I'm getting a nice drink on.

April 1, 2010 - 10:00 pm
The girl I'm hitting on (Let's call her Sue... not her real name) gets a text message. Sue appears visibly annoyed, and she says, "God! Why can't my ex-boyfriend take a hint." Having hacked my way through my own field of troubled women, I could understand her troubles. We joked about clingy exes for a few minutes.

April 1, 2010 - 11:00 pm
I come back from a bathroom break (remember, booze be tasty) to hear Sue finishing a conversation on the phone, "I'm in Oakland. I don't want to see you. Leave me alone." I should have sniffed out a possible bad situation brewing, but my mind was elsewhere. Booze be tasty... and her curves appealing.

April 2, 2010 - 12:00 am
My friend who I started the night with decides to call it a day. I don't think he was a huge fan of the other girl, so I understand. I decide I better stop drinking if I hope to do well with this woman tonight, and I do somehow need to get my car out of the parking garage.

April 2, 2010 - 1:00 am
The lady friend and I begin to discuss what we'll do once we leave the bar. Suggestive comments and knowing glances abound. In my mind, I'm thinking, "Shazaam!!!"

April 2, 2010 - 2:00 am
I offer the lady friend and her friend a ride home. I'm not pretty sober, feeling only that slight after-drunk that happens when you've only been drinking water for 2 hours. We almost make it back to the parking garage when I realize, "Oh crap! I left my bookbag back at the bar."

April 2, 2010 - 2:15 am
We trudge back to the bar and retrieve my stylish bookbag. We head back to the car once again. While strolling casually down Forbes Avenue, I'm holding the girl's hand and joking with her when I feel a jolt to the side of my head and I fall to the ground. Thoroughly confused, I look up to see this wild-eyed 20-something punching and kicking me. "This is a mistake!" I yell. "I didn't do anything to you." I hear the attacking lunatic yelling to the girl I was with, "Why are you holding hands with HIM!!??"

April 2, 2010 - 2:20 am
I rest my head on the concrete, and a few passersby help me sit up. In an instant, a police officer and paramedic are on the scene. In Oakland, they know better than to leave college students to their own devices. I look down at the sidewalk to see a surprisingly sizable pool of blood. "Oh wow!" I say, somewhat disoriented. "What the hell happened?"
"Dude! I saw the whole thing," says one of the Samaritans. "That asshole just stopped his car in the middle of the street, leaped out, and he punched you in the side of the head."
"Yeah," his friend chimes in, "The punch knocked you into that pillar there. I think it knocked you out for a second."
"The asshole kept hitting him and kicking him even when he was down," the first guy says, now speaking to the police officer. "That's just not cool."
Now from my perspective, I don't really think any of it is cool. Well, that's not entirely true. I did ask the bystanders, "Do the injuries at least make me look badass?" This apparently amuses them greatly. The paramedic checks me out for immediate injuries. He throws a bandage over my eyebrow (which was bleeding profusely) and puts me in a neck brace (which was soon reasoned to be unnecessary).

April 2, 2010 - 2:30 am
I start to get my bearings a bit, and I look up to see four bystanders, a police officer, a paramedic, and some bearded gentleman apologizing profusely to me. "I'm so sorry, man! I don't know why I did that. I was just so mad." I suddenly realize who this guy is. "Wait! You're the guy who attacked me!!??" All the pieces start to fall into place. Clearly, this guy is the girl's psycho ex-boyfriend. Someone is obviously the jealous type. I look around for the girl to get some confirmation on this, but she's nowhere to be found. I find out later that her friend dragged her away after the police told them to leave.

April 2, 2010 - 2:35 am
After the paramedic patches me up, the police officer takes me aside and asks, "Would you like to press formal charges against this guy?" I mull it over, but I'm still woozy and not in the best of moods. "I don't know," I honestly say. "Well," the officer explains, "If you press charges, you have to show up for trial and fill out the necessary paperwork. He'll most likely be charged with disorderly conduct." In retrospect, I don't think the cop wanted to do the paperwork. But all I want at this time is to get fixed up and go home, so I tell him that I don't want to press formal charges. He'll be taken in and given a citation. More on this point later.

April 2, 2010 - 2:45 am
Because I have an obvious head injury, the paramedic insists that I go to the emergency. The four guys who saw the incident offer to walk me to the ER (which is only a block away) so that my uninsured ass won't have to pay for an ambulance, but the paramedic offers to take me there for free since he's heading back there anyway.

April 2, 2010 - 3:00 am
For the next two and a half hours, I regale the emergency room staff with my tale, and I muse about the unfortunate nature of these circumstances. "My friends always tell me to hit on women. 'What's the worst that could happen?' they say. Well, now I have Exhibit A." I tell the ER doctor how much I was hoping to get my ass beaten down by a lunatic while on my way to a girl's house. The doctor agreed that this was about the worst cock block he'd ever heard of.

April 2, 2010 - 4:00 am
Injuries sustained: The blow to my forehead put a deep cut in my eyebrow, and I had a huge lump there. The doctors give me a stitch or two in my eyebrow. My knees were skinned VERY badly. My back and neck hurt, but there was no major damage there. The doctors were very concerned about a concussion or brain injury, so they performed a cat scan. Once again, I will stress that I am one of the uninsured masses, so none of this comes cheap. The cat scan, in particular, really racks up the cost.
April 2, 2010 - 5:30 am
I am released from the ER. It's now been 24 hours since I've had any sleep (aside from a few brief naps in the ER), my knees are oozing blood, my head is throbbing, and I've got stitches in my face. I didn't get laid, I have no jacket, and my shorts are stained with blood. I'm hobbling along the street like a distempered hobo. I'm feeling like absolute shit, and I want to go home. I make my way to the parking garage where I left my car the previous night only to discover.... THE GARAGE IS CLOSED!! There may, in fact, be a God. But if there is, he's certainly a malevolent being who is out to get me. I bang on the gate of the garage, and a guy comes out. He tells me that he can't open the garage until 6am. So I have to sit out in the dark for a half hour nursing my wounds. I have time to reflect on the night's events, and my reaction is one of surprising calm. More than anything, the entire incident seems so bizarre, unlikely, and brimming with irony that I start to laugh.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

This incident just completely cemented my place as the unluckiest man in love. I can't even pick up a random girl at a bar without inviting insanity to follow me home and introduce my face to a concrete pillar. Even a one night stand ends in disaster now. Instead of getting laid, I got laid out.

Now that a few days have passed, my wounds have mostly healed. My brother thought I looked rather badass with my eyebrow scar, though I thought it made me look like Quasimodo. My knees still hurt because of the scrapes, but at least the pain is relatively manageable.

I have no real desire to press criminal charges against this aggressive asshole because I don't need the headaches of trial dates, filing police forms, and possibly even hiring an attorney. What is very important to me is that I manage to get this jackass to pay my emergency room bills. I'm expecting my fees to rack up into the thousands, and I'll be damned if my family and me are going to shell out that kind of cash just because this lunatic can't understand when a relationship is over. So now I'm in the process of finding out what I need to do to file a civil case for the cost of my medical bills. Nothing allows me to channel the spirit of Jack McCoy quite like filing a lawsuit in small claims court.

The day after the incident, the girl from the bar texted me. I'd forgotten that she'd obtained my cell phone number that night. She apologized profusely for the incident, and she said that her ex-boyfriend had never done anything like that before. She told me what a great guy I am (not news to me), and that she really wants to see me again.

Now, I'm all about the easy pickings, but really, there are plenty of nice girls out there. I don't need to pursue the one that has a psychotic ex-boyfriend who may attempt to stab me in the kidney whenever we go out on a date. Really, with my history of women, I can usually expect the woman to be the one who's going to beat me up. Adding in deadly baggage is just pushing the limits of my pain threshold.

So there you have it, friends. The epic tale of my night of misfortune. And after all of these hardships and trials, I've learned my real lesson:
Never escort a woman down the street after 2am. Just have sex with her in the alley.

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"You'd shoot a man in the back?"
"It's the safest way, isn't it?"

The Measure of Success

In all of my many exploits, I forgot to mention my one glowing achievement of the last month.

I hit my goal. I made the weight requirement for jumping out of an airplane. I now weigh 229 pounds. That's one pound under the maximum weight limit for skydiving.

Granted, that's only a loss of 3 pounds in the last four months, but I don't care. I couldn't get over that 232 hump for the longest time, and now I have. Also granted, that may in fact be a loss of muscle mass since I haven't been lifting as regularly, but I don't care about that either. The number itself is so incredibly satisfying that I'll now celebrate with a ridiculously dark beer and a plate of hot wings.

Now I have to face the prospect of actually diving out of an airplane. I was feeling pretty good about it until a friend told me about her experience walking through a park and witnessing some poor shmuck splattering into the ground after a failed skydiving experience. She was the first to get to him and saw the mangled slurry of human remains that were left over. Now, I'm sure 99.9% of jumps work out just fine, and as a white, heterosexual male between the ages of 18 and 45, I should happily expect to keep my place in the majority; however, the image she painted was insanely graphic and detailed.

Also, I'm a coward who couldn't make it up a ski lift without tensing every muscle in his body. The only saving grace might be that I'd be strapped to a professional who won't allow me to chicken out. My masculinity may be shredded to pieces, but leaping out of a plane might restore some of my dignity...

unless I piss my pants on the way down.

Of course, this is all academic. I want to lose a few more pounds before I go. I don't want to be be plummeting to my doom just because I ate a heavy breakfast that morning. Also, I may still be too tall to go. I'm going to have to find out if the skydiving place has any height requirements too. That would just about kill the adventure.

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"This is the greatest thrill of my life. I'm the king of the world!! I'm.... AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Teenagers Scare the Living Shit Outta Me

So yeah... 14-year-olds are fucking crazy.

First, The "Teenagers are Immature Assholes" Story:

On Wednesday, my mentor teacher and I took half of the ninth-grade class to the nearby university to see a college theater performance of Of Mice and Men, that nice little tale of George and Lennie, the world-wise migrant worker and his mentally challenged best friend. It was a daytime field trip that allowed the attendees to get out of class for the day. Needless to say, attendance was high. I've chaperoned my mentor teacher's regular "Evening at the Theater" events, so I expected this trip to be similar; however, I didn't consider the fact that the "Evening at the Theater" treks are usually attended by mostly honors students.

So we arrive at the campus, and indications are already leaning toward the batshit. After eating lunch in the food court, almost a hundred of them head for the doors. We think they're heading outside, which is fine. When we finally head out, however, we find them all lined along a giant stairwell, staring down and yelling at each other - like they were tripping out after seeing the movie Vertigo. I can't even imagine their collective thought process at the time. "Wow! Stairs! They allow people to ascend levels at a relative incline. Brilliant!!"

So we gather them off the stairway to heaven and herd them over to the theater. They're chattering away before the show starts, but that's no big surprise. However, once the show starts... they don't stop. At every opportunity, they're talking rudely while the performers are on stage. What's worse, with the house lights down, about a dozen glowing phone screens can be seen as the little snowflakes start visibly and obviously texting during the performance. When the lone female performer in the cast makes an appearance, some asshole starts catcalling loudly. At one point, they use a live dog in the play, and some live ones up front start whistling to get the dog's attention. Never mind their titters and commentary at the various swear words in the play. They nearly lost it when they heard the word "nigger" in casual context as it was used in the book. All in all, it was a train wreck.

To their credit, the performers were consummate professionals, despite being just beginning college students. They never got distracted by their antics. And to be fair to the students, the shenanigans were probably limited to about 20% of them. Still, the best moment came after the performance. The director and actors came out after the play for a Question/Answer session (which the darlings couldn't stay quiet for). One question asked (by my mentor teacher, of course) was "How do you get into character?" One guy explained that he tied his hand into a fist for two days to simulate having no hand like his character. Another said something similar. But the guy playing Lennie, the mentally challenged main character, had the best zinger. He said, "Well, I went to a high school and hung out with ninth graders for a few weeks." The joke was lost on a large portion of the students, but the other chaperones and I sure got a good laugh.

* * *

Second, The "Teenagers Are Going to Kill Me" Story:

The very next day, I got a whole different side of ninth grade insanity. For the last two days, my classes have been working on their practice PSSA writing tests. The official ones aren't until their 11th grade year, but they have to do them every year as practice. Well, one gentleman in my inclusion class (the one previously described here on this blog) took exception to this demand. Not only does he repeatedly complain and refuse to do it, but he won't stop playing with his desk - tipping it back and forth, lifting it with his knees, etc. The learning support teacher and I both give him grief several times, and near the end of the period, I overhear this zinger: "I'm gong to burn this whole school to the ground."

Now, they cover this shit pretty heavily in education classes. I can't take stuff like that lightly, but I can tell that he's not being entirely serious. He's in a bad mood and pushing buttons. Still, I very sternly say, "Hey! You know better than to say stuff like that. Do it again and I have no choice but to call you on it." He denies ever saying it and goes back to fucking around.

Then a few minutes later, another student, a wild character in his own right, starts making fun of Captain Verbal Threat. So our angry man hisses quietly, "I'm going to bring in a gun and shoot you." The other student doesn't hear, but I do. I try to give him hell, but the bell rings. My mentor teacher, who had to run errands at the end of class, returns, and I tell her immediately about what happened. She tells me that we have to tell the counselors as soon as school is over.

Now, I don't think for a minute that this kid is going to come in to burn down the school or shoot up the place. The dude has anger issues, but he's just not that committed. But I have to cover my own ass. Suppose the lunatic does come in to light the school on fire. I can't take that chance. So my mentor teacher and I go to the counselors' office as soon as school ends, but the counselor isn't there. The secretary, in fact, berates me for not coming to the counselor as soon as it happened. Never mind that I had another class to teach. My mentor teacher is none too pleased that we've been insulted and belittled in this instance, so we go to the assistant principal, who is much more receptive. He tells me that he'll handle it immediately, and he thinks I acted appropriately.

That hasn't stopped me from beating myself up over the incident.
"Should I have called the office immediately?"
"Should I have sent him to the office after the first threat?"
"Is my classroom discipline to blame for him even making the threat in the first place?"
"Did I overreact?"
These questions kept circling in my mind no matter how many other teachers and student teachers told me that I did the right thing.

* * *

These two stories really encapsulate two days when I was exposed to 14-year-old teenagers rather than just ninth-graders. These were adolescents acting like themselves, not acting in their roles as students. Most of them are ridiculously simple-minded but generally descent half-adults, I suppose. But I've suddenly got a long, scintillating taste of just how crazy these pubescent bags of mostly-hormones can be.

Though I will admit, they do provide a regular source of blog material.... at least when I muster enough wherewithal to actually post.

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"Teenagers scare the living shit outta me,
They could care less as long as someone will bleed.
So darken your clothes, or strike a violent pose,
Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me."

The Great Blogger Returns!

Greetings, my dear readers (those of you who are left). I have returned from my travels with tales that will delight the mind and invigorate the imagination.

Alternatively, I may have simply been busy beyond all belief and haven't taken the time to make a blog entry in forever.

Yeah, I'm going to go with the second option.

In the last two months, I've started student teaching, taken three graduate courses, found a girlfriend, lost a girlfriend, gone skiing twice, gotten drunk quite a few times, chaperoned a trip to see Grease, witnessed the Winter Warlock raping the world, graded more student papers than I'd care to admit, battled the head cold from hell for a week and a half, and pulled Excalibur from the stone. It's been a busy stretch of time.

The big time commitment this semester has been, of course, student teaching. I knew that teaching would become a huge time commitment this semester, but I wasn't truly prepared for just how incredibly overwhelming the task could be. Although I started out by taking over one of my mentor teacher's periods each week, I now have her full schedule - five ninth-grade honors English classes and two ninth-grade inclusion classes. I plan every lesson, and I grade about half of the workload (my mentor teacher handling the other half). Additionally, every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday night, I have my own classes at Pitt. Right now, there are three major tasks that I have to complete while I'm typing this, so feel privileged that I've placed your needs over those of ninth graders who have a troubling sense of entitlement.

Honestly, I feel like I'm doing a damned good job at this student teaching gig. My mentor teacher seems to think so as well. Teachers who pass by the room while I'm teaching tell me that I seem to have an excellent command of the class. And yet, whenever I go to my classes at Pitt, I'm constantly made to feel like I'm not doing enough. What about that one student that I'm not reaching? How could I be differentiating the instruction just a little bit more? Couldn't there be more variety in my teaching styles? How could the students be further engaged?

Despite the mountain of lavish praise that's so deservingly heaped upon me, I never think I'm doing a good enough job. There's always something being overlooked. Perhaps I'm not accounting for the kid who needs a more tactile lesson. Maybe I didn't need to snap at that little darling who kept kicking the girl in front of him. There's always something. I once talked to my mentor about this, and she said that you have to accept your failures and move on. She told me that she's witnessed countless promising teachers wash out in their first three years because they try to do far too much and end up having a nervous breakdown.

This is a new level of mental dilemma for me. Usually I have extremely angsty existential crises where I contemplate the various bad life choices that I've made while lamenting the world's constant attempts to laugh at my failures. But this new problem - caring about shit that I can't control - well, that just plain sucks. Sometimes there are practical consequences. For example, there's one creepy little bastard in my one inclusion class who sits in class every day giving me an alarmingly evil death glare. He never says anything or does anything wrong - he just stares... those dead eyes piercing the fiber of my soul. This kid also never does any of his work, and he never brings anything to class. He's never said or done anything explicitly threatening... he's just weird and scary as hell. Now, should I be reaching out to this kid? I've tried. The last time I encouraged him to work, he responded, "Do you like to shoot cocaine, Mr. P?" Another time I said something to him about his writing, he replied, "I read cereal boxes and then light them on fire." One time we were doing a little artsy class project, and Creepy Kid spent twenty minutes closely examining a pair of scissors. Nothing happened, but I want to know what was going on in that twisted brain of his.

There are times, though, where my students offer new psychological insights into myself. On one very memorable occasion, I was explaining the homework for my last honors class one day, and the class was complaining about having no time to do it that night. "We have sports to go to, Mr. P," they wailed. "We don't have time." So I replied, "Well I have class tonight, but I still have to make lesson plans and do my own homework." And this one girl - this bubbly, cheery girl with this sickeningly syrupy attitude - says, "Yeah, but you're OLD, Mr. P. You're life is over. You have no future."

I have to admit... that one stung a little bit. Sincerity hurts.

I have other stories. I'll try to be more prolific in the future.

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"Are you saying I'm a liar?"
"No, I'm saying you're an optimist. Same thing, really."

Grading on a Curveball

Back when I taught Composition and Rhetoric at WVU, I thought 44 papers was a lot to grade every four weeks. Oh how I moaned and complained about those freshman monstrosities. How totally unfair it was for me to have to grade these papers while teaching TWO whole classes.

Then I started student teaching in a public high school, and I realize just what a slackass I truly was.

With 150 students, my grading time has nearly quadrupled. Granted, high school students don't write nearly as many four-page papers, but what they lack in page length they more than make up for in sheer volume. I did have to grade research papers last month that were each five pages in length, and that took some SERIOUS time. Right now, I have 150 study guides, 150 sets of homework questions, and 150 essay tests to grade. This doesn't even include the 150 writing journals that I should be checking every two weeks.

There are, I've learned, some tricks to reduce grading. First, I can always assign a more creative project that's a bit more enjoyable to read than the traditional prompt. For instance, I also have a stack of storybook projects to grade, wherein each student chose one story from The Odyssey to recreate as a children's storybook. Thus far, quite a few of these projects are really impressive and fun to read. In one story, Odysseus's crew consists of gingerbread men (because the Cyclops in the story eats Odysseus's men) and they put the Cyclops to sleep with "the finest warm milk in all of gingerbread-town" (instead of getting him drunk on ye olde wine). Stuff like that is a treat to grade and really leads me to believe that younger generations show legitimate creativity and intelligence.

Second, and less nobly, I can "grade for completion." The student gets full credit if he or she simply finished the assignment... no matter how much of a steaming pile the product may be in terms of quality. I may pull this stunt on the pile of homework questions.

Finally, I can always find refuge in bureaucracy by grading according to the PSSA Scoring Guide for Writing Assessment. Under these guidelines, I assign a paper a raw score based solely on five areas: Focus, Content, Organization, Style, and Conventions. Now, my mentor teacher uses these five fields anyway, but she tends to comment on the papers as well. But if I'm looking to cut corners in an efficient way, a simple and completely worthless number at the top of the paper is the way to go.

It's hard not to get completely overwhelmed by grading when the stacks of papers lay on your desk. Despair creeps in. Resentment begins to rear its ugly head. Before too long, one can begin to harbor disturbing fantasies of lighting the papers on fire and dancing nude in the ashes. I've refrained from drinking while grading, despite how stress-relieving that sounds. I don't need to wake up the next day to find that I've scrawled "YouR paper iz reely pretty! The adjectivs make U look soo hottt!!"

I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but I'm a lot more forgiving of errors near the end of a stack of papers because I get tired of writing the same comments over and over again. I sit there and think, "Damn! I don't want to explain why his paragraph structure isn't right. Fuck it!" This is not the attitude of the world's greatest teacher, but these are certainly the thoughts of an overworked human being with five classes of honors students whose helicopter parents would leap on me if I knocked their grades down unfairly.

English teachers catch a lot of shit because their grading is subjective. Well, generally speaking, it's good that it is. Would you really want your paper, creative and thoughtful that it is, graded according to rigid and unwavering criteria? That's why the state standardized tests are so roundly criticized. Subjective grading allows teachers to use their experience and judgment to assess style, substance, creativity, and individual student improvement until Skynet develops sentience and can create cyborgs to do this. On the downside, subjective grading does leave the student's paper at the mercy of human frailty and weakness. I try my damnedest not to take my frustrations and exhaustion out on my students' work, but dammit, it's hard sometimes.

Maybe I could just beat them instead. That could be cathartic.

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"What you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul."

All Downhill From Here, Part 2

Previously, on THE UNDESIRABLE ELEMENT:

"I decided to challenge my longstanding losing streak against gravity and outdoor sports by going skiing at Seven Springs."
"I failed."
"All is not well."
"flying out of control"
"crashing into bystanders"
"totally humiliated"
"heckling and demeaning comments"
"Everything clicks!"
"I've got the requisite basics to at least make it down the easiest long hill."

AND NOW THE CONCLUSION...

So I await my lady companion's return from her most recent trek up the mountain with great anticipation. I'm convinced that I'm going to conquer this mountain with style and panache, and confidence radiates from my being. Then I see my lady friend come down the slope, and she starts limping toward the lodge.... limping toward the lodge. What the hell is this?

I haul my ski-strapped ass over to her. She's quite the avid snowboarder, so if she's injured, that doesn't portend good things for my future. Apparently, while up on the slopes, she saw what was clearly a novice snowboarder ahead of her, and she tried to pass him. Unfortunately, just as she was beside him, the newbie suddenly lost control and veered sharply to the left, colliding with her and sending her crashing backwards to the ground. The newbie was uninjured, but my snowboarding friend was left with quite the bruised hip.

I sit with her in the lodge for a few minutes while she recovers, and I tell her that we could just leave now if she wants. It's getting late anyway, and the resort is closing in an hour (10:30pm) or so we think. "Oh no!" she says. "You're not leaving until you go down that mountain. Come on, we're going up."

Now I'm not the world's most masculine guy, but if a woman is willing to drag herself up the mountain in considerable pain just to take me down once (that's totally NOT a euphemism), man-honor demands that I follow. So she shrugs off her pain, and we head back over toward the ski lift.

Of all the challenges associated with the ski trip, this lift was the one I feared the most. I've always had something of a problem with heights (to say the least), and perching myself precariously on a swinging park bench as a cable drags me up a mountain while I'm 30 feet above the ground struck me as a potentially nerve-wracking experience. But with my pale imitation of male machismo firmly in place, I pretend not to be bothered by it, and we make our way to the lift. At first, the experience was rather pleasant. This isn't so bad, I muse to myself. It's just like a weird roller coaster. But then we get higher..... and higher..... higher. And then the air gets colder... and colder... and colder. I wrap my arm tightly around the back of the ski lift bench and grip the side bar like I'm Luke Skywalker clutching the bottom of Cloud City.

"Not as easy as you were expecting?" my lady friend asks.
"I can't believe I was thinking about skydiving." I reply dejectedly.

Despite my childish caterwauling, we make it to the top of the ski lift, and I'm suddenly feeling very pumped about successfully using the ski lift without crying like a baby or falling to my doom. "Let's do this!" says I.

We start our sojourn down the mountain, and for the first ten seconds, everything seems to be going well. I'm zipping along at a controlled clip, feeling confident in my ability to successfully navigate my way down the precipice when suddenly....

CRASH!!!! I face-plant hard into the snow. My skis come flying off (as they're supposed to), and after wiping the snow and ice off of my face, I work to put them back on. "No worries," I say to my friend. "I just got discombobulated for a moment." - Yeah, that word will totally make me sound cool.

I pick myself back up and start moving again, but this time there's trouble. I start careening out of control in a very scary way, and I hear my lady friend call from behind me: "JP!! Watch out!! You're going the wrong way!!" Holy shit!! The last thing I need is to end up on some sort of slope of doom, so I do the only intelligent thing and deliberately throw myself into the snow. Again, my skis pop off, and lady friend catches up to me. "You were about to go down the black diamond path (the hardest one)." She points to a path off to my left. "That's the one we want to do."

We successfully make it to the proper track, and I ski about twenty yards when, once again.... CRAASSSHHH!! This time, I land directly on both of my knees. This hit doesn't look particularly bad; however, all of the force goes straight into my knees, and the pain radiates through them in a thoroughly unpleasant way. My faithful lady friend stops whenever I crash and waits for me to re-orient myself.

"What's the problem!?" she yells.
"My knees feel like they got smashed by a sledgehammer!" I call back.
"What??? You crashed into the log jammer??"
"Never mind. I'm coming!"

I get back up once more. But before I get moving, I hear the distinct sound of WHOOSHING behind me. I turn around to see a whole cavalcade of skiers barreling towards me. Oh shit! I think to myself. I'm about to re-enact the wildebeast sequence from The Lion King. Fortunately, this graceful stampede consists of experienced skiers and they breeze right by me, but the stream of skiers never stops. The slope is now inundated with people.

I start moving again, and my downhill velocity begins to increase dramatically. I've never felt so completely out of control as a result of my own incompetence. The instructor told me to turn my skis into a letter A to slow down, and I do so repeatedly. "LETTER A!! LETTER A!!" I say to no one in particular. But the advice does no good at these speeds, and I keep going. The "Letter A" business continues for a few yards before I look down and see that I've managed to get my skis crossed. They're in the letter "A" position alright, but I can't get them straight again. A few foreboding seconds pass where I know I'm in trouble, and I can't do anything about it. I literally say, "Oh shit," before falling face-forward down the slope. Now this is a fall of epic proportions. Since I have no balance whatsoever as a result of my crossed skis, I proceed to tumble down the slope over and over and over again. My poles and skis go flying in four different directions. I finally come to stop, staring at the night sky. Lady friend sees all of this and makes her way over to me.

"Oh my god!!! JP, are you okay!!??" She told me later that she thought I'd really hurt myself badly that time. In reality, the knee drop hurt far worse than this spill. As comically ridiculous as my endless tumble must have looked, it really didn't hurt at all.
"Nothing bruised except my ego," I moan.
"Can you keep going?" she asks.
I gesture to the slope - the only way back down the mountain. "I don't really have much of a choice." I say.
"Do you want me to go in front of you or behind you?" she asks.
"Why don't you just head on down the rest of the way," I suggest. "I'll probably fall at least six more times, and there's no sense in you stopping each time."

She agrees and glides effortlessly down the slope. I stagger to my feet, but now my hands and knees are shaking. Not only do my knees still ache from that previous fall, but my nerves are completely shot now. I know full well that another wipeout is imminent, but I don't know when it will come.

The slope has now become a full-fledged ski-way, with skiers whizzing by me at every moment. I hear their whooshing and swishing, but I can't see them as I concentrate on what I'm doing. CRAAASSHHH!!!! Down I go again, but I pick myself up once more and continue. "WATCH OUT!!" I hear a stranger say to someone to my left, but his cry of alarm breaks my concentration and I face-plant again. CRAAASSSHHH!!! It turns out that the resort, in fact, closes at 10pm, so everyone still around has come up the mountain to get one last trip in... right as I'm going for the first time ever.

At this point, I realize that my own confidence is to blame. In a wondrous moment of self-reflection, I recognize that my own nerves are causing me to fuck up the whole process. I briefly consider just sitting on the slope and gliding down the mountain on my ass, but I figure that nothing would be more humiliating. So I say to myself:

"Self, you are not going to give this shit up. You've already been mocked, humiliated, bruised, battered, and emasculated. The least you can do is hold your fat head high as you tumble down the rest of the mountain. You may not look graceful or impressive, but dammit, you'll win the day on your own steam."

So that's exactly what I do. By the time I make it back to the lodge, I've fallen at least a dozen times, and I'm covered head-to-toe in snow and sweat. Every joint in my body aches, and my ego has been shattered. I see my lady friend resting comfortably on the bench outside the lodge.

"Hey! You made it!" she cheers genuinely.
"I must be the most uncoordinated man to ever fall down this mountain," I mumble dejectedly.
"At least you never gave up," she says. "And you're not as full of yourself as most of the other guys here who think they're God's gift to the mountain."
I think immediately of the asshole frat boys in the sauna with their waxed chests and derogatory jeers and heckles. Fuckin eh! I'm totally better than them!

We go to return my equipment, and every muscle in my doughy body aches and creaks. As we hobble back to the car, I say, "You may not believe this, but I think I want to try this again."
"Oh thank God!!" she says, breathing a sigh of relief. "After watching you today, I thought you'd never want to come again. I figured this turned you off of skiing for life."
"Nah!" says me, waving my hand dismissively. "As badly as I did on the mountain, that was still leaps and bounds ahead of where I was when we got here."

The way I see it, I'm not taking all of this punishment for nothing. I'm going to learn how to do this thing and zip down the mountain in a manly fashion. Six-year-olds can do it! Hell, I even learned that former Mrs. Employer, a sixty-five year old rotund woman, can ski. If they can do it, so can I. I'm going to master that mountain like the Agro-Crag.

In fact, I'm going again this Sunday, so we'll find out if I get any better or if greater hilarity and misfortune will ensue.

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"Skiing is the only sport where you spend an arm and a leg to break an arm and a leg."