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."

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.

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."

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."

Welcome to the Workaday World

Well, I asked for it.

I wanted the opportunity... nay... the PRIVILEGE to be a working man with a regular and steady job requiring normal sleep hours and an 8-hour or more work day. I demanded money dollars for my productivity. I craved the sumptuous taste of adulthood and responsibility.

I got what I wanted and came to a conclusion: Adulthood Sucks!

Now don't get me wrong - I'm loving my chosen field. There's never a dull moment when you're teaching. As indicated in previous posts, the adolescent mind constantly invents new ways to create incidents that will entertain and enthrall my friends and family. But this daily 5:30 A.M wake-up call is for the goddamn birds. And not just the normal birds either - like a fucking owl or something. Battling my way across the Parkway every morning with the other working masses only hammers home just how much growing up will bring on pain and misery.

Know what was great? Waking up at 10:30 every morning last semester. Riding my bike to the candy store to buy Ring Pops because I had nothing better to do at age 8. Spending an entire evening pouring salt on slugs on the front stoop just to watch them shrivel. Now the only thing shriveling is my sleep time.

To be fair, this semester is particularly unpleasant. Much as I love my student teaching placement, I'm beat when I get done there. When you're teaching, you have to constantly be in teaching mode, and that constant act is exhausting. A lot of people don't realize that. And when 2:30 rolls around, I want to watch cartoons, eat a fudgesicle, and take a nap (the pleasures in life don't change after age 4). But do I get to do this? Hell no! I have to make my way to my grad school classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. By the time I get home, I've had a 15 hour day. The last time I did something for 15 hours straight, I was dumping talcum powder into my pants for the next three days.

I don't write this for the pity (though it's always nice). This is a meditation on the working life that I write for all of you long-suffering folks out there who haven't seen the sun outside of your job site in 8 months. For years I both envied you and mocked you. Now I do neither. I feel your pain and hereby withdraw my objections to your constant and increasingly fervent requests for hard liquor and your random outbursts of frustration. Cries of "WHY GOD, WHY!??" will no longer go ignored or scoffed at.

Curse you, irony!! You've fooled me once again!

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"I don't want to grow up 'cause if I did, I wouldn't be a Toys R' Us kid."

Though This Be Madness...

I can tell already that Hyperactive Sexuality Girl (who I have uncreatively dubbed HSG) in the inclusion class is going to serve as the source of many quality blog post stories. She creates a scene every goddamn day, and she has a penchant for putting me into difficult and uncomfortable situations. And if there's something funnier than me trying desperately to avoid having to defend myself against molestation charges, I don't know what that could be. While her crass jokes and flamboyant displays of sexuality certainly create the most colorful stories, she's actually one of the most interesting students that I have. When she's not trying to be the adolescent version of Jessica Rabbit, HSG is a brilliant student without a trace of self-consciousness (obviously) or shyness.

Today, my mentor teacher had an IEP meeting with HSG and her grandfather (who officially adopted her over a decade ago) and all of HSG's teachers, and she said I should go as well. I'd never been to an IEP meeting before, so I had no idea what to expect. What it turned out to be was an extended airing of grievances, with her teachers listing all of HSG's behavior problems to her grandfather. Mercifully, her awkward and overt flirtations with me were not addressed. In fact, my mentor teacher didn't really say much at all that was negative about HSG, which I thought was rather nice of her. The rest of the teachers really smacked her down, even after admitting that her grades were, in fact, quite excellent.

HSG actually has ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), with an extra emphasis on the Hyperactivity. She has A LOT of trouble sitting still. So what was the brilliant idea suggested by one of the teachers at this meeting? "Well what if we allow [HSG] to get up about halfway through the class and go for a little walk down the hall?" I mentally shook my head. I can't think of anything more embarrassing for a high schooler. Happily, HSG let them have it: "I'm not going for a walk every day! Jeez, I'm not in Preschool!" Much as she irritates me, I mentally said, "Fuck yea!" That has to be one of the most patronizing suggestions I've ever heard.

As I said, my mentor teacher was very complimentary to HSG during the meeting, but she wasn't expecting that. Before my mentor teacher said anything, HSG said, "I think Mr. P should talk instead. He's my buddy." For once, she wasn't being her usual catty self when she said this. She seemed to be genuinely looking for some sort of reprieve. Of course, I've only been there every day for three days, so I was in NO position to offer any contributions, and I said as much. I felt bad for her though. I got the impression that she genuinely wanted to do well but couldn't help herself. Fortunately, my mentor teacher proceeded to say very nice things about her, so she didn't get completely emotionally abused by her instructors.

In the world of writing, this is called something like "complicating the cliche." There are a lot more layers to HSG than I really thought. Even the math teacher, her most vocal critic at the IEP meeting, explained how HSG has befriended a boy in his class who has been repeatedly picked on and will defend him against the ones who bully him. She also blows every other student out of the water in her understanding of Algebra. Yet she's the biggest pain in his ass all day long.

I know people can have multiple sides to their personalities, but it's so bizarre to see this shown so starkly in someone who is such a thorn in MY ass (not literally... of course). I have some newfound sympathies for HSG (especially after learning of the history of how she lives with her grandparents... the details of which I won't get into). Now if only I could prevent her from doing things like standing against the classroom door during my lunch period and pressing her lips against the glass in a lascivious manner and making little kissy faces (which she did today), we'd be in good shape.

BONUS STORY:
You'll recall yesterday's story about the "rockets" that an inclusion kid was drawing. Well apparently the paranoid schizophrenic was at it again today and drew another, more detailed, cock and balls on the podium without anyone noticing (I was observing another class at the time, so I don't know how). This new shaft and sack had a more wrinkled and veiny appearance... for whatever reason. Once again, the last period kids noticed this new addition and commented on it to my mentor teacher:
"Wow, Mrs. [X], there's a new rocket ship! It's got a lot of extra lines on it."
Now my mentor teacher is a sixty year old grandmotherly-type woman, but for whatever reason, she responded:
"I think that must be a really OLD rocket ship."
The class, and I, burst into hysterical laughter. My mentor teacher, suddenly realizing that she may have spoken too quickly, tries to hide her giggles, but she can't. The class then resumes their discussion of rockets and whether little curly hairs can grow on them.

I can complain about my life choices all I want, but I certainly didn't pick a BORING profession.

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"I'm a Rocket Man. Rocket Man, burning up his fuse out here alone."

Love and Rockets

I'm two days into my official student teaching, wherein I go into my placement every day. For this first week, I simply continue to observe my mentor teacher and go into some other classrooms to see how other stuff is done. However, the stories of legend continue to spring forth from the original classes that I'm in. I can say with pride that the ninth graders this year as every bit as immature and inappropriate as I am.

I've already blogged before about the smartass girl with the hyperactive sex drive in the inclusion class. This girl's FLIRT dial goes up to eleven. Only two days in, and she's already made a huge spectacle of herself in front of me on more than one occasion. Yesterday, my mentor teacher gave the class some time at the end of the period to talk quietly. Of course, some of the kids in the back turned around to talk to me... because I'm just that awesome. Hyperactive Sex Girl (HSG) was one of them. She looks down knowingly at my feet:
"Wow Mr. P! You have really big feet."
"Yeah," I say absentmindedly.
"So..." she says wickedly, "what else of yours is big."
I catch on fast and reply deadpan: "I have really big socks."
I thought that was rather clever of me, but then HSG caught me off guard with the following:
"You know, there's nothing wrong with dating a 15 year old."
I pause. I can't think of any response that wouldn't set me up for an interview on To Catch a Predator, so I simply roll my eyes and turn to talk to another student.

Today, things got even worse. I was conferencing about paper outlines with students in the inclusion class while my mentor teacher monitored the room. Of course, 3/4 of the room didn't even do the assignment, but HSG sure did. She comes sauntering back in a manner that I can best describe as amateurishly seductive. She flops down in her chair in leans dramatically forward, making damn sure that I know what she's trying to do. I'm ready for her bullshit now, so I tell her firmly to sit down. She still makes some attempts to garner my attention, but I ignore her and get through the damned conference.

With only five conferences to do, I finished early and assumed my usual role of wandering about the classroom to keep the inclusion folks from pulling each other's hair, dancing in the aisles, and flipping desks over. When I wander in front of HSG's desk, she pats her desktop and coos, "You can sit here if you want, Mr. P."
"I'll pass"
She glances at the guy who's subbing for the special ed teacher, a guy about the same age as me. "You're so much hotter than the sub," she says loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Get back to your reading," I say.
The sub has no reaction and looks rather bored. "You don't look happy to be here," says another student to the sub.
"I'm just doing what I can," says the sub.
"No wonder you'll never get laid!" HSG shouts to the sub before turning to me. "You're so much better than him."

My mentor thinks I'm handling HSG pretty well, but she makes me nervous. I know I'm not going to do anything inappropriate, but who knows what sorts of shenanigans she's going to pull next. Sweet statutory, I don't need this in my first year. Mentor teacher even admits that she's one of the stranger cases that she's had in all her years.

But the inclusion fun doesn't stop with HSG. Before the holiday, another inclusion kid came into the classroom while the mentor teacher was on her lunch break and proceeded to draw at least a dozen very clear and detailed pictures of penises and balls all over the teacher's podium. Apparently this is the kid's calling card, who routinely draws them all over his homework and assignments in all of his classes. He's a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic, but maybe he's got some Oedipal issues as well. In any case, the drawings are still there for some reason, and the final honors class took note of them yesterday.

Now honors kids are a different breed, of course. They're smarter and generally more mature; however, they're still kids who like to make jokes. Heck, I'm 26 years old, and drawings of genitals all over a teacher's podium would make me giggle like Beavis and Butthead too. The great thing about honors folks is that they're far more clever in their immaturity. Instead of jumping for the obvious, one kid blurts out, "Hey Mr. P!! Check out the rocket ships on the podium!" Another kid shouts, "Yeah! They've got big wheels on them too!" Then the floodgates open. "Looks like the exhaust is coming out the wrong end of that one." "That rocket looks pretty chubby." "Look at the size of that one!! It must be penetrating really deep space!" My mentor teacher was actually teaching the class, and even she couldn't keep a straight face. Meanwhile, I'm in the back trying so hard not to laugh and failing miserably.

I'm not sure why this English class in which we're teaching research papers has become a hotbed of sexuality and explicit content, but it's certainly more interesting and colorful than I'd been expecting. I have to admit, even though it's probably frowned upon by the administrators, it's certainly not boring.

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"What is it son?"
"I don't know, sir, but it looks like a giant..."
"Dick! Dick, take a look out of starboard."
"Oh my God, it looks like a huge..."
"Pecker! Over there. Wait, it's not a woodpecker..."

English 101: Rhetoric and Incompetence

When I was teaching Rhetoric and Composition at WVU, I actually believed at the time that I was pretty good at it. My young charges weren't complaining or throwing rocks at me, and they consistently gave me high scores on the teacher evaluations at the end of each semester. I'd had some difficult days, to be sure, but I figured I'd had all the kinks pretty well worked out by the end my last semester.

Then I started learning about proper teaching from the leading experts in the field... and yours truly received a swift education in just how pathetic his English 101 class had been.

In reading the research on effective teaching strategies for my certification program, I've come to realize that just about everything they highlight as being a piss poor teaching strategy is something that I implemented with alarming regularity at WVU. Class discussions following a shared inquiry model serve as the best way for students to work through difficult readings. I dismissed them as worthless exercises in babbling that made me uncomfortable. More and shorter writing assignments help students. JP, in his infinite wisdom, deleted existing papers from the curriculum and lengthened the remaining ones. Grammar lessons should be integrated into literature and writing lessons so as to encourage practical application. Guess who tossed out worksheets with rote lists and examples on them?

Speaking of grammar: marking up every grammar mistake on a paper does NOTHING for student learning... yeah, I went red-pen happy with reckless abandon too.

The worst blow to my ego was realizing that my goddamn coordinator at WVU was right about quite a lot. My swelling sense of superiority allowed me to simply say, "Bah, my stupid boss, you don't know what you're talking about." Then I'd throw out his ridiculous ideas as condescending and pointless. Well, it turns out that my former boss, despite his childish and condescending demeanor, actually knew a few things about teaching. It seems that all the current research indicates that multiple drafts, portfolios, feedback without grades (holistic style, if you will), and structured peer review workshops really are necessary to proper writing instruction.

Lest you think I'm being too hard on myself, I should point out that I had an entire course at WVU called "College Composition Pedagogy," wherein I was supposed to learn most of this stuff. In my automatic assumption of my own superiority, I dismissed the articles we read in class as the dribblings of pompous academics who knew nothing of real teaching. I badmouthed the professor of that class and the English 101 coordinator (behind their backs, of course, because I'm a classy like that) for their ridiculous strategies.

In retrospect, I think I spent far too much time worrying about how well their four major papers met my obviously arbitrary grading requirements instead of determing whether they were actually learning something about writing. When I would wonder why my students never came to see me during office hours while Virgil and Batmite had visitors constantly, I used to think that they just didn't like me... or were intimidated by my sheer awesomeness. But now I know the real reason: they knew I wouldn't provide one bit of genuine help. An office visit with old Mr. P would be akin to an appointment with a doctor who treats you with leeches: it's supposed to help but you end up leaving woozy and bleeding from odd places.

My students probably gave me high reviews because they didn't know that they weren't learning. As far as they were concerned, my class was a cakewalk. I never challenged them to do better because that would lead to mistakes and problems, which take longer to grade. Goddammit, we couldn't have that!

Did they learn how to predict what JP wanted? Most definitely.
Did they actually learn something useful about writing? I highly doubt it.

All of this wallowing and self pity seems especially bitter after I returned to my apartment today to find a sizable envelope from the Praxis Testing program (The Praxis is the test that all teachers must take to prove their mettle). The Praxis I is a complete joke, but last month I took the Praxis II (which tests the prospective teacher's subject matter), and it was reasonably difficult. In the envelope, I found a certificate with my name on it that reads:

"In acknowledgement of your outstanding score on the Praxis Series
English Language, Literature, and Composition: Content Knowledge
Your exceptional performance earned a score that ranks within the top 15% of all test takes who took this assessment in previous years. This achievement indicates a high level of proficiency in an area critical for professional educators."

The attached letter had the following addendum:

"This honor will be indicated on all of your score reports. It formally acknowledges your personal effort and commitment to learning and to teaching... Your performance on the Praxis II assessment shows your dedication to high standards in education."

I'm not telling you this to impress you. And really, it was a standardized test that proves next to nothing of my teaching ability. Still, after reading the letter, only one word kept flashing through my mind: FRAUD. Yeah, I know my content, but is that really such an indicator of a great teacher? Shouldn't "Doesn't automatically assume he's smarter than every education expert in the country" be somewhere on the checklist of teacher quality?

There are roughly 175 students at West Virginia University right now who have me to thank for their piss poor writing skills. At the time, I was more concerned with grading quickly so that I could waste my evening watching Justice League episodes and eating goldfish crackers. That is some commitment to learning and teaching right there.

Well, here's hoping I've actually learned my lesson, because it looks like this program is actually going to award me a certification that will allow me to teach the youth of America how to read and write. Given the cracker jack job I did at the college level, maybe I should hire some of you to come kick me in the face periodically and tell me to keep my ego in check.

Okay, enough of this self-loathing. The next post will feature my glorious return to unabashed self-aggrandizement!

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"Dammit, Fry! I can't teach. I'm a professor!"

Inclusion Not Included

Friday, November 6, 2009
12:07 p.m.
A High School Somewhere in Allegheny County, PA

As the honors students smile and wave goodbye for the weekend, their promising and bright futures radiating like the warm glow of hope, a new wave of student crashes upon the shores of my English classroom. Well... not "my" English classroom - technically it's that of my cooperating teacher. But that's semantics... they have no place in an English class. Anyway, these new students are of a different breed. They smack each other in the head; I can't tell if they're being playful about it or not so I tell them to stop. As though I'd simply waved hello, they shout, "MR. P!! What up, fo-shizzle!?" They are white. They care not. They do care about the laptops that are on their desks for the research they're supposed to do today. Several make highly suggestive comments regarding websites that they've visited. One young redheaded gentleman strolls in with his bookbag under his shirt and turned backwards giving him the appearance of a pregnant woman. This is exactly the look that he's going for and riles up the class with his shenanigans. I attempt to smother a chuckle, but the bastard is funny and quite the showman. My co-op returns from the restroom with the Special Ed. teacher in tow. They attempt to restore order, but this is where the wild things are. They too can't resist smiling at the faux-pregnant ginger in the back row who is moaning loudly that his water broke and praying loudly for another set of twins.

So begins another 9th grade inclusion class.

I've mentioned these inclusion classes before, but elaboration is necessary. Many schools around the country have created "inclusion" classes wherein students with emotional issues and learning disorders are placed in with the general student population (though severe cases are still separated). A special education teacher assists in these classes to ensure that the included students' needs are met. In theory, the class would then proceed as though these included students were not, in fact, actually there.

In practice, this is bullshit.

"Inclusion" class is a total misnomer. EXCLUSION class might be more appropriate. These special needs students are not mixed in with the general population. They are mixed in with the troublemakers, loudmouths, slackers, and other undesirables that no one else wants in their classrooms. These students, rather than providing support for each other, actually feed into each other's neuroses and distractions. The narcissist will loudly start shouting about his day. This aggrivates the kid with Asperger's who is trying to focus on some doodles in his notebook. His doodles draw the attention of a gent with chronic ADD who wants to know what the doodles are before asking about the window locks. The ADD kid inadvertently flirts with the girl whose sex drive is turned up to 11 and interprets everything as a come-on. All of this is absorbed by the gentleman in sweatpants who is gouging his name in the desk while singing a bawdy sailor's tune.

My co-op teacher, her addled brain clear turned up to "crazy," actually volunteered to teach these two inclusion classes because she wanted the challenge; however, I strongly suspect that she's been challenged enough with these folks. Now, lest you think I'm being elitist here, I did not get into teaching so I could only teach the best and the brightest. I have no qualms about helping special needs students. But when you toss them all together in a big pot and allow them to simmer into one big vat of Crazy Stew, you cannot create what we in the biz call a "learning environment." You know that scene in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest where Jack Nicholson gets the patients all worked up and they feed off of each other's symptoms? Yeah, it's like that... only without the electro-shock treatments to keep everyone in line.

Speaking of that movie, in one of the classes, there are 13 students with IEPs and one student who doesn't have one. That's right, there are 13 loonies and one normal person. That's a recipe for a meltdown right there.

You know the real shame of these inclusion classes? Quite a few of these kids are REALLY bright. Remember the aforementioned poser-pregnant ginger? That kid has some comic timing. He's always ready with a quip or a witty observation whenever he gets bored. One quiet girl can't interract with others to save her life, but she writes some of the most detailed papers for class that you've ever seen.

Then there's the young lady who could be the captain of the debate team and go toe-to-toe with Jack McCoy in the courtroom, but she has an astounding and stunning hatred and disdain for authority. She's the one I sympathize with the most because typically I like a rabble-rouser and someone who will tell the Man to go fuck himself. But she has no plan... at all. Her insistence on telling the system to go to hell keeps getting her into hot water and making life difficult for her. When she speaks, you can tell that this girl has some serious intelligence in that brain of hers and the will to use it... but only on her terms. Once in awhile, some of the kids might be foolish enough to make fun of her, and she will berate them mercilessly with a barrage of clever and sharply-barbed insults. She's got all the raw talent necessary to go far in the world, but she cannot keep her mouth shut long enough to actually use her powers for her own benefit. Instead, she just mouths off to whoever happens to be in charge of the class (and often me because she feels like it) and do highly inappropriate things. At one point today, my co-op bent down to grab some laptops off of a low shelf, and our heroine came up behind her and started gyrating in what can only be described as a lacivious manner. I noticed and quickly yelled, "Hey! Stop it!" She just spun around and snarked back, "Oh you like that, Mr. P?" before making a face and slouching back in her seat. The term "rebel without a cause" could not apply more aptly to an individual. She may also be bipolar, because sometimes she's happy as a clam and very concerned about our feelings and what-not. She nearly broke into tears last week when she inadvertently asked about my co-op's husband and found out they were divorced. "I'm so sorry, Ms. V!" she blubbered. Emotional trainwreck!

(I think I've dated an adult version of this girl on more than one occassion...)

I have little patience for the slackers who could do better and are too damned lazy, but I'm in a conundrum when it comes to these intelligent kids who are essentially struggling despite themselves. Of course, I resent them for making my life a huge pain in the ass for two periods of the day... but I can sympathize while I curse their names.

Still... they're damned funny sometimes.

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"WILD CARD, BITCHES!!! YEE HAW!!!"

Caution: Student Teacher Aboard

Today marked my first official day of observation at the high school where I'll be student teaching in the spring. For the fall semester, I go to my high school once a week to observe the ways of the English teacher (Grammaticus Pedagogicus) and help out as the semester progresses. Once the spring semester starts, I'll get to be Teacher-in-Training guy, sharing wisdom and witticisms with my young charges and training them in the ways of the Jedi arts.

My co-op (education shorthand for "cooperating teacher" or "she who can make or break me") teaches five sections of Gifted/Honors 9th grade English and two sections of what they call "Inclusion" 9th grade English at a very well-to-do school in the region.

The Gifted/Honors classes run the gamut from tedious zones of close-lipped shyness to the off-the-wall antics of smartasses who are bright enough to wield their cheeky wise-assery in an entertaining way. While I was certainly in the former group when I was actually in high school, I much prefer the latter gang now. No wonder teachers didn't like me in high school; I was too boring.

The inclusion classes provide a theoretical "safe environment" for kids with emotional and learning disabilities that prevent them from understanding the subject matter. These are not the severe cases (those with official mental retardation) or high-functioning folks, but the average students who happen to have IEPs for various reasons. My favorite of these folks so far is a creepy little bastard with a shaved head and thick coke-bottle glasses who, upon my co-op's introduction of me at the beginning of class, promptly turned around to stare at me for no particular reason. I'm not talking about a casual glare. This kid was bug-eyed, leaned forward, and shooting lasers into my forehead. More intrigued by this looney kid than anything else, I stared right back at him in the same manner. I'm be damned if a ninth-grader is going to best me in a staring contest. The showdown finally ended when one of the kid's friends said, "Jeez, Pat, quit staring at Mr. P. It's weird!" Apparently my response to the situation impressed my co-op as she thought it demonstrated my lack of fear in the classroom. If only she knew it was my childish desires fueling my ego rather than any noble desire for respect and trust.

My co-op has also warned me of some girl in the class who is apparently "boy crazy" and will attempt to seduce me at her earliest convenience. Sweet statutory! Why can't I find these women when they reach adulthood? Or maybe I have, and those ones in the crazy classes grew up to become my colorful minefield of ex-girlfriends.

For a few classes, I simply sat back and observed as my co-op led a discussion and quiz of "The Most Dangerous Game." I fondly remember this story from my own high school English days, and while sitting in the classroom listening to this discussion again, I realized just how many hokey action flicks sprung from this premise. Predator and The Running Man jump to mind immediately, and that magnificent dandy popinjay Trelane hunted Captain Kirk for sport in "The Squire of Gothos." In fact, Star Trek loves human hunting episodes; the franchise is littered with them.

But aside from letting my imagination regress into childish fantasies, my co-op also asked me to try my hand at grading some vocabulary quizzes. Now I realize that grading quizzes becomes an integral part of the English teacher's day, but I couldn't help but think that Ms. Co-Op was taking advantage of my presence by using me as a workhorse to finish the tedious grading.... because that's exactly what I'd do in her position. I mentioned this to her at the end of the day, and she laughed heartily..... but didn't deny it. As a nice bonus, I now have a flawless command of ten vocabulary words from "The Most Dangerous Game." My affable, disarming, and venerable persona certainly leeched away my solicitous ennui and indolence, which felt palpable and tangible in an opaque way.

So I left the building at 3pm feeling completely drained but oddly invigorated; confident but terrified; arrogant but humbled; and smart but overwhelmed by my own ignorance. Any annoyance with the traffic on the way home paled in comparison to that quadruple existential crisis.

And waking up at 5:30am blows a big ballsac. Man was not meant to rise before the cock crows. I leave it up to you to decide which of the two previous sentences is more lewd and offensive.

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"Do you know what the chain of command is here? It's the chain I go get and beat you with to show you who's in command."

Because I Said So, That's Why!

My online teacher is an arrogant ball bag!

For my final paper (three are a total of three papers and one portfolio), Professor Douchenozzle required a research paper about the No Child Left Behind Act. Given that it's the dominating legislation in education today, the topic seemed reasonable. However, when I went to the library last weekend to start researching, I was flabbergasted to discover that on the prompt he wrote, "It's hard to say how many pages this will be, but 10 is a good place to start." Lest you think I'm getting worked up about nothing, 10 pages is the same number of pages required for a final paper in gradute school... in English! ...where writing is the whole point. Also, this flew in the face of his course syllabus, which claimed that all the papers were three pages long.

To add further insult to injury, I went to the course website and discovered that the point values for our first three-page bullshit paper and this new 10-page monstrosity were the same. Both papers were apparently worth 300 points. Needless to say, I suspected that this might be an error or an extremely stupid decision on his part, so I sent him an email asking why the two papers were with the same number of points since the workload was clearly far heavier for the latter.

Also in the email, I asked him why the sample portfolio provided on the course website had almost nothing to do with the prompt provided. I'm usually pretty good at figuring out where teachers are coming from with their examples, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. So I politely (honest!) asked about the point values and the portfolio sample.

Here was his response:

Mr. [MY LAST NAME]:

This is a 200 level EDU class. NCLB is THE topic of most import in education today. Don't worry about 'points.' Worry about presenting a paper that fulfills the requirements. If it does not seem fair to you, you always have the option of not doing it.

Read the folder: the INTASC standards are a "possible format" offered as a guide if you wanted some direction. As stated, we developed the format in an in-class Foundations class. They make clear sense if you understand they provide a coherent template for a port.

First of all, he talks about a "200 level class" as though only the most prestigious doctors and lawyers have signed up to take his lofty course. He's teaching an introductory course about education to a class that should be made up of freshmen and sophomores. As a former grad student, I'm the exception - not the rule. Furthermore, it's at a community college! Should this jackass really be flouting his holier than thou attitude? I realize I went to WVU, which is hardly a scholarly mecca, but at least that's a state university.

Ten-page papers aren't easy to write. They require a thorough understanding of how to craft an extended argument, and even in grad school I sometimes struggled with them. Granted, I think I'm pretty good at writing them now, but what about freshmen or sophomores who have only ever written four-page papers for their community college writing courses? It's not like he offers any help. In his requirement for an abstract, he writes, "If you don't know what an abstract is, any standard writing book will tell you." That's right, you dumb and poor bastards. Go look it up yourself! I'm just your teacher; I'm not going to lower myself to actually TEACH you anything.

And he acts like I've offended his sensibilities by asking about the grading system. I realize that grades aren't everything, but I do like to have some idea of how I'll be assessed in a class. It's not unreasonable to expect that longer and more detailed assignments that require more research and writing will be worth more than short three-page assignments that I can churn out in half an hour. Furthemore, he raved about my first paper, and he praised my writing skills and my commitment to going above and beyond the requirements of the class in answering the question. Did he really need to take a tone of complete and disdainful condescention when responding to (what I thought were) my reasonable concerns?And his response to my portfolio question essentially amounts to, "Read it again. If you understand it, it'll make sense." Seriously, nothing in his response makes any fucking sense. The prompt makes no reference to how that example gels with what's required.

As you may have guessed, I resented his implications that my questions were those of a stupid and lazy person who didn't bother to read directions. I wanted so badly to write a snarky and scathing response brimming with vitriol and dripping with sarcasm. But I quickly dismissed that idea. The arrogant old prick still has to give me a grade for the class, and I'm sure burning my bridges before I even cross them would be considered unwise. And he's the chair of CCAC's English department. I may never go to that dump again, but he may have connections that could bite me in the ass later in life. Suppose his wife is the principal of a school that I want a job at someday. Knowing my luck, that would certainly be the case. So instead of tearing him a new one, I took the opposite track. I sent a quick and thoroughly heartfelt reply that read:

Dear Professor [ASSHOLE'S LAST NAME HERE]:

Thank you for the clarification. I didn't mean to sound disrespectful or disparaging. The assignments will be completed fully and on time.

Deep inside me somewhere, I truly hope that he would feel guilty that I sound so repentant for having offended his sensibilities. But given this guy's track record (his emails to the class are equally condescending and rude), I suspect he simply nodded and said to himself, "Finally, someone who recognizes the splendor of my magnficence."

Arrogant old asshole probably thinks he's too good to be teaching at a community college and delights in his own superiority complex. One more week and I can bid his inflated ego a fond adieu.

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JP doesn't think he was ever this much of a douchebag to his own students, though surely at least one of them would disagree...

Dude, Where's My Career?

Last week, a gentleman from a local staffing agency called me to inform me of a technical writing position in the area. I recognized the name of their agency as one that I’d used to apply for a job at a different company many months ago. Apparently, they actually kept my resume on file, and when this job opened up, they asked if I’d like to have my resume submitted for the position.

I haven’t been applying for jobs much since my acceptance to the teacher certification program. Every once in awhile, I’ll churn out a resume and cover letter for some editing assistant position, but I’ve gone from sending out two or three resumes a week to maybe one a month. Not only have I been thoroughly and heartily discouraged by months upon months of failure in the job market, but I’m also pretty excited to start the certification program. My inner masochist is just bursting with anticipation to fill my life with long, unpaid hours of hardship, stress, and torment. The sad part is that the previous statement contains no sarcasm whatsoever.

Nevertheless, with someone on the phone asking me if I’d like the opportunity to make actual money dollars without going back to school, I decided to accept the invitation. I sent the man an updated copy of my resume and cover letter for a job opening at a bank in, of all places, Kittanning. Well, actually it’s in the nearby “industrial complex” of Slate Lick, but good luck finding that on a map. This would, of course, mean that I’d be stuck living in Armstrong County for even LONGER, but I figured I didn’t really have anything to lose by accepting an interview.

All of this went down last Wednesday, and the gentleman on the phone told me that they’d be reading all the resumes the following day and that I’d hear from them either Thursday or Friday if they wanted me for an interview. It’s now the following Wednesday, and your humble author hasn’t heard a peep from them. I can safely assume that my resume is nestled comfortably in the “REJECTED” pile on the human resources desk. Even though I’m literally five minutes away from this place and have the general qualifications necessary, I figured that I’d be a long shot since I have no actual technical writing experience.

What baffles me is that I don’t know whether I’m unhappy or not about my not getting the job. A year ago, I thought I wanted nothing more than to trade my hopes and dreams for mountains of filthy lucre regardless of what menial tasks were required. I would have been happy to sell my soul to the corporate world and leave teaching to the suffering of others. I certainly haven’t suddenly developed a conscience, but it’s unsettling to me just how my thoughts repeatedly drift back into educator territory. For instance, I often find myself coming across articles in magazines and thinking to myself, “Damn, that would have been perfect for the Genre Analysis!” And then I catch myself thinking that I try to drown my overactive mind in cartoons and pornography.

I may not be able to handle the day-to-day classroom for decades, but I know that my interests and passions lie somewhere in education. That’s the stuff I like to read about, talk about, write about, or have mental breakdowns about. Just look at how many posts on this blog have the “Teaching” label! There’s certainly a noticeable trend.

I’ll still apply for other jobs because the fact that I’ve never successfully had a corporate job interview really gnaws at my self-esteem, but I’m pretty happy with my decision to go back and get my teaching certification. Once I’m given full reign over a classroom, I’ll have multiple groups of trapped high schoolers who will have to endure my endless Star Trek references and rants about how the hand dryers in the bathrooms leave my hands with a funky residue. Oh, they have no idea what they’re in for!

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"Your life, as it has been, is over. From this time forward, you will service us."

By the Book

Look closely: he's reading a book called "Enemy Pie"

My current career path towards a glamorous and financially rewarding life as a high school English teacher occasionally gives me pause. While I'm conflicted on how to continue my long-running heroin addiction while teaching and moonlighting as a whale poacher, I think I'm most concerned by the fact that there is a significant portion of the so-called "classics" of literature that I've never read.

I stumbled upon a list of books that all high school students should read, and that got me thinking about all of the "traditional" books that have, for one reason or another, failed to be inserted into my scrambled brain. I've never read any of these:

Moby Dick
The Grapes of Wrath
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Anything by T.S. Eliot, Henry James, or James Joyce (though I once attempted Ulysses and failed spectacularly)
Catch-22 (despite two attempts to get through it)
The Divine Comedy
Anything by Dickens (except A Christmas Carol)
Little Women
Pride and Prejudice
Most of Faulkner
Anything by Mark Twain (except Huckleberry Finn)

The last one really irritates me because Mark Twain is full of win. His essays still bring chuckles even if they're only taking acerbic potshots at opponents of the Knights of Labor or Freemasonry.

I'm a product of a literary education that emphasized a more varied approach to teaching literature. In high school we read things like Cry the Beloved Country and The Joy Luck Club - books that would never have been assigned 50 years ago. Of course, if my English degree is worth even slightly more than the paper it's printed on (and that's a dubious claim even now), I can say with some certainty that the traditional or "canonical" works of literature are not necessarily required anymore. A lot of different stuff is available to teach, and I think it would make class more interesting because you get to read material written by folks who may not have been as respected in their time.

I know that anyone who hires me will understand if I haven't read one book or another. Administrators can't possibly expect for their candidates to have read every single book in the literary canon. But I worry that students and parents may not be so understanding. Suppose some ambitious student read Moby Dick the previous year and wants to blab about it in class. My knowledge is limited to a phenomenal summary a guy at grad school came up with, ("They killed a whale... it took awhile") and Khan growling to nobody, "From hell's heart I stab at thee!!!" in Star Trek II. How am I supposed to look like an authority when I haven't read some of the most well-known "Englishy" books out there.

I will say in my favor that I have an unnatural affection for Shakespeare. And that has nothing to do with the eyepatch-wearing, Shakespeare-quoting, bald Klingon from Star Trek VI. In fact, I even know quite a bit about some of the plays I never even read (Thanks Wikipedia!!). I'm a big fan of bombastic theatrics, and nobody does theatrics quite like Billy S. (Save perhaps Gilbert and Sullivan, but I still have some masculine pride). Shakespeare is still the tops. Nobody fucketh with thy Bard!

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Three Star Trek references (including an obscure one) in a post that has nothing to do with Star Trek! I've outdone myself! (And I'm never getting laid again.)

No Brains, No Talent, No Service

My employers seldom fail to come up with interesting ways to exploit my meager collection of skills. Today's task was by far the most explicit reminder of my past life: I graded papers.

Now these were not just any papers. Mr. Employer is a proud member of the Rotary organization, and they award a reasonably-sized scholarship to a deserving student in the area who has demonstrated a commitment to community service. Students wishing to apply for this scholarship have to submit an essay explaining why they deserve it, and then the Rotary members are supposed to read these essays and rate which is the best. Well Mr. Employer/Delegator decided that I would be perfect for this task, so I was given roughly 24 essays on the subject of "Service Over Self."

The 17-18 year-old age group has a writing style with which I am intimately familiar, but it's been so long since I've been wrist deep in a steaming pile of essays that I'd forgotten just what terrible writers the vast majority of high school graduates are. But this wasn't simply an exercise in assessing their writing styles, so I turned my attention to the content and tried to see who could best write about the personal and social importance of community service. I'm hardly a noted humanitarian, so I felt like I was headed into difficult waters. These were seas best left to an expert navigator like Virgil, who essentially pioneered the service learning program in the English department down at Dub-V. I only got the briefest taste of that world, and I don't know how she chews on it every single day.

These kids have no concept of what community service means. As I said, I'm a terrible person with regards to helping others, but at least I know and understand the causes that I'm being completely callous towards. A surprising number of essays referred to community service as "burdensome" (in some cases that was the exact word used), and even though they quickly followed that with some variation of "but it was extremely rewarding," I couldn't help but sense that they felt forced to do the work. I may not be involved with any official organization, but I've occasionally decided to ignore my disdain for humanity and help others. While the work can be difficult, I always feel really good about it. Granted, part of that comes from my inner voices telling me what a great person I am for helping, but I like to think that some part of me enjoys seeing the impact that my work has on others.

The best parts of these essays were the moments where they tried to convey just how selfless they are. As I mentioned, the topic of the essay was "Service Over Self," so I suspect that these budding humanitarians were trying to squeeze every last drop of sincerity into explaining how they always put others over their own well-being. My favorite line has to be, "I always put myself last." I guffawed out loud at that one. Apparently someone needs to put Sally Selfless on the suicide watch list. Not only is that statement highly unlikely, but it also sounds like the person has the self-esteem of a grapefruit. Another fine young student said that helping to find a cure for cancer was one of the most rewarding experiences of his life. Of course, his contribution to the ongoing research involved selling candy bars when the proceeds went toward cancer research. I wouldn't award him the Nobel Prize just yet.

A few snowflakes really never seemed to grasp the concept of "volunteer" work. One gentleman said that while he got paid to be a lifeguard, his dedication to the job invoked the spirit of community service. I spoke to the Spirit of Community Service on my Ouija board, and he said you're a ball-bag. Yet another claimed that working at the hospital snack bar could be described as "helping the less fortunate."

I was not alone in my project. Mr. and Mrs. Employer have company this week, and they recruited two of the women to read essays as well. One of them couldn't have been more qualified - she's a professor of social work at the University of North Carolina and now works with the continuing education department. On the off chance that maybe I'd been away from students too long and was being too critical of their work (or maybe that I was just uninformed in the ways of service), I asked her what she thought of the essays. Her opinion of the essays made me look like the most understanding reader on the planet. I've never heard such sadness and despair (bordering on contempt and vitriol) for student writing. While there was clearly a winner in the pile (thus allowing us to successfully complete the task), she and I agreed that the whole process made us simultaneously fear for the future of community service and writing.

Sometimes I can't believe I want to get back into teaching, but then I read stuff like that, and I'm actually more committed to being a teacher (or more likely to be committed to an asylum), because SOMEBODY has to try to stop the pandemic spread of stupidity in high school essays. I mean, good gravy!! Some people actually have to read this shit!

Virgil, if I wore a hat, I would tip it in respect to your skills. I imagine you have to sit down with just about every one of your special little learners and say, "I'm sorry, darlin', but y'all can't consider helping grandma in the kitchen as community service."

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HIGH SCHOOLER WISDOM: "In these modern times, helping the less fortunate is very important." -- Because in the past, nobody ever needed help.

Thanks but No Thanks

Guess who had his first in-person interview on Tuesday! And guess who is going to turn down the job of his own free will. I'll give you a hint - it's not John Lithgow.

Back in November, in a fit of desperation, I applied for adjunct positions at four area colleges for the Spring 09 semester. I had hoped to earn some decent money on the side while searching for more gainful employment. This was before my recent decision to go to Pitt for my teaching certification. When I didn't hear anything from them, I wasn't really surprised, but I did despair over the fact that I couldn't even get a job in something for which I was fabulously qualified. Then early last week, one of the places I applied to, a Penn State branch campus no less, called me. The woman on the phone wanted to know if I was interested in being a part-time English instructor in the Fall 09 semester. She asked me if I was available for an in-person interview.

I was flummoxed. For the last ten months, I've wanted nothing more than for someone to call me to offer me money-dollars. I would have gouged out my own pyloric sphincter and donated it to a self-aggrandizing hipster if it meant getting a job. But the timing couldn't have been worse. In the fall semester, I'll be at Pitt learning how to become a stooge for the local school districts. The Penn State campus in question is about an hour and fifteen minutes away from Pitt, so that wouldn't exactly be around the corner.

Against all advice from the "Job Hunting for Idiots" books I read, I explained all of this to the woman on the phone, and I expected her to hang up, disgusted with my lack of commitment to higher education. But she was persistent. "Oh don't worry about it," she said. "Come on in anyway. We can talk about the job, and it'll be good interviewing experience. I always tell my son that any interview is worth taking for the experience." I couldn't really argue with that, and her damned folksy demeanor made her seem so gosh darn nice!

So two days ago, I finally got to put on the suit I got for my job interviews (back when I thought my calendar would be packed with them). While I realize that the majority of men don't like wearing formal attire, I LOVE wearing a suit. I always feel like a man with dreams, hopes, and a hedge fund. So feeling suitably professional and adult-like, I made the trip to the PA/Ohio border to what I have decided to be the dingiest Penn State campus I had ever seen. The entire college appeared to be converted from an old high school. I think my meeting was in what used to be the gymnasium. In any case, This mousy little woman in her mid-forties introduces herself as the English Department Chair. She then marvels at my formal-wear: "Well look at you! Aren't we handsome today!" I immediately felt like I was about to have cookies at grandma's house rather than interviewing for a job.

But if this woman was grandma.... the crazy uncle that no one trusts around the kids was about to arrive.

After setting me up in the conference room and getting me some water (sippy cup not included this time), the woman informs me that her colleague will be joining us shortly. We don't have to wait long. Bursting through the door comes this magnificent man decked out in black jeans, a leather coat (it's 65 degrees outside) and square humanities-major glasses. He's got this puffy white hair that's gelled and pointing somewhere behind him and a good distance above his head. His matching goatee would have made Colonel Sanders weep. He looked like some hybrid of Eddie Izzard and Billy Connolly. Go ahead and do a Google Image search for those two. You'll get the idea.

The two of them tell me that they're the entire full-time English department. I chuckle at what I assume to be a joke, but they're not laughing. Apparently Grandma teaches all of the low-level classes, and Captain Beefheart teaches the upper-level ones. This was easily the saddest English department I'd ever seen... and they wanted ME for their despondent team.

The grandmotherly woman tries her best to keep the interview professsional by asking me about my resume and such, but Batshit Insane English Guy kept jumping in with intellectual musings about the nature of the interview process. He likes to think of interviews as "vocational conversations." He then went on to mock the entire Penn State system, their job benefits, the faculty salaries, and stupid people. As Virgil well knows, any wacky old professor who can't stay on topic to save his life gets an A+ in my book. This guy was extremely honest about their little campus, much to the consternation of Sweet Grandma Lady.

I knew going into this interview that my chances of accepting this job were pretty slim. It was just too far away, and I knew far too well that the time commitment for teaching two undergraduate classes was nothing to sneeze at. But I wanted to treat this like a real interview so that I could get some real practice. Needless to say, that didn't happen. Instead, I kept getting even more reasons to avoid this job offer like the plague. Not only did they want me to travel all this way to teach two classes, but they would be two different classes, which would require two different lesson plans for each class. One of the classes they wanted me to teach was Business Writing, and that just completely blew my mind. If I knew anything about communicating in the business world, I sure as hell wouldn't be in my current situation.

But the capper was the salary. I knew part-time adjuncts didn't make much money, but I never truly appreciated the definition of a "pittance." I would only receive $2000 for each class... for the entire semester!!! That's $4000 for four months of work. I made more than that as a graduate student, which is sadder than sad.

By the time the interview was over, I was 100% certain that I didn't want this job. However, there was one problem: THEY BOTH LOVED ME! They told me that they would be eagerly recommending me to their superiors. Fortunately, they were realistic enough to say that they'd understand if I didn't want to do it. Colonel Wacky jumped in with a lengthy diatribe about how adjunct salaries should be higher. There's nothing worse than disappointing people who are truly nice and wonderful people and who are kissing your ass just the way you like it to be kissed. So I told them that I didn't have all the information about my schedule for the fall (which is true) and that I would get back to them once I did.

Coming out of that interview, only one feeling really gripped me and wouldn't let go: unadulterated guilt. This campus clearly catered to certain.... less-than-stellar students who were being taught by understaffed, underappreciated, and underpaid teachers. Clearly I was a star candidate, which must say something about their usual crop of applicants. These two seemed like genuinely enthusiastic, supportive, and intelligent teachers who really wanted to do well by their students, and I got the impression that this school was in desperate need of good instructors. I felt like a heel knowing that I'd be turning down their offer.

Of course, the guilt won't stop me from rejecting them, but I'll feel really bad as I'm doing it.

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"Did everything just taste purple for a second?"