Barbie and Ken dolls

High school students are notorious for thinking about sex. All the time. And I've made it my personal goal from the beginning to have a nice, placid classroom with Victorian standards of morality. This is my quest.

Most of my students appreciate the G-rated and still wildly entertaining (at least in my mind) atmosphere: finally they have found one place that is safe from innuendo and fear of saying the wrong thing and appearing less desirable. Before you start commenting about my hyperbolic optimism (or pathetic insistence of outdated norms in a sexually free society), please just let me try. It is very hard to learn Spanish (or calculus or history or even weight lifting) while the guys in the corner are telling dirty jokes that make half the class uncomfortable, and that other kid is calling something or someone "gay", which makes everyone afraid of their own sexuality being questioned regardless of which team they play for. Ostracism and name-calling knows no truth.

Which brings me to an incident from my class yesterday. To get to know my students, I have them fill out a notecard with some basic information (Are you allergic to food I might bring? Who are your favorite celebrities? Do you have internet at home?) and two fun facts. The fun facts I read out loud to the class, and everyone guesses who it is. Is the dirt-biker who broke his arm three times Diego or Pepe? Oh! It's Maria Guadalupe! I ask some questions to the student in a desperate (and, at this point, belated) attempt to learn names and get some idea of personality and interests. Yesterday, I had all the students who were not in class the day we filled out the cards complete theirs. One girl, who had been sick for 2 weeks, wrote four fun facts.

The first one: I'm gay.

Followed by her favorite color, number of siblings, and favorite band. It wasn't really a huge surprise that she's gay, honestly. And it doesn't bother me except that I know high school will probably be extra rough for her. But I made the decision pretty quick not to read that out loud to the class and have them guess who. Can you imagine being the kid they picked and guessed wrong (or right, but you'd been trying to hide it)? Pepe's gay!!! But he's not really, and now everyone will call him that for the next four years, and people will avoid being his friend so they won't be called gay too.

Also, I was pretty sure I told her I would read them out loud to the class, so don't write any deep, dark secrets. But I couldn't remember for sure. And I sure wasn't going to be responsible for outing her if she only wanted me to know.

And the last reason: this is my period with four special ed students, a multitude of freshmen, and 33 students. Can you imagine the chaos? It would last for days. And I would have to give them the "gay" lecture multiple times, using my Spanish instruction time on a class that is already behind in the material as it is. Holy cow.

Not only would it be a disruption, but it would do battle with my insistence on considering each and every one of my precious darlings completely asexual. They never have sex, much less think about it. Ever. They are like little Barbies and Kens running around. They have the right shape, but none of the parts that matter.

My Frist Spanish Book or How Freshmen Are Sometimes Charming

My first year students had to draw comic strips to practice their greetings and very limited vocabulary. One boy got so excited he asked to make a book. Of course I said yes. And here is the result that made me smile all day:

and the cover page made me tear up a little, if i'm going to be honest.

It all the way makes up for this conversation:

Pedro: Mrs. S, I have no idea what this word is.

Me: It's in your notes... right there. points to word on notes right in front of him

Pedro: Oh. The one I circled.

Yes. Yes, Pedro, the one you circled.

On building my reputation as the teacher who is not fluffy sprinkles all the time

I am one of two Spanish teachers at my school. The other is from Guadalajara, Mexico and speaks delightful Spanish. I am from Seattle. When I first started working at my school, the students liked that I was American and spoke English without an accent. I believe they also liked that I look nice and sound nice. I am not, in fact, as nice as my colleague, Mrs. P. I make you work. I make you be appropriate. I make you be nice to your neighbor even if he or she is super annoying. I make you stay after class if you've wasted my time. I've been trying to convince the students of this fact for four years. They ask me, "Why does Mrs. P's class get to eat tacos today?" and I respond, "Because she's nicer than I am." They are finally starting to believe that I am not the sweet, easy to manipulate, youthful and naive person I appear to be.

Overheard in the hallway:

"Mrs. S's room is closer."

"Yeah, but Mrs. P is nicer."

Darn right, she is!

On a somewhat related note, a mother came by to see me this afternoon. We've chatted two or three times face to face (she is the mother of my student with autism). Today, she walked in and almost turned around. "Oh! I almost didn't recognize you! You are so young, I thought you were a student." I thought I was past that! Maybe I can't wear jeans to work after all.

Second Week Adventures

This morning, I was going about my usual business teaching first year Spanish. It was second period - one of my larger and more unusual periods. There are 31 students, two have Individualized Education Plans (IEPs - it means they have a disability and need accomodations). Today was the first day one of the special ed teachers came in to be an aide for those kids. This teacher is super cool, but I don't know him really well. The students finished their entry tasks, and we had just started new vocabulary for the day. Señala la profesora. Señala las flores. Señala el dinosauro. The students are mostly doing what their supposed to be doing (pointing). One girl was not. She usually doesn't. I turn to write señala on the board. One of the kids with an IEP came in late, and the aide stood up to give him a paper.

And we both see the girl falling from her chair to the ground, seizing.

He yells, runs and moves chairs out of her way, I run to call the nurse.

I've always kind of wondered how I'd react in a crisis. In my daydreams, of course, I'm a hero. Calm, quick, intelligent, superhumanly strong and filled with remarkable insight. In real life, I was quick, but not calm. Definitely shaking. I called the nurse, but didn't think to send the other kids out to the hallway. Didn't check to see how coherent she was. That was a real personal letdown. I'm trying to have a little compassion on myself. The other teacher, as a coach, has to take first aid classes every year. I took my last one... six? seven years ago? And then it was one of those, "I know we're supposed to be here for 8 hours, but I'm going to summarize so y'all can leave in 2 hours" deals. At the time, I was glad to leave. Now I want my money back.

But the other students were sent into the hallway, the nurses came to save the day, the student is as ok as a girl can be after having her first seizure the second week of freshman year. Poor girl.

Of the 30 remaining students, only one girl asked if her classmate was going to be ok. I sent her parents a nice note telling them how I appreciated her compassion and empathy.

And now it's definitely time to go home. Thank you, Jesus, for sending that aide today.

First Impressions

The exhaustion of the first week is starting to overpower the adrenaline. I have very few solid memories of the last three days, probably because as soon as the bell rings my teacher persona clicks on, and I just go. I'm left with only some impressions. My first year classes are undisciplined. It will take a while to show them how to be students. The freshmen are especially rowdy and immature. Overall, they want to learn and do well. I think most of them think Spanish will be fun. My second year classes are nervious about the year. Some of them know they should retake first year, but are too embarrased to do anything about it. I have a student with autism for the fist time. The other students haven't decided how to respond to him yet, so I need to find the class social leaders and pull them aside to talk to them about how they can influence their classmates for good.

At the fall sports assembly, I watched all the football players line up, proud in their uniform and their status. I was suddenly filled with compassion. These are my toughest students. The ones who don't shut up, who are mean to their classmates, who give up before they try, whose need for attention is never sated. I think Jesus gave me an understanding of what he meant by having compassion on the crowds because they are like sheep without a shepherd. These are the boys who want so much to be men, but don't have any comcept of what that means or how to get there. These are the students who, when asked what I should know about them as students, responded:

I learn slower than other kids.

I'm annoying, and if angry will talk back.

I'm a slow learner

I can't speak in front of the class.

Those labels must run deep for them to write it as information for a stranger. Or the student who wrote, "I have a short temper and I'll respect you as long as you resepct me." How do you teach a young man to have enough respect for himself that it doesn't matter if people respect him? I will respect you regardless of your behavior or attitude. I hope you receive the respect I offer and don't misinterpret it as anything less than it is.

But there are plenty of these as well:

I'm quiet but funny.

I wanna try hard.

I am trustworthy and will always give my best.

Being a teacher can be a lot to live up to.

The end.

I spent all last year thinking about starting a new blog. So much rumination should lead to something almost catastrophically amazing, which is part of the reason I keep putting of the beginning. First Post pressure was just too much for my latent perfectionism. Add the fact that I don't have a focus or area of specialty. I thought about writing a blog for teachers. I thought about a food blog. I thought about a book review blog. What it will probably be is a blog that helps me sort out thoughts, deal with problems, share excitement, and tell the ridiculous stories that my lovely students provide so generously.

In the meantime, it is currently Labor Day, aka'd as the Last Day of Summer Vacation. And a beautiful day it is: sunny and 86. The teacher in me simultaneously wants to triple check that everything actually is ready for the kids and avoids thinking about the new school year because, goshdarnit, I already went in and made all my copies for the next three weeks and make sure my computer login still works (it does). That internal struggle is fed by a severe case of the pre-year nerves. I really don't like the first day of school. I have three sections of strangers coming in to stare at me and challenge me into really becoming an authority figure they can respect (or not). All I know about them are their names, past grades, and disciplinary records (yikes and yikes... what kids get up to these days). We'll see how Mr. 97 disciplinary referrals and 0.6 GPA does. I'm willing to give him a real chance. If all goes well, you won't be hearing about him again.

In anticipation, today I tried on some work clothes to see if and how they fit. And, 10 points for me, I can button up pants that were impossible to pull up all the way last June! That half marathon training is good for something after all! But pride goeth before the fall. I tried on one of my favorites, a nice dove gray sheath, and it zipped all the way up. I spent a few minutes admiring my newly flatter tummy, then turned around. Holy cow, it is a bootytastic dress. That is not a first day dress. I want them to love me for my brain, please, and not notice my rather ample backside. First blow to my vanity.

The next blow came as I was preparing for Labor day small group festivities. Ten minutes before group, I went outside to light the barbecue. A giant ball of flame billowed out, engulfing my head and taking out all the hair on my right forearm, a couple locks on the right side of my head, half my eyelashes, and (strangely) all the hair between my eyebrows. That last bit I'm certain was a gift from Jesus. I won't have to pluck for a while. The rest of it made me shakey, as most of my childhood nightmares involved running away from fire, and deflated. Oh! my vanity. Oh! the first day of school with short short eyelashes and missing chunks of hair. Oh! the end of glorious summer.