The Mediocrity Marathon

Yesterday, during my toughest class I was struck dumb. Literally... dumb. But only for a moment.

While discussing their recent "Standardized Testing -- The Preview" scores, I told them that of all my classes, they, as a class, had the lowest overall passing percentage. For real, just over 50 percent (and of those that "passed" did so with the lowest score possible. Only one student scored above a 60). I also took a moment to try to help them make the connection that behavior relates to academic performance as they also have the highest rate of misconduct slips of all my classes. That my need to manage behavior makes it nearly impossible to disseminate the information necessary to them. Because they. are. wild.

I knew that they might take the news poorly, but I had no idea. And that's when it happened.

Little Miss Sassafrass stood up, crossed her arms and retorted, "You're so rude. Why do you gotta be putting us down like that?"

Uhhh... exsqueeze me? Baking powder?

I stood there for a moment, choosing my words carefully and asked her how exactly I was being rude if I am simply stating a fact.

"Because you are our teacher, and you should be making us feel better about this. You should be telling us that it's alright. That we can do this. You shouldn't be telling us how we failed." This, of course, was met with lots of furious head nodding and angry muttering agreeance.

C'mon now. Really?

Hello world. It's Entitlement and Mediocrity at your door, and we're here to sell you some more of our bullshit. At that moment, I wanted to punch something. Hard. Not a child... more like their parent.

Since when is speaking the truth and pointing out NECESSARY improvement a bad thing? I did not throw my hands up in disgust and announce that I was through with their effing apathetic, righteous load of horseshit. I did not call them losers. I did not say things like, "How the eff can you make a 27 on a multiple choice test? I could train a brain-damaged chicken to make a 27! (And I could. I truly think I could, by the way.) I did not sit down at my desk, pick up my Diet Coke, and write them off. Because, believe me, THAT would be a less troublesome choice. Letting someone fail is only about a billion times easier to accomplish than pushing someone to not only succeed but also to push past a limit they never thought possible.

So there I am, struck dumb as I told you before, processing this load of nonsense. But like I said, that moment didn't last long. It never does really. My righteous indignation has a fairly quick on switch, and it takes a while to burn out.

"Whomever has told you that your feelings and self-esteem is more valued than your need to work hard, pay attention, and learn from your mistakes has done you the biggest disservice possible. People who claim to love you, but never push you, are cowards who are holding you back from your own success. People who ignore your mistakes and failures because they don't want to hurt your feelings are afraid of you. They are afraid that you'll stop loving them. They're terrified that you will leave them. They are convinced that pacifying you is the only way to keep you. They strap you into a straightjacket of politeness.

We have become a society that has swung too far on the pendulum. In order to combat segregation and degradation, we've developed a passivity toward the truth. We've made everyone feel so special that it's become difficult to spot the truly extraordinary. We live in a time where we hand out ribbons and trophies simply for participation. What? In truth, that means you are being recognized just for showing up. We've shot ourselves in the foot with the need to be politically correct, socially equal, and FAIR.

(Oh, dear Lord, do I ever hate that word. I practically spit it out like expired milk.)

Do I want people to be mistreated? No. Do I want people to feel unloved or unnecessary? By no means.

Do I want people (i.e. you) to understand that success is a goal? That your happiness and self-worth can't be handed out like mashed potatoes on a serving line? That although you and I are not perfect, the quest to attain the best can be both exhausting and exhilarating? Absolutely. "

And then I breathed. And I breathed some more. I took a quick check of my mental faculties and tried to gauge whether I was about to have a stroke right there in the middle of room 207 (sometimes my rants are like an out of body experience, and I'm a little light-headed from the sudden rush of anger flooding out of my mouth). And I looked out into my class of 19 miscreants and mouth breathers who were finally shocked into silence and told them one last thing. "You might not like me right now. Heck, you can go ahead and hate me for all I care. But understand this - I have dedicated my life to making you better. I've dedicated my life to being the best teacher I know how to be. I'm not there yet, but I know for sure that I am not satisfied with being a teacher of a class with a 50% passing rate on this test. Getting better, being smarter, has no quick fix. Education is not a sprint; it's a marathon. But I plan on all of us crossing that finish line in June, and you can either stand up alongside me, or I can drag your lazy butt across it, but you will finish it. The truth hurts, but I'm not going to stop telling it. So, suck. it. up."

And they did. And it was exhausting and exhilarating all at once. But after class, one kid did ask me, "Is there really a marathon in June?"

*Sigh* Note to self. Tomorrow's lesson -- metaphors.

Suck It, Yankees

It is well-documented that I love a good underdog story. I bawl my eyes out when Rudy finally takes the field. I get choked up when Jimmy Chitwood steps up at the town meeting in "Hoosiers". The Miracle on Ice. David vs. Goliath. The Spartan stand. Rocky. The Bad News Bears.

My undying loyalty for the Duke Blue Devils is my only real trek into the world of the perennial powerhouse lifestyle, but my lifelong love of the Chicago Cubs surely balances that out 10 times over.

Lately, my attention's been caught by a local underdog story... the Texas Rangers. Over the last eleven years, I have worked just across the freeway from the Ballpark. I've gone to (and thoroughly enjoyed) a few games. I've cheered when they won, and I paid little attention when they fell apart. I heard tell that this was the norm. Continually overshadowed by Mark Cuban's antics, the Stars, and the House that Jerry Built (literally overshadowed now), the Rangers are rarely ever the top story in a sports broadcast. Until now.

With a blue-collar work ethic and drive, team effort, and some additional spark in the pitching rotation, the Rangers have done the previously unthinkable -- won a division series and have now won a post-season home game. Although I am excited for the team and for our city, it is my friends I am most excited for. Every spring, I am subjected to endless conversations about trades and lineups and schedules. I am in the midst of the purest form of anticipation -- like Christmas morning -- but inevitably, by the beginning of the next school year, sadness has set in and made its home in the hearts of people I adore. I have to admit, it was nice to see them finally smile in September.

I, by no means, consider myself a true Rangers fan because if there's anything I detest, it's a Johnny-come-lately who jumps on just as the ride gets good. Yet I've found myself pulling for this hometown team not for myself but rather for my hometown friends. So it is for them that I have cheered and cussed and cried and shouted. For all those who loved something or someone, even through the darkest of days, I cheer for you.

So, come Monday, when the Rangers step up to the plate in the House the Babe Built, I will throw on my Rangers Red, stand up for the national anthem, and flip the bird at the t.v. screen.

Because if there's anyone that any true Underdog hates, it's the mother effin' Yankees.

Poking Fear in the Eye

With this post, my little space on the interwebs officially turns 50 -- a goal I wasn't sure I'd ever reach.

Fifty times that I've logged on, started typing, and let my feelings go where they may. Fifty times that I've put aside my insecurities and let my true voice out. Fifty times that I cast out my line and waited for a bite. Fifty times that I breathed deep and searched for the words that exorcise my demons or soothe my soul.

Sometimes... it is funny. Sometimes... touching and sweet. Sometimes... bitter and angry. Sometimes... wistful. But always me because those are all the things I think I truly am.

When I started this whole thing 5 months ago, I wasn't sure I'd keep up with it. I was afraid I'd be too busy. I was afraid I'd have nothing to say. I was afraid that no one would care. I was afraid I'd let too much out, and I was afraid I'd hold too much back.

I've lived much of my life in fear. Disappointments, discouragements, failure, rejection. I was (and still am) fearful of it all. But with each post, with each shout and whisper to the world, I feel a bit stronger and more confident, and I've poked Fear in the eye 50 times now, and rarely It has poked back. Because I have kept up. I wasn't too busy. I did have something to say, and people cared -- no matter how much I put out there.

And I'm pretty proud of myself for it, and that in itself is cause for a little celebration. Thanks to all of you who have shared in it with me whether it's been the first or fiftieth time. I'm glad you're along for the ride.

Research Says: You're a Lunatic.

Today, I watched a totally grown adult pitch a complete fit. It was atrocious and deliciously awful, and it made me shake with rage at the way she acted and spoke to both me and a fellow colleague (who is literally not only one of the nicest people I know but also an amazing teacher), spitting forth her famous retort that should silence us all... "Well, research says...".

Her insanity oozed all over me like a flow of mentally deranged lava. Then I was treated to an email whereupon she not only challenged the talents and teachings of people I completely respect but also climbed on some weird medal stand of one to congratulate herself on being the best thing since sliced bread. She also quoted "Best Practices" -- which some uphold as practically the word of God. Quoted it.

It was gross and tacky, but it got me thinking.

Whatever did my own teachers, coaches, and professors -- the people who not only inspire me daily but practically saved my life -- do before all of this mountain of research and statistics and books advising them on every detail of their teaching careers? I wondered how many trainings they must have gone to? How many afternoons and Saturday mornings did they give up to learn the next greatest way to teach me and my classmates? Were they bombarded with facts and figures predicting their success or failure as well as my own?

I will simply never know. Probably because until now, I never thought to ask. I assumed that they chose their career because they wanted to help kids. They taught what they adored. They taught what they were passionate about, and that this passion was enough to move their students... whether that move was to pass their class, graduate, or someday find their own classroom in which to motivate, inspire, and help change others.

I'd like to think that their Best Practices were simply this: to love me. To celebrate my successes. To comfort me in my losses. And to teach me throughout both. To not only attend my basketball games and drama performances but also to attend to my failures at Home Ec sewing and trigonometry (although I've yet to use either in real life). To know my parents. To know my friends. And to counsel me when either let me down.

So to Little Miss Meltdown, you can keep your data and theories about what makes a great teacher, and I'll keep my memories of the real life ones.

I Have Been Virtually Murdered. Quick... Call Someone Who Gives a Damn.

So... yeah. Someone "defriended" me on Facebook, and I just realized it tonight. Someone I've known for a long time and considered to be a really close friend once upon a whenever.

I gotta tell ya, if they were looking to sting me, they did. Because... for real y'all... it's murder.

VIRTUAL MURDER.

It's not virtual manslaughter. It was no "accident". Oh no, kids. They got me execution style. I never saw it coming. Oh, wait. Maybe I did. Maybe I should have noticed when this person hadn't spoken to me, in an actual conversation, for like 3 years. I was curious when they sent me the friend request. I should've listened to my better judgment. All they were doing was setting me up for the fall. Now I've wasted like 12 minutes of my life wondering about it, worrying that I'd done something out of line, hoping that all my friends wouldn't follow suit. And I could have really used that 12 minutes for something productive -- like cleaning hair out of the drain or scooping runny cat poo out of the litter box.

I tried to be nice, even with the lack of any real friendship in existence. I "liked" and commented where I could. I tried to stay away from any offensive/obscene postings that might o-ffend. I don't even use the eff word on Facebook for fuck's sake because some of my friends have little kids who will eventually learn to read, and I'd rather teach it to them personally. Not through some faceless typeset.

But it doesn't matter because now that I'm officially, completely, virtually dead. Shot through the heart by Lee Harvey Fuckface, and I'm probably to blame. *sigh*

There will be no services because I don't really give a shit anymore. Your 12 minutes is officially up.

The Latest Early Retirement Plan

One of my dear friends (and former co-worker) and I used to kick around the idea that we could write a book. A book on parenting. It would be delightfully wicked and brimming with what we deemed the "common sense" approach to child-rearing.

Only problem? Neither of us have actual children.

But you know what? I think that not having children will make this process even easier. No little rugrats to eff up the process with their whining cries for food money love. No extra sentimentality or fears that one day I'll wind up on some low-rent version of Oprah as my thirty year-old, grown-up child outs me to the public at large as a horrible parent. It's basically the most perfect plan I've ever conceived.

Am I qualified to write a book about raising children? Most would say probably not. But as a teacher and coach who spends 10+ hours a day guiding hundreds of children through the moral and physical perils of junior high life, I'd say I'm actually a little over-qualified.

I'm in the process of working on some chapter organization and titles. In order to appease both my people pleaser side as well as my snarky, bitter side, I think most chapters will probably bear a subtitle. I really, really adore subtitles and sarcasm.

Chapter 1:
"Teaching Your Child About the World of Competition"
Subtitled:
"Shove Your Participation Ribbon Straight Up Your Ass"

Enjoying the Show

Remember what I once said about change?

No, well... I talk about it often, most notably here.

I've been doing some healing thinking, and I'm trying to change my ways.

Those sweater-less dinosaurs? This is why they're extinct. The inability to plan and accessorize. Stupid, pea-brain beasts.

And those firecrackers? Sometimes, if you let them go, they fill the night sky with blooms of light and color, quick and brilliant like a shooting star. It might be a little sad when the flash and bang is over, but if you're lucky enough to be watching them with friends, and you turn your head at just the right moment, the beauty falling upon their lit-up faces is well worth the wait. And then it's fulfilling enough simply to sit back and watch the show.