True or False?

At lunch today, a student came up to me and said, "Coach Naz, I've really got to talk to you."

I was concerned because A) I don't even have this student -- but I know this student.  EVERYONE knows this student, and 2) I have never, ever seen him look so serious.  But he was.

"What's up?  You okay?"  I was genuinely weirded out by the grave look upon his face.

"Yeah.  It's just that today... on my history test... there was a question.  Question #7, I think.  And it said 'True or False: Mr. Stimmel is a better teacher than Coach Naz.'"  And then he looked at me with real, honest-to-goodness sad-face.  I've seen angry-face and wild-eyed crazed-face, but I've yet to see the sad-face.

I already knew about this test question since my new nemesis had already come to show me all of his answers from the students we share.  He had, of course, bullied them into choosing "true".

I went ahead anyway and asked, "So, what did you choose?  True?  Or False?"

"Well, see... I've got a 75 in that class... and I HAVE to make a better grade, so... I... chose Mr. Stimmel."  Again, with the sad-face.

I gave him the side eye for a good 10 or 12 seconds before I responded.

"Well, you sold me out, but you sold me out for the greater good, I suppose.  I'll let it slide this one time.  But just this once."  And then I gave him a quick hug-strangle and sent him on his way.

In a day that physically wore me out, a kid that I don't teach and don't really know, made my day. It cost him nothing but a small confession and 60 seconds of his time.

True or False:  Shouldn't we all be so wise?

Stimmel also had to show me this:

I think she'll be eligible for political office in 2036.  

Also, Stimmel, I'll let you slide on that punctuation.  But just this once.

The Most Important Lesson

I often joke about teaching or about my kids at school.  I sometimes even let my anger free flow and turn into a comical rage.  Things have to turn funny -- I have to find the funny moments -- because sometimes the state of our educational system makes me so sad.

It sometimes makes me deeply, unbelievably, dangerously sad.

I can remember the first time I realized that all kids in the world didn't go to school.  I think I was around 10 or 11.  I was horrified.  I couldn't imagine a world without my teachers, without books, without power.  For me, education was exploration.  Education was empowerment.  I was proud to be smart, and I was proud to work hard.  I was also shocked that not every kid in America felt this way.  Sometimes I still am.

Tomorrow, Malala Yousafzai stands a pretty good chance of winning the Nobel Peace Prize for her fight and unyielding courage in speaking out about educational rights for all.  Bravery knows no gender; courage sees no age.

I planned to have a quiz about sentence structure tomorrow.  Complex sentences are important, but I'm not so sure that's the most important lesson they could see.

I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!

Every 12 year old I know has only two sworn enemies: body odor and combination locks.  Both seem to mystify and confound even my smartest students.  Students who seem to believe that dollar store perfume and Axe body spray somehow replace soap and water.

Unlocking a combination lock is the ultimate test for adolescent youth.  It requires patience, attention to detail, and enough memory space to store 3 numbers.  None of these happens to be a 7th grader's greatest attribute.  I might as well have given them the instructions in Japanese or asked them to divide 8 by eleventy-billion.  Their blank stares haunt my dreams.

The first few weeks of 7th grade each year are full of crying, begging, and bargaining.  There are even a few punches thrown in absolute rage.  Learning to work their lockers is a full-on adventure into the 5 stages of grief -- for them and for me.

Stage 1: Denial
With an entirely new administration and an almost 50% new teaching staff, there were certain things that fell by the wayside in planning.  One of the most notable of these was, you guessed it, lockers.  So for 3 weeks, students wandered in and out of classrooms, all willy-nilly, carrying their backpacks.  Not a big deal, I thought, until I almost met my demise courtesy of Jansport interference within my inner loop.  Every day, no fewer than 37 children would interrogate me on the whereabouts of their locker combinations.

"WHAT DO WE WANT?"
"WE WANT LOCKERS!"
"WHEN DO WE WANT THEM?"
"WE WANT THEM NOW!"

I'm telling you.  EVERY. FREAKING. DAY.

So, we gave them lockers.  They tried them. Once.  The next day, 37 children wandered aimlessly into my classroom -- with their backpacks.

"What happened to your demand for lockers, Norma Rae?" I asked.

"Lockers?  I never wanted a locker.  What do I need a locker for?  And who's Norma Rae?"

This.  This and that damned blank stare.  I have now endured the blank stare for 17 days with some of my kids.

Stage 2:  Anger
Me: "Put your backpack in your locker.  Put your backpack in your locker.  PUT. YOUR BACKPACK. IN. YOUR LOCKER."

Them:  (shock. indignation. gasps.)  "Whaaaatttt?  Huh?  No."

Me: (silently pointing at the lockers, blocking the door)

Them:  (5 second transition to) "I CAN'T OPEN MY LOCKER!  MY LOCKER IS BROKEN!  MY TEACHER NEVER GAVE ME A LOCKER!  WHYYYYY CAN'T I JUST BRING IN MY BACKPACK?"

Stage 2 involves a tremendous amount of anger, on both their part and my own.

And for the record, if you punch your locker out of illogical and asinine rage, I will not drop everything to give you a nurse's pass for your hand.  Those are what I like to call "natural consequences".  Deal with it.

Stage 3:  Bargaining
This is a good one.  Stage 3 involves all sorts of promises.  But if you've ever known/depended upon a 12 year old to follow-through, you know how it will end.  So, much of Stage 3 just involves me either looking away and pretending not to hear OR masking my still-burning hostility with a look of bemused ambivalence.

"I'll be so quiet if you let me bring in my backpack."
"I won't tell anyone else you let me bring it in."
"I swear I'll learn my combination tomorrow."
"This is the last time I'll need your locker key."
"No, really... this is the last time I need your locker key."
"Can you open my locker with your key one last time?"

Stage 3 also sometimes involves tears.  It doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl.  For the first 7-10 days of learning lockers, someone will cry.  Guaranteed.  Tears are a child's only real bargaining strategy.

It's sad, but not in the intended way.

Stage 4: Depression
This one tends to fade quickly.  And if it doesn't fade, it just jumps straight back to anger.  The default setting for most adolescent youth is usually just anger at everyone over the age of 16, so this makes sense.  But there is a TREMENDOUS amount of whining and foot-dragging as I force kids to their locker to make them "Show me.  Show me how you can't possibly open your locker."

Stage 5:  Acceptance
The absolutely most gratifying stage of any teacher's day.  This is the moment where you relish the win. You have feasted upon their tears, grown strong from their hate, and proven, once more, that you will outlast them.

It's also the moment where, yesterday, after quickly visiting all 4 of the first stages within 45 seconds with a student, I marched her down to her locker, made some quick observations about her lack of combination lock finesse, and taught her the Way of the Locker.  I am, essentially, the Mr. Miyagi of Lockerdom.

The Way of the Locker:

• Ignore the written directions. They're stupid.
• Listen to me. I am Mr. Miyagi.
• Shut up.  It's not important who he is except that he's awesome.
• Breathe.
• Go right. Slow down as you approach the number.
• Go left. Pass it up... slow it down.
• Go right. Pay attention.
• If you mess up, start again.
• Repeat as many times as necessary.
• Don't forget to breathe.
• Celebrate.

Which I did when she opened it three times in a row.  I threw up my hands to signal a touchdown and loudly proclaimed, "I MAKE MIRACLES HAPPEN!" in front of the Assistant Superintendent of Administration who happened to be visiting.

I didn't care.  Let him judge.  Let He who has not spent the last 32 days in Stages 2 and 3 cast the first stone.

And then let him take on the next one.  That kid stinks.  Probably because his Axe body spray has been securely locked away for 16 days.

Astronomy Lessons

Perspective.

It's something we all need and something so few of us have.

And it's terribly hard to teach a group of teenagers and pre-teens who have little to none.  On 3 separate occasions I had to share this lesson today.

And 3 is a record low.

Again, I'd like to take this public opportunity to apologize to everyone I knew at age 13.  Sweet Jesus.

Thunder Dome

See this dude?

Cute, right?

Well, in my house, he's delicious.

Yep.  My house is the house where geckos go to die.  Actually, my house is the house where geckos go to live in terror and confusion before suffering a slow and agonizing demise at the hands of the feline population.  I live with three terrorists.  Gecko terrorists.

I feel so bad for the little dudes.  With the weather getting colder, I think they're trying to sneak in to find a nice warm crack in the stucco in which to hide out.  

What they're really walking into is Thunder Dome.

I have 3 cats.  None of them get along.  Tolerance is forced, at best -- until a gecko is spotted.  Then, my living room floor turns into some sort of Gecko Air Hockey.  A lizard slapshot travels with a great deal of force when at the paws of a criminal mastermind.

I came home tonight, after a long day at school, to a massacre.  Two tiny geckos lay deathly still next to the couch (I like to think that they were young geckos in love -- the Romeo and Juliet of the Lizard Kingdom).  I had just covered their little bodies with a paper towel to show a little respect (and to distract the cats; they don't have the greatest short-term memories) when suddenly those little lizards sprang to life and took off for the door!  

Those lizards played possum!  It scared the bejeezus out of me, causing me to scream.  That, in turn, scared the bejeezus out of the cats, who scrambled for a safe hiding spot.  And that led to the Great Gecko Escape of 2013.

Fare thee well, Romeo and Juliet!  I hope you learned your dang lesson.  I certainly learned mine.  It's every woman/gecko for herself here in Thunder Dome.

Fantasy Football -- Week 5 Update

Fantasy Football -- Week 5.

I won.  Holy fut nuts, I won.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

It was looking like I was going to need Matt Ryan to pull out a dozen points tomorrow to seal the win (as I left Hilton on the bench with 29 points today).  Ryan's  been fairly reliable for the first four weeks, so I was fully prepared for him to wake up with malaria tomorrow.  Necessary points could only spell doom for young Mr. Ryan.

But luckily, my opponent started an injured player and the Texans' defense.  If he weren't the single most competitive person I know, I'd think he was taking a dive.  In truth, I should probably make sure he doesn't have malaria.  My bad luck is sometimes as directionally challenged as I am.

Either way, you've been spared this week, Matt Ryan.  You're welcome.

The Root

Today is World Teachers' Day.  The fact that A) I didn't know this, and I'm a teacher and 2) it's on a Saturday is so frustratingly appropriate that I can only shrug and laugh.  I only found out because one of my other favorite writers/teachers wrote a great piece about his 3rd grade teacher.  It's great, and you should go read it here.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with one of my fellow teachers not too long ago.  We'd been discussing her son's 4th grade teacher, and I couldn't help but remember my own.  Most of my elementary school career, I'd managed to fly under the radar.  I suspect that teachers knew I was smart and they liked me because I followed rules and kept quiet, but I don't have much of a sense of who I was as a child then.  Those memories are lost on me.

And then I landed in Bonnie Gooch's class.

I can remember so much about Mrs. Gooch's class.  I could probably even draw it out on paper if I had too.  She had the warmest smile, softest hands, and kindest voice I'd ever known.  She was also the tallest woman I think I had ever met, and I found it abnormally fascinating that someone so physically imposing could be so gentle.  Mrs. Gooch always read aloud to us in the afternoons, and there are certain books that when I hear them, I am transported back, head on my desk, warmed by the afternoon sun, soothed by her voice.  Mrs. Gooch taught me about dividing fractions, basketball rebounds, and compound sentences.  I think of her every time I teach my students about comma placement.

I think this was also the year we studied the plant cycle, growing beans in a cup.  I can remember my excitement at the green shoot, sprouting, spreading its roots throughout the soil I'd transplanted it to.  It was the first (and one of the only) things I've ever managed to grow.  It didn't last long as I hadn't realized that it would need room to grow and spread, that its roots needed more to anchor in and feed from.

More than just what she taught me, however, was the way she taught me to carry myself.  I was painfully shy and unconfident as a child, always struggling to please those around me.  I happened to be in a grade full of remarkably athletic boys and beautiful girls, and I struggled even just to stay near the middle.  When there are only 33 people in your grade, believe me, the middle does not contain a very wide margin for error.

If my earlier teachers had noticed any talent of mine, they never told me, and I had spent 4 years in school believing I had none.  Mrs. Gooch not only noticed, she made sure I knew.  She was a passionate competitor, and she encouraged this spirit in me as well.  She recruited me for her UIL Picture Memory team, an event which required the study of 40 paintings, their artists, countries of origin, and some critique.  I had never been exposed to such beautiful artwork (even in just print), and I marveled at how Mrs. Gooch could pronounce such difficult names and know so many things about places outside our small town city limits.  I was 21 when I visited the Kimbell Museum here in Fort Worth for the Renoir exhibit.  It was hot and crowded, but when I found myself nose to nose with a real-life Renoir, it was worth it.  I got yelled at by a security guard for being too close, but I didn't care.  When in my life would I be able to be so close to such history -- both that of the artist and my own?

Mrs. Gooch was also the first person to notice my love of writing.  She challenged me to be on her Ready Writing team.  It was difficult because I had grown up feeling like a child with no voice, with nothing of particular interest to say.  I couldn't imagine why she would tell me that she needed me, but she did.  We worked both in school and after, this little team of writers, racing the clock with only a pencil and our brains to arm us.  I do not remember even one word that I put to paper that year, but the feel of it was exhilarating.  I was only the alternate in that event, but it began my obsession with words.  It began my journey as both a writer and writing teacher.  It began my path to finding my own voice and then having the courage to use it.  For that alone, I'll be forever grateful.  It is a gift she had no idea she was giving.

I have been blessed by a lifetime of incredible educators, from elementary school all the way through college, and I continue to surround myself with some of the best in our field.  From each of them, I have taken nourishment and knowledge; each of them has a special place within my soul.  Other teachers along the way have nurtured what she planted, but Mrs. Gooch was the root.

Thank you for giving me room to grow.