Image Crafting Vs Honesty in an Era of Inauthenticity

"Oh hey, Chris.  How's the school year going so far?"

This is the question I get asked by acquaintances who don't know my story, yet.

They aren't meaning to bring up a sore subject. They know I am a was a teacher, and it's casual small talk.

In case you don't know, I recently lost my job. This is nothing new, as it's happened five times in eight years. I'm used to being "laid off," or whatever it is they consider it, when they don't extend the contracts of temporary employees.

Before this last time, I was merely the victim of circumstance. Jobs had to be cut to make budget, and I was always low man on the totem pole.

He got pwned 

But this last time, I'd had enough. I re-interviewed for the job I already had, and was passed over, again, by a nobody.  And I don't mean nobody in the derogatory sense; I'm sure this person is a somebody, but unknown to the district before the interview. Not like me. I was a known commodity.  A commodity, that apparently wasn't paying dividends.

And the passive aggressive anger of eight years of being bypassed and used by a district that moved me around like a pawn that it intended to sacrifice, led me to throw-up verbally on my Facebook page.

It was unprofessional and childish and honest. And I paid the price for it. The district found out, and nearly blacklisted me for my "outburst." I now have to walk on egg-shells around the people who didn't hire me, if I want to substitute teach in the district. I need to substitute to make ends meet and this is my only district that knows who I am. I am dependent on the very hand that struck me down.  

And it is so f---ing degrading to my soul. These were my co-workers, my equals.  We collaborated on projects, shared materials, learned from each other, and now, I'm on the outside. And I've never felt so humiliated in all my life.

Those words are hard to write. It's hard to admit that I have feelings. That I feel like a failure. That I'm angry. I'm 35- years-old. I shouldn't be unemployed, shouldn't be an outsider, shouldn't still be looking for what I haven't found yet.


Five years ago, I would've never said a word. I would've acted like it was all okay. I think that's why I was put on blood pressure medicine, back then. I pretended that everything was okay. That I'm okay with being pissed on, and I became more and more acidic internally.

---------------------------------------------

There's a term called image crafting. Where people use social media to create a carefully crafted version of themselves that is more appealing than what they really are.  You know these people...

*Their marriages are perfect, and their sex lives are documented by Eastern healing gurus.

They look like Janice, the
guitarist Muppet. 

*Their house is amazing and spotless even with their super creepy hairband-like Afghan Hound dog.
*Somehow they look 45% better in every photo then you've ever seen them in real life.
*Their children are better at everything, literally everything, than your own (or you, for that matter).
*They just ran the Everest 10K with the help of a sherpa.
*They are happier, in every post, than Ellen Degeneres in a celebrity dance off.

A salad should be at least 90% green.  That's my rule.  

*Their garden picked coriander, kale, blackcurrant, and onion compote "dinner" pics almost look edible.
*They're always posting from unique spots like Guantanamo Bay, Fallujah, or Pyongyang...and it looks amazing. Clearly they are LIVING LIFE!
*It was partially because of their job, that those American doctors survived ebola.

I've been guilty of it. We all have.

It's hard not to brag about feeding kale intravenously to Nepalese ebola patients right after finishing the K2-5K.  Believe me, it's hard not posting a picture of me doing this in this blog.

Except that I'm not doing anything remotely epic. I'm eating a lot of Doritos and playing hours of Clash-of-Clans on my iPad.  Those pictures aren't good for my image.  Neither are posts with the hashtags #fightingoffdepression or #prayforme.

Somehow, we've turned honesty into a bad word. We've turned straightforwardness into a negative work-force quality. We don't like hearing bad news from people we know, but it's the first thing we look for in the news, so we can judge the rich and famous. #howdareyouRayRice.

And it's phony as hell. And I'm not playing that game anymore.

I'm too damn old to be a fake.  I'm too damn old to care about my image anymore. I'm going to write honestly about the crap and the kudos. I have a fantastic wife, and good friends, an average home with an annoying dog, and I love my kids, even if they don't appear to be the next Tiger Woods of anything yet. And my professional life sucks. I don't know if I'll ever get out of debt.

So you take the good with the bad. So I'm done being a teacher, and it hurts to talk about.

But God's got something else for me.  It just currently isn't paying the bills or giving me much comfort. And if you aren't comfortable reading about it, or talking to me about it, then we probably weren't friends in the first place.

And now that I got that off my chest. I'm ready to be funny again...just right after I do this last Clash of Clans raid.

The Building Blocks of Disillusionment

If you've read my blog before my current long hiatus, you'll know I'm kind of a Lego nerd.  

The photo is too far away to see the suck

Well a few months back, I was visiting family in Bellingham, WA. and walked into a hipster-freindly antique mall.  Even my wife was enjoying herself, which is amazing because she absolutely hates the smell of musty old stuff.  I, on the other hand, love playing pop-culture anthropologist with all the neat stuff from the turn of the 20th century and beyond.  

In the midst of all the refurbished farm equipment and oil and gas signs was a corner filled with toys from my dad's era. I saw a familiar shaped cylinder that I would've swore was Tinker Toys...but no, it was a little known toy called American Plastic Bricks.  

Not Lego, or even K'nex or Kre-O or Mega Bloks, but AMERICAN Plastic Bricks.  

I removed the Mason jar-like lid and inspected the contents. They appeared all there. I gladly paid the eight dollars for this American treasure.  Even my daughters were excited, because they under packed toys for the mini-vacation. Who doesn't like building blocks? 

But it was fool's gold. There was nothing patriotic about these bricks. Unless you consider cheapness, bad engineering and frustration of 1980s Ford and GM vehicles--American ideals, then yes, this was American.

Being the most popular car in Venezuela is like winning "Best Smile" in
a Methadone clinic.  

"These are horrible, Dad," my daughter Lily explained within 30 seconds of me dumping the contents on the table.  

Horrible doesn't begin to describe it. It's as if all the Baby Boomer kids who were pushed into the burgeoning career of plastics but were D-students in plastics college all converged to the American Plastic Brick company.  

Some of the bricks might have been shale; or insect exoskeletons. They disintegrated upon attaching the pieces together. Most wouldn't even snap together...and if they did, they refused to get along or stay together for more than a few seconds. I wonder how many engineering and/or architects learned how to build with this crap? It does, however, possibly, explain my father's remodeling improvisations.

Some businesses, like the American Plastic Brick Co. deserve to go belly-up. Some plastics people are in the wrong field. There are better products, better jobs, out there, so...

"I will make this work, even if I have to Krazy Glue it!"

I'm done teaching. The bricks were stacked against me, and I couldn't force the pieces together even with Krazy Glue. Bad timing, bad engineering, bad schooling, I don't know...I just...I just can't do it anymore. I seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time, but now, for the first time...

I wasn't wanted.

I can understand budget cuts and being low man on the totem pole, and missing application deadlines, and having HR place "pet projects" in my place. But I was always promised something...always told I had a place. Everyone said it was the next retirement, the next opening...etc.   I was like that specialty Lego piece that is really interesting to play with, but only fits one exclusive set.

They did this to me for eight years.  Five years as a temporary part-time teacher, two as a long term substitute, and multiple filling-in-the-gaps during all those stints. I taught everything they asked. Of course my Lego coloring never seemed to fit the set.  Gov't, 7th grade block, Middle school computers class, Freshman English, 6th grade Title Reading...

But last year I was in my corresponding set. Teaching high school English and being the technology coordinator for the building. Everyone said I was doing a fantastic job. For once, I felt like my time had finally come. They had finally looked at the instructions and put me in my proper place.

But like a toddler sibling coming into the room and destroying your Lego models, my teaching world was destroyed overnight. I interviewed. Again. (District policy is that temporary positions are always reopened at the beginning of the next year). They knew my history.  And...and...they gave it to someone else.

Who, ironically, turned them down days later.  I got a district form e-mail telling me I didn't get the job. Like I was some unknown applicant fresh from college.

And the indignation and anger and frustration and pain...after eight years...caused me to break character and voice my opinion on Facebook. I was done. I was done teaching. And I vented some very calculated, but not personal, words on my OWN Facebook page.

But the job was going to reopen, because the hired applicant turned the job down.

But somehow my Facebook post had made it to the eyes of some higher ups (whom I'm not friends with). And this Facebook post proved that I was now "unreliable and untrustworthy," in their words. Two qualities I've spent my entire life trying to prove I am.

I was not granted an interview.  But I was called, that very same day, by HR offering me a long-term sub job at the district alternative school. Like I'm some booty-call teaching idiot. Like they could tell me with one hand that I'm not good enough, but then say, but you are good enough for this...

Teaching is a business, and I am a specialty Lego piece, and they are American Plastic Bricks, and we don't mesh well together. I get that.                      Now.

So now I sit here typing as my wife is in the classroom teaching, and my children are at school, and it's not easy being home, alone.  Education was what I WAS.  I should be in a classroom. And the 5 stages of grief are all there at the same time.  Anger, Denial/Isolation, Depression, Acceptance, and Bargaining.

Hopefully the keys to the house of David
will replace the stress in my shoulders.  

Maybe I'm a cheap plastic brick? Or Maybe I'm a specialty Lego piece? I just haven't found my place yet.

But I will someday.  God closes doors that no man can open.

Now, if only He could help getting one of these book publishing doors open. 

Don't Forget to Bring the Laughs

Bill Nye isn't funny, however his show was just
awkward enough to make me think he was.  

Today a student asked, "How come when the Titanic hit the iceberg, why didn't the ship just push the iceberg away?" I fought off the impish temptation to say, "IDK, Tony, do I look like Bill Nye? Go ask your flippin' physics teacher." Instead (because I love off-topic questions), I said something about the mass of the iceberg probably being substantially larger than that of the ship...He still didn't understand. I realized, hey, I'm an English teacher, I'll use a metaphor to explain it. "Next time you are in the local pool and some 600 pound obese guy is floating in the middle, dive headfirst into the water and crash into him {Tony is about 120 lbs. soaking wet}. Mass is still proportional in water, even if everything is physically lighter in weight." **This is just a smaller scale, not a metaphor, I know.

Tony's face slowly turned from befuddled to whimsical. I knew he "got it," yet I knew some facetious follow up comment was coming.

"Have you ever seen a 600 lb. guy at a public pool?"

No, that's not me.  I have better form on my dives.  

Another kid, Freddie, barely cognizant of the whole conversation said, "I saw Mr. Plumb at Willamalane {the local pool} once."

Unaware of the connotation he made, I merely said, "Yeah, Tony. If you and I are ever at Willamalane on the same day and you come crashing into me while I'm swimming laps, I'll know you're testing our 600 lb. hypothesis."

The class heartily laughed, (although a bit uncomfortably). I heard a somewhat vacuous girl in the back of the room question a friend, "He's not 600 lbs. is he?"

No. Not even close to half. But I am bigger. And I like laughing.

Something tells me I'm lucky I don't have boys.  

So when a joke presents itself, especially at my expense, I willingly accept that moment. Butchering my pride is the price I'm willing to pay for comedy. I'm also willing to sacrifice eight minutes of my valuable class time to hear the class laughing. Many of these kids look miserable, and a laugh, a snicker, a guffaw, or if the gods are willing, a milk shot out of the nose? All equate a priceless educational experience.

Humor hasn't made me an effective teacher, but it has made me a relevant teacher. Kids attend my classes, and they attend because there's a chance something fun might happen. They might leave with a smile (and some unwanted knowledge) on any given day.

Sometimes I lose sight of how important smiling and laughter are. My own girls are terrible comedians. They tell the most illogical and awkward knock-knock jokes, all the while unable to keep a straight face (and then belly laughing through the whole terrible punch line). The whole presentation is what's humorous. "Isn't that funny, daddy?" Lily will giggle after her newest non-joke. "No, but you sure are," I'll reply. I could spend a whole day laughing with my daughters if I wanted.  But it can't be all fun and games, though, right?

Of course not. But that infectious laughter that children have? How could it hurt? Humor and prayer/worship are the only methods by which I've ever fought off my brief moments of depression or feeling sorry for myself. I didn't use to get low that often, but I've found as the older I get, the less I laugh, the less genuinely happy I feel.

Lately, I've been a real curmudgeon. It's been a very challenging year for me personally in my profession. Daily I feel like I'm in some horrible Faust story, in which I have to sell another part of my soul to keep my job. An especially astute and empathetic co-worker recognized my non-Chris-like behavior and innocently said, "Have you seen the new special by Mike Birbiglia called, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend? I think you'd really like it."

I went home and Netflixed the Bribiglia special (I think it's important to say, I saw Mike perform years ago on Comedy Central, and wasn't much impressed). M.G.B. wasn't the most hilarious special I've ever seen, but it does somehow wrap everything he talked about for over an hour into a perfect conclusion. It wasn't just a comedy special, but an epically funny thesis statement filled with anecdotal evidence. It is a masterpiece of comedy. I'm not saying it's funnier than my old Bill Cosby records, or Eddie Murphy in his prime, or Jim Gaffigan's Mr. Universe, or as edgy as Louis CK, George Carlin, or Chris Rock in 1999.  It's not comedy genius, but it is ---delivering a message--genius. It was exactly what I needed.

And it inspired me, because I too try to weave humor through my lesson plans, and when done right it is a thing of beauty. Humor can be relevant, effective, and it's good for the soul.

And with how much of my soul I've sold this year, it's good to reclaim some of who I am. (At 600 lbs. there's a lot left to retrieve).

**I apologize for this not being funnier. It's surprisingly hard to be funny while talking about being funny.  

A Declaration of Independence (From Crummy Relationships)

I'm teaching English 11 for the third time in my career, which is great for me, because it is American Literature, and I have degrees in both history and American Lit. Bad news for students: it follows the changes of American language through the history of our nation. Some would argue that there is no great American writer until Twain at the end of the 19th century, which means we as a class have to bumble through the archaic language of the 1700s and 1800s. Many hate everything we read until we get to Poe. Honestly, I don't blame them.

However, there were many great thinkers. And Jefferson's Declaration of Independence is not only, arguably, the most influential documents of all time, but actually quite lovely in its damning prose of King George and England. I compare it to an epic break-up letter. America saying to England: It's not me, it's you. 

So I make them write their own break-up letter in Jeffersonian style. A mimicry of his grievances intended, instead, for a tyrannical love partner. Here's mine (obviously from the MALE perspective). (And no, this is not directed toward my wife, we're fine. This is merely rethinking and exaggerating all the heartache and pain I've experienced and seen).

I'll take it off, but I'm never
throwing it away.  

   --------------------------------------------------------

Preamble: 

When in the course of human relationships, it becomes necessary for one half of the whole to disrobe the friendship bracelet that has hitherto joined them in couplehood, and to assume among the powers of manhood, the separate and single freedoms which the law, God, and our parents agree we are entitle to, we shall declare the reasons for which we are awesome and you are not.  

Declaration of Natural Rights:

We, men, hold these truths to be fact, that while all men are created equal, some of us are more equal than others, yet even the lowest among us have been granted by the Creator certain guaranteed rights, that among these are Comfort, Freedom from nagging, Happiness on Sundays, the right to buy ourselves gifts without your approval, and the Pursuit of Awesomeness. --That to assure these rights, ManCode has been created from the blood of cockolded, browbeaten, and domineered men.  And whenever ManCode is denied, it is the right, NO DUTY, to seek out a new partner that will assure their Safety, Happiness, and Satisfaction.

But when a long train of abuses and complaints, whining and unnecessary blabbering, crying and the lot, and basic unhappiness abound from the same principle Source (i.e. YOU), it is their right to throw off, ye, dump, said partner, and start over anew.  The present history of injustices to ManCode shall be listed hitherto:

List of Grievances: 

*She has scoffed at the Code established by Men, which has outlined the rationale for our preferred gender treatment.

*She has refused to listen to our complaints, nay, she has put them on the back-burner whilst she inputs her caloric intake into her MyFitnessPal app on her smartphone.

*She routinely invades the mancave and tries to light candles or decorate in a manner disproportionate to the style predetermined by the proprietor.

*She refuses to recognize and arm against the threat of Zombie invasions, or North Korean terrorists, yet she demandith military action against harmless native species such as arachnids and rodents.  Her use of military force is neither justified nor rational.

*She inviteth people over to parties without the consent of her governed, and forces upon the governed the need to extensively clean, purchase exotic and expensive foodstuffs that will mostly be uneaten, and commiserate with acquaintances about trivial and mundane happenings.

*She has, (I swear-ith), hired legions of female spies to report on our happenings while she is away.

*She has accused and punished us for crimes of little or no importance, some of which were mere fabrications of her own delusional mind.

*She has eliminated our access to the outside female world, even eliminating IMing to females on social media platforms.

*For removing our X-box, our computer, forcing us to keep an outdated iPod, and limiting any other source of entertainment that does not directly correlate to her likes/needs.

*She has openly mocked friends, deleted accounts, alienated family, and spread rumors about us in order to destroy our reputations.

*She is currently, in anticipation of this letter, sending out large armies of Estrogen crazed mutant women, hellbent on destroying all traces of my manhood.

*She has used our natural desires against ourselves by forcing us to do unnatural and slave-like acts in order to receive temporal gratification.

The ancient  Shao Ming method of elbow-to-rib.
Makes photos look crooked as well.  

*She has spontaneously remarked upon the physical appearance of other male specimen; yet when the opposite is attempted, nay, when nary even a glance at the swaying of the hips is observed for mere nano-seconds, the male is met with an elbow to the ribs.  The ribs crieth out, oh Lord.

*Challenging her to rumors of her infidelity are met with a marathon of cryfests, angry fit hits to the chest in the style of 1890s boxers, and lacerating words like capricious, duplicity, and unscrupulous which seem (although aren't known) to be very hurtful.  Somehow, she is the victim.

Resolution:

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for an honest hearing, but our requests have been universally denied.  A women whose character is thus littered by the aforementioned claims shall then be defined as an impostor, a pirate, a fake--for your definition is contrary to your nature--and you are unfit to any longer be associated with me.

With that skillset, buddy,
you won't be single long.
If Jefferson had a painting
doing this to King George,
the D.O.I. would be even
more amazing today.   

And now to that impostor's friends: Women, we have warned you repeatedly about her injustices. We have sought out your council, and you have repeatedly rebuffed us, and turned a blind eye towards our suffering. We forgive you for aligning yourself with your own gender, but know now that we are single, and if you forget about her now, you may have a shot at us.  We are not enemies, but friends (hopefully more than friends someday).

We, therefore, Representatives of Men, in accordance with ManCode, God, and ideals arbitrarily established in Stallone/Schwarzenegger/Porky's movies solemnly publish and declare that WE ARE FREE FROM YOUR EVIL GRIP AND HAVE NO ATTACHMENT TO YOUR LIFE, henceforth.  We can date, roam, spend, eat, sleep, and be merry at our own leisure, and will only be haunted by memories of you, and not your physical presence. It's been real, but not real fun.  Bu-bye.

Signed, myself and my two remaining male friends.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Women, I'd love some of your grievances.  Guys what did I leave off (most of these were based off Jefferson's actual list)?

The Worst Class in the History of Education

"FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!!!"  The circle of blood thirsty 8th-graders gleefully chanted. 

Two inches from my face, I starred at the menacing chin of my nemesis and class bully, Jeff Dahm; His fists tightly clenched, ready to murder me like the infamous monster he nearly shared a name with.  

I was going to die, and Mr. Wood was nowhere to be found.  

This is the face of evil.
I feel dirty for googling it.  

Only a minute ago, I made a mortal mistake. I stood up for Eric, the smallest kid in the class, when Jeff knocked him off his stool. "Quit it Dahmer!" I believe I said; unsure if the additional syllable would be noticed. It was.  

The gladiatorial circle of classmates had seemingly just appeared, as if they were all T-1000 Terminators, able to shape-shift through the many worktop tables and stools that overpopulated the art-room. Or sharks, smelling blood.  I was trapped, and Mr. Wood was AWOL, again.  

As if he could help me. He couldn't even help himself. His dog and dad had died the summer before, and he should've taken a leave of absence. Instead he put roughly 60% of himself into instructing a middle school elective that the school purposely loaded with"behavior issue" kids. 

I'm not sure If I was behaviorally identified, or actually artistic...I just knew that every day in that class was a test of my survival skills. Like a penal colony, I aligned myself with a group of Megadeth kids (who later probably dealt drugs at the high school) as an act of perseverance. We six weren't the nicest kids, but there were at least ten others who were strategically called to the office before us when something went down on campus.  

Instead of shanks, some kids carried geometry compasses which they used to puncture the bottom of the twenty or so pints of oil based paint that were stored high on a shelf above the back sinks. A rainbow of color urinated from the bottles where it wasted together in an oil spill on the concrete floor.  It took Mr. Woods half the class to realize that hundreds of dollars of classroom supplies had spontaneously combusted. He looked at the bottles and the ground, and had no idea how the "accident" had happened.  Maybe it was the ghost of his father, trying to impart some Hamlet-like advice?   

But it was only our class that haunted Mr. Wood. Almost daily some kid would harmlessly ask "How's your Dad doing, Mr. Wood?" which would send him off to his back room to cry. If he ever caught on to our malignancy, he never showed it. Nobody was ever sent to the principle in Mr. Wood's class. In the 18 week class, he probably broke down and cried 20 different times. Other kids would paint pictures of dogs (they knew he had a black lab) and watch Mr. Wood spiral into himself.  

The class didn't just haunt, they were demonic.  

We did three major ceramic projects, which all ended up shattered in the kiln. Mr. Wood's other class, probably 7th-graders, for some unknown reason started breaking our projects, and in retaliation, we broke all of theirs. How Mr. Wood ever graded these handle-less mugs and 7-piece ash trays, who knows? He kept calling in the district repair guy to get the "temperature" fixed, as it must be over-heating our projects. Really he was the clay, and we were the potter, manipulating him on a daily basis. 

And at some point, he just stopped caring. He would give instructions and disappear for almost a half hour. Can't say I blame the guy. I had joined the fun, early on, but the beginnings of empathy hit me that year, because of that class. I didn't want to go to hell like the rest of my class, and I didn't want to make anyone else feel like hell (more than I already had). 

So when Jeff Dahm knocked Eric to the floor, I had had enough. Enough of Jeff's daily bullying, enough of the hate, enough of the immaturity and impishness. I was taking a stand. And for that, Jeff was going to knock me on my ass.    

I was a small kid. Probably 4' 11" in 8th grade, and my slightly husky 120 pounds contained almost no muscle. Jeff was three inches taller, with linebacker shoulders, and a face that looked chiseled by fists. In comparison, my only previous fight ended in humiliation with kids chanting, "Look, Chris is humping that kid!"  {In my defense, another student, coincidentally named Chris as well, jumped on my back and started punching me in the back of the head (I still don't know why). I managed to throw  him off, pinned his arms beneath my knees, and tried to punch him repeatedly in the face...only I guess it looked like humping. Although in 6th grade I had no idea what humping was. I just knew it was BAD. I refused to go back to class, and cried in the hallway until my teacher, Ms. Wark came out and consoled me (I was partially in love with her)}.  

I don't know how many "FIGHTS!" the kids had chanted--it seemed like forever--when Jeff made the first move. He put his arms up near my face, then pulled them real quick back to his chest, bouncing them off and making a THWUMP sound. How apish? Almost simultaneously he yelled, "What did you say, Plumb?!"  

I didn't say anything. It was surreal. Like I was watching my own funeral.  

He got closer to my face. The circle of hate got tighter. "I asked you what you said to me?!"  

"I...I said QUIT IT DAHM!" I lied.  

"I heard something else, PLUMB!"  

I knew I was going to die. But I couldn't handle his hot nasty breath in my face any longer. I hadn't even been that close to a girl's face yet. I hadn't kissed a girl, and Jeff Dahm was going to kill me, and most likely eat my liver with fava beans. But his breath stank and I panicked and went the only place I knew to go: humor.  

"Well, Jeff...We can do this. You can punch my face into hamburger all you want, but will you please just get your nasty breath out of my face! Your breath reeks! You need a breath mint!" 

The crowd roared with laughter and Jeff staggered, like I had landed a stunning blow.  "Whatever, dude." "You're lucky..." "You're lucky...'cause someday..." And that was it. He pushed his way out of the circle of death, and gave up without a fight. Their laughter--my mockery--had embarrassed him into submission.  

I never was bothered by Jeff Dahm again. I can't say he gave up bullying. He was a jerk the rest of the year. But not to me. And that group of Megadeth kids, imps, future felons of America, and genuinely artistic kids, appreciated what I did that day.  I put Jeff Dahm in his place.  

But I remember it as the day I stood up for Eric and put my foot down on being bullied any longer.  I also remember it as the day I learned that being funny is the greatest protection a guy can have. Who needs weapons when you've got wits.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------

First person to guess the year this took place gets my respect.  

Perseverance vs. Pity Parties: How Students Schooled This Teacher

Some days I sit in my classroom and get angry and feel sorry for myself. It's a stupid game I play  called, What does it take to get a little recognition around here? For seven years my district has teased me like that girl who used to flirtatiously poke you in the ribs during algebra class. The girl who you thought you had a chance with, but found out through her best friend that she was dating someone else the entire time. She just likes to mess with people's minds.

AAA wouldn't be so bad if I could break Joaquin's
minor league home run records.  "Swing Away!"

Four temporary contracts and two long term sub jobs in seven years would seem to get someone a little positive karma; but then again, maybe I'm just that guy with AAA talent. Good enough to temporarily fill in some holes as a utility player, but not good enough for the everyday up in the Big Show (-- a baseball analogy to my sports illiterate friends). Nobody will tell me if I have major league talent or not. No scout, manager, GM, or owner has ever sat in my classroom. Not ever.

And so I brood. I'm fed up. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm too old to be teased.

But this isn't a feel sorry for me article. God doesn't allow me much self-pity. Because no matter how bad my day is going, my magnetic personality seems to attract some anemic soul, desperate for guidance. These kids just seem to be drawn to me, I don't know why. Kids with little to no social skills.  Kids who try to tease me back by saying things like, "you're probably not a good athlete anymore because you got fat." I don't need that brutal honesty in my life; but I recognize that these kids were never taught social norms. Many of my students were never taught much of anything.

Everything one needs to know about
mankind is taught in LOTF.  

So outside of thesis statements, Antigone, Lord of the Flies, persuasive techniques, grammatical rules, a brief history of Iran, how poetry speaks to our lives, the most entertaining 50 minute lecture on everything you need to know about WWII (a pre-teach to Slaughterhouse Five),  I find I'm giving students ethics, sociology, personal responsibility sessions, psychological foundations, relationship advice, personal finance decisions, and general future guidance through my personal anecdotes.  (And teaching them not to write run-on sentences like I just did).  

I'm not saying this makes me different than other teachers--we all deal with way more than just curriculum and grading.

Like most other teachers I often feel overwhelmed with emotions. In one of my classes of 28 sophomores, five different kids are dealing with a parent divorce (ALL THIS MONTH).  Two others are going through horrible custody battles.  One boy is trying to get emancipated because his mother is a lunatic (my professional diagnosis).  I have kids trying to kick drug habits before they are 17 years old. I have a super sweet pregnant girl who got kicked out her parents home, and is realizing that her "man" is nothing but jerk. They all confide in me, as if I have magical answers and healing powers.

Different city, same general quality of parenting. 

The world has not acted kindly to the little segment of inhabitants that I have the fortune of teaching.  To be blunt, life has f***d these kids over. It's not fair. And many are making genetically bad mistakes, because their own parents didn't know how to express love or administer right discipline.

Suddenly my little recognition around here game doesn't mean so much anymore. The $10K difference between being a full time teacher and being a sub will not make or break my home. It will cut into my "comforts," but it is nowhere near the harsh realities that my students face everyday.

Even at the end of my worst day, I know that God loves me.  I know that my family loves me.  I know that I am not defined by the events of the day. I know who I am.

I wish they knew the assurances I know. I wish they had been loved like I was growing up. I wish they knew the love of a spiritual Father. I wish I could tell them. I wish I could right the wrongs of a lifetime of failures.

But all I can do is teach about life--what I've learned, and hope they make better decisions in the future. On the other hand, they've taught me so much about perseverance and that indefatigable will to push on despite the unfair treatment of a cold, uncaring, world. It doesn't seem right to have a pity party, when I'm living the good life in comparison.

Ohh, I love me some cheesy motivational posters.  

Excuse Me Teacher, Can I Cuss You Out Now?

Bratz Dolls: getting girls
suspended since 2001.  

"There's no way in hell I'm staying after class, this is bull-$#!+."

Yeah, it was one of those days. A day when a request, a redirection, a small challenge, turned a volatile student into a hostile student.  Sadly, every teacher knows this scenario, knows this student, and it can destroy a day, a week, and forever taint the classroom environment.  I dread these days. Days like today.

It's just one of those days...(Oh God, I almost quoted Limp Bizkit lyrics)...actually, later in that song it says, "You don't really know why--but you want to justify--rippin' somebody's head off--no human contact--just one of those days." Yeah, maybe those lyrics still preach some truth to today's youth like they did to angsty bleach-haired boys near the millenium.

Seriously, these shouldn't be sold
to anyone under 18.  

Only this wasn't a boy. We'll call her Trista, and she had a lackey, whom we will call Katrina. Maybe you know the type. Not even 16, yet lugging a tote-purse with a Playboy bunny on it. Overpainted thin lips. Over-styled hair that wasn't popular in any era. A girl who is desperately trying to impress, but sadly has perforated her own possibilities with reputation and rumors.

Exactly the kind of borderline student that needs education. That's the irony. We, as a class, had just read an excerpt from Kaffir Boy; a story about a South African boy who only attends school after his mother hog ties him and drops him off at the schoolhouse. Eventually the main character realizes that  the only way to escape the horrors of poverty and violence is through education. I hoped it would make a connection. Obviously it didn't.

Poverty sucks.  I lived in "poverty" for a few years growing up.
But American poverty and third world poverty is incomparable.  

Some of these kids have built up so many walls to deal with the violence, instability, rejection, abuse, poverty, hate, insanity and chaos that fills their everyday life, that no matter what I do as a teacher, I will never get past their enemy label. I am the man. And you can't believe the man.

"Trista, what is going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you have purposefully challenged every single thing I've tried to do today. You talked over my presentation; you went to go get your textbook and came back with a bagel instead; you switched seats and sat in Katrina's lap in the last minutes and talked so loud I had to turn the video off. I'm done giving you leeway--hoping you will buy into my class. Tell me what you want out this class?"

"I don't want nothin'. School is stupid."(Ironically, words echoed, and later recanted, by the 8-year-old boy in Kaffir Boy).

"Well I want my other students to pass. If you want to give up, fine. I've tried to include you from day one, and you haven't shown any desire to do the work or participate in any classroom activities. Yet you are consistently distracting other kids, and it's affecting their grades. That's not fair to them, and I won't allow it to happen."

"Well, my truancy officer says all I have to do is attend school. I don't have to do the work, or care about what you're talking about, just show up."

"Well, I don't care what your truancy officer says. This is my classroom. If you're coming just to avoid a fine, I will find somewhere for you to go where you won't distract anyone else."

"It's not like I have any chance at passing. I have like a 18% in your class."

"Have you once asked me what you can do? I've seen you in the halls almost every other day, and ask if you want to come in and make up a test, if you want any missing assignments, if you want an alternative assignment. Trista, I've put in all the effort. I've been more than accommodating. And I've never once said that you can't pass my class. You don't know what I can do. I can give you partial credit. I can give you an incomplete. Heck, if you showed me some effort, even at this stage, and handed in five/six assignments, I might just give you a D, even if you aren't even at 45%. But you have to ask. I'm not going to do the work for you. That's not the way the world works." "So what's the plan."

"Well...(long pause) the work is too hard."

And then, because I knew this was just another excuse, an attempt to manipulate, because nothing else had worked, I called her bluff.

"Well, I can talk to the counselors and administration and see if we can get you tested. If there's some kind of learning disorder, or if you have gaps in education, we might be able to see those and accomodate you with different classes or..."

"Can I just leave? It's my lunch."

I fought off the urge to say, No, you had a bagel during my class, you shouldn't be hungry, and let her go. Some days you get tired of fight FOR kids who think you are fighting against them.

I sat at my desk and put my head in my hands and thought of lives like hers. A father who isn't there, or is so uncaring he lets his little girl go to school with a Playboy purse. A mom so uninvolved she never taught her daughter how to properly put on make-up, how to style her hair, how to buy clothes that fit properly. A life where no adult figure read make-believe stories at bedtime. A life where happiness isn't found at home, school, or with friends, but only in the grips of illicit drugs or petty physical relationships.

I then thought of how many Tristas I had taught in seven years. 300? 25 percent of all my students?  Too many to remember or count?  The thought was overwhelming.  Are schools and teachers failing these kids? Excuse me if I get a little pissy at that question. I, and millions like me, go to bat every day for these kids, even if they are consistently walking off the field before the game starts. What else can I physically do?

Sorry. It's just one of those days. (Can the fact that I quoted Limp Bizkit be our little secret, please?)

The Beautiful and Damned? Parents Make the Difference.

In the last two hundred years, the world has speculated,with varying ideas, about what makes a person great, and what makes another a failure. Here's just a small smattering of some of these ideologies, of which, I am taking many liberties:

• Phrenology: the size of the head, and different bumps on the head control a person's intelligence, personality, and temperament.  
• Social Darwinism: like evolution of species, only that the strongest and fittest should/will survive.  Purely a DNA crap shot. The basic thinking behind eugenics and the Holocaust.  
• Marxism: In terms of the individual (not the political theory), the obstacle holding back the proletariate (or working classes) is the wealth and power of the upper classes.  The class you are born into is holding you back, not your individual drive, etc.  
• Capitalism: A sink or swim system, where everyone has the opportunity to fill a hole in the economy.  Ingenuity, hard work, and investment of capital into one's dreams, as well as demand and luck, play a large part in one's success.  
• Freudian Theory of Development: children develop into different psychosexual stages before adulthood. Like all things Freudian, it is overly sexual, and if one doesn't get past certain stages, he or she can have an "oral fixation" or "anal fixation" etc., that can limit their advancement.  
• IQ testing: A pure measure of one's ability to solve complex questions and riddles, or intelligence, is what separates the wheat from the chaff.  Later studies have shown that there is a small correlation between success and a high IQ, but barely quantifiable.  

I can see why my grandpa's generation would
want to "have" Lauren Bacall.

The world desperately wants a measuring stick to find what turns some people into haves, and others into have nots. 

And one variable, that is always mentioned, but never explored in great detail, is the role of the family.  

Working in a low income school district, the greatest variable, in my opinion, as to the success or failure of a child, is the involvement of his or her parents/guardians.  Most of my students come from broken situations. A parent who's passed away, a parent who did time in prison, a parent who isn't working so the child is living with grandpa and grandma. Not to mention the single parents, the foster-home kids, and the kids whose parents are homeless.  

I'm not blaming their parents for their situations. Life plays funny tricks on our dreams. Partners in parenting take off, jobs dissolve, misdemeanors catch up to us, etc. Choices, mostly ones of passion and desperation, lead to consequences.  One of those, sadly, is children. And these children get dragged around through a vicious cycle of bad decisions, which, in turn makes them bad decision makers. 

And while some will say that this is solely an issue of class and poverty, I say hogwash. I have plenty of poor kids who make good decisions and have good grades. I have wealthier kids who act like brats and fail on purpose, and poor kids with nice clothes and "bling" that make horrible decisions.  You'd think there is nothing quantifiable about why a kid is successful or not, until you call their parents.  

Of coures this happened at Walmart.  

I've had moms cry on the phone and ask me "what to do?" about their out of control 7th grader.  I've had parents cuss me out for having the audacity to call home, who then blame everything on "the system."  I've seen on average, less than 5% of my student's parents at parent teacher conferences.  And of the few that show up--their kids are usually academically and behaviorally, my favorites.  These kids are the ones I doubt I've ever had a worry about their futures.  

There are plenty of kids, however, who I fear for their future.  Not just employment, but their emotional, physical, spiritual, well-being.  Kids who can't seem to get anything together.  Kids who can't even organize a notebook, let alone a bank account, or a dependent.  And yet, these are the first I see to add to our population.  Which furthers the spiral of bad parenting.  

Don't get me wrong. Even in a poverty district, I see many open-hearted, loving, generous, kind parents and volunteers. Even these parents, sometimes, are burdened with a difficult child, whether it is in behavior or academics.  There are bad apples, even where the soil is most nourishing.  But, mostly these "type" parents have kids who are absolute joys in the system. Kids who any teacher feel privileged to educate.  

So in a day in age of high stakes testing and increased pressure on everyone to succeed, my plea to parents is this:  Get involved.  Turn off the television and limit video games to an hour a day.  Get your kid involved in activities beyond school.  Find their passions and motivate them to do well there because it usually translates to other areas as well. Don't be afraid to take away their phone/computer, especially when they prove untrustworthy in their online/social activities. Teach them empathy, and discernment towards others, especially friends. And if a friend proves a bad influence, be willing to transfer your kid to a different school to "save" them. You rule the roost, not your child. You hold the keys to their future even if you have a busy job, or are doing it on your own, or are not financially able to pay for many perks; if you show interest in your child's schooling and activities, he or she will respect you for it (eventually).  

Lastly, we are entering a new era of the "barely there" parents vs. the "helicopter parents."  While it is clear when a parent is not fulfilling their side of the social contract, there are other parents who are overstepping the natural boundaries of parent/child.  Often dictating every part of their child's life, not allowing them to branch out on their own. Be aware that your child will most likely rebel against your micromanaged lifestyle, and find the laissez faire world of the barely-there parents, appealing.  

I'm systematically against eugenics except in
the case of Uruk-Hai, who should not have kids.  

My children are still small.  I don't claim to be a parenting expert, as I have no idea how my kids will turn out. But dealing with young adults has taught me, that parenting, is ALMOST everything.  A single parent who is involved in their child's life, gives that kid a chance, despite starting life at a disadvantage (yes, I did say single parenting puts a child at a disadvantage).  A parent who shows interest and enables the pursuit of their child's ability to sing or dance or play music or hit a baseball or paint or do advanced calculus, is on the road to more successful parenting.  

So, even though there is some truth that DNA, and IQ, and how much money you make as a parent, and what neighborhood and school your child attends, and whether your kid successfully navigates each stage of human development, the real determining factor as to if your kid is successful (whatever that term means to you), is whether that kid has a loving parent who cares and is playing an active, but not over-bearing, role in their child's future.  

I guess we don't have to go to heaven to see the lion
lay down with the lamb (or in this case antelope).  

Some of you may be thinking, I just read a long diatribe of nature vs. nurture, heredity vs. environment,  that could have been summed up in a few words. Yes, you're right. But for me, I think I used to believe that DNA was mostly responsible for our outcome, and now, after all these years, I think it is nurture, that is the true determining force that leads to our CHOICES that equate who we are.  

Monkeying Around With Humor in the Classroom

Teaching is a lot like being a baboon zoologist.  One must be aware that at any given moment, the caged can expose their teeth and forget the fact that you've been cleaning their stalls for years, reverting back to their wild natural ways.  Which is why I always have a plan B, or an escape plan, if the $#!+ hits the fan.  This is one reason I don't use oscillating fans in my classroom.  No sense in exacerbating excrement.

Honestly, I have thousands of back-up plans. Most of them include humor, which has helped me escape a few hairy situations.  Not that I've ever feared my profession, just the monkey business that has sometimes been the objective of my pupils.

Humor, whether it is sarcasm, spontaneous, or purposely included in the lesson plan, has always been a crowd pleaser.  Unfortunately, it is also my Achilles heel.  You see, monkey see, monkey do. And monkeys doing silly things might make for great youtube videos, but it does not help one pass mandated state tests; because state test proctors have the sense of humor of Kristen Stewart (sad, I just used one of their punchlines--how unfunny).

Annoying is not a style of
comedy: look at the career
of Pauly Shore. 

And humor is not an easy thing to ape.  I don't have a lot of time for the jokes of students, or their mean spirited barbs at each other in an attempt to earn the laughing admiration of the classroom.  Nevertheless, in every class there is at least one student who wants to become my humor padawan, even though he or she might have the comedic timing of Anakin Skywalker or Jar Jar Binks. It's a good thing I don't have the power of the force, because I would most likely force choke him or her. Okay, I wouldn't really. Maybe just dip parts of them in carbonite.

They say that comedy is the hardest form of writing to master, and to some extent whoever "they" are, is right. I've gone back and looked at some of my humor columns over the years. Most are about as funny as a barrel of monkeys. Not the proverbial saying, but an actual barrel of the red plastic  monkeys. Amusing maybe, but not funny. Much like my student's humor. Much like this article; or the one below from my past.

I found this immaculate copy of my 1997 article about cloning for the Eugene Register Guard.
Like the newsprint it was printed on, my humor did not age well.  

"For the love of God, kids--SHUT UP, PLEASE,
and let me DRIVE!"  

But as any comedian or funny person would tell you, the majority of people who make others laugh, for a long time made others groan. My parents had to sit through horribly long car trips while my brother and I entertained ourselves with stupid voices and GIjoe SNL skits. Thinking back, there were a few times I swear my father was reaching back, his fingers holding an invisible cup, twitching, attempting to force stop our stupidity. Sorry Dad.

So maybe it's karma that now I have to deal with these fledgling comedians.  Kids inspired by my own idiocracy, trying to throw a monkey wrench into my lesson plans.  Trying to one-up me on the humor set list. "Don't you know I'm a Jedi, kids?  You're all just nerf herders." Do you think Stormtroopers ever looked at each other and said, "I don't know, DKN-2420, that one with the Harry Potter robe got's a light saber, maybe we shouldn't engage him in combat?"

The lonely life of a Nerf Herder.  

In reality, we're all probably just a bunch of wookies barking some unknown humor dialect to a bunch of weirdos in Jabba's palace. But if one can make Jabba laugh, well, then that should account for something, right?

Humor, besides in relationships, isn't really valued in society. Maybe at the highest levels of creativity, like movies, television, etc., it has value, but to the average Joe, how often has your boss enjoyed your sarcastic comment? How did that prank go over at the construction site Port-A-Potty? (I still remember the co-worker who got fired at Jerry's Home Improvement for picking up the Buck's toilet with his forklift after our yard supervisor went inside...the fired employee thought it was worth it, though). Reality is, most of us spend most of our time holding in that funny innuendo, that gem of a humorous observation, or that hilarious word play joke, because we've learned that it only gets us in more trouble.

"Is Edward here today?  No? what-
ever,  just do questions 8- 243."

And to me, that seems like a shame.

So my questions are, am I doing my students a disservice by teaching them comedic timing in speech and writing? Is it worthwhile to know how to observe the world from a slightly less serious side? Is humor, like a decent singing voice, a skill that has almost no real-life application other than making life briefly happier? Should I even be concerned with their happiness, and focus solely on state standards and universal knowledge truths?  Because if that's true, than I'm going to have to work on my Kristen Stewart "serious" sneer; and I'll be a monkey's uncle before I allow the muffled Twilight jokes snickers of students while I lecture away about the overuse of idioms in bad writing. Sometimes, a teachable moment, is crushing their idea of funny, by SHOWING them a better, more laughable future.

No More Neverland, Time to Return to Normalcy.

I've felt like Peter Pan the last year and half. The rules of society did not apply to me. If I didn't want to work on a given day, I could ignore the phone calls, and stay home in my comfy clothes and live in Neverland and tell these whimsical tales online. I have to admit, I liked it.

Like any good fairy tale, though, it had to end.  The real world came calling, and I have to heed her call. So it's time to leave the land of fairies and daydreams, and fighting shadows of myself, for the daily grind of being a classroom teacher once again. And it's a little bittersweet.

Don't get me wrong. I want to work. I've never been unemployed in my life for longer than a few weeks. And even though I technically wasn't unemployed, as being a substitute teacher is a real job, it just felt like more of an adventure. Every day a new job. Every morning a potentially rude awakening. Everyday new kids, new classrooms, new subjects to pretend to be an expert in.

Being a substitute is a lot like being a leader of the Lost Boys. You can have fun with the kids, and tell funny stories, and make the lesson plan as entertaining as you can, because if you don't those same Lost Boys might turn their swords on you. Remember every substitute you had growing up? Did you respect him or her? Most likely not. So much of substitute teaching is improvising on the run, which can tap-out one's creativity.

How I've always hoped my classes would look (Better Off Dead). 

You can take the Sriracha quiz, buy merchandise, and
enjoy an enteresting and hilarious cartoon
website by visiting theoatmeal.com 

Being a sub isn't easy, but I thought it was.  Perhaps that's because I pride myself on being able to make even the driest, most unexciting lesson plan (like diagraming Finnish sentences, Canadian Parliamentary history, or memorizing the Latin names of Indian Ocean microbes) interesting by adding my personality into the mix.  I like to think of myself as Sriracha sauce in the classroom.

But too much Sriracha sauce will burn your mouth out or give you an ulcer. So having a classroom with the same kids for 18 weeks forces me to go back to a different style of teaching.  I'm fine with that. Large doses of humor, sarcasm, going off on bizarre tangents, pop culture mentions, and pseudo-psychaitry, will have to be stored away for that perfect "teachable moment." They will not be on the everyday menu.

It's fine, I know how to be serious when necessary, so the lessons that the class needs to learn, will be taught the right (effective) way.  I don't want to burn my kids out on fantastical lessons everyday. It's fun to be Pan sometimes, but the real world looks a whole lot more like Wendy's father, George Darling, the crotchety old man.

George tries to make the kids in the nursery grow up faster, by squashing their fairy tale-ish dreams, and make them more practical. It's okay for kids to dream, but it isn't reality, right? Much of George's misgivings about dreaming are derived from the fact that (in the Disney version) he is worried about losing his job...Yes, even in 1940s England, there was a shortage of jobs. Only practical, stern men, whom "children fear, and adults respect" will be successful in the real world. Hard work beats out idealism every time, right?

As an educator, it's a weird position to be in. The dreamer kids are fun to have in class, they often say the right things, and discover new ideas in books and history, and yet when it's time to formulate their thoughts on paper or assignment, they show up missing. They've used up all their pixie dust on ideas, and never got around to putting those ideas into action.

The practical kids never talk. They don't offer anything to the classroom discussions and rarely seem interested in anything happening. But when it comes time to produce, they turn in amazing work. Their essays are organized and well thought out, their projects are well crafted, their time-well spent.  In contrast, the dreamer kid is throwing it all together on the last day.

For me, the goal has always been to merge the dreamer and the rational into one coherent being.  To force my brain to add more synapses between my right and left hemispheres.  To be exciting and creative and thought provoking and funny while at the same time organized and on-time and logical and linear.

We all need a little George Darling
and a little Peter Pan in our lives. 

I fear that this is sadly lacking in youth. The ability to merge these conflicting ideas. Either I'm a math brain, or I'm an art brain, but I'm not both.  To quote Mr. Darling, "poppycock." It just takes a little hope, trust, pixie-dust, and hard work. When push comes to shove, even Peter Pan, one of the most lackadaisical characters in literary history, was able to formulate a plan to defeat Captain Hook.

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Going back to work is a good thing.  But it will slow my blogging, writing, and social mediatizing dramatically.  I've enjoyed the last six months of building a loyal audience. I appreciate you immensely. But I haven't earned any money doing this, either. So, like Mr. Darling, its time to put my dreams of writing slightly off to the side, while I take care of my family.

Do not take this as an admission of giving up. I will forge through this tough market and find an agent/publisher and get my writing out there. Nobody ever forgets about Neverland, nobody ever forgets their dreams. And come hell, high water, or Hook, I will rescue Wendy. (Wendy in this metaphor would be my dream of being an author, although I wouldn't mind rescuing a Wendy's hamburger right now).