Authors: John Pearson
If Katie is the ray of sunshine, then the new kid I got today is the flashlight beam through murky water.
Ever since school started, I’ve been hearing about this new kid that I was supposed to get named Kevin. He’s a special ed kid, so Ms. Hamm and Miss Knox have been coordinating things and heralding his arrival.
First, it was, “Kev will be here on Thursday.” Then, “Kevin will be here next Tuesday.” Finally, “We’re really not sure why Kev isn’t here yet.”
At long last, Kevin showed up today. I saw the new kid in my line this morning, and I greeted him warmly with the name I had heard most often. “Hi! You must be Kev!”
DaQuayvius immediately corrected me – “It’s Kevin!”
I sometimes think DaQuayvius must have thirty fingers, because he seems to have a finger in everyone’s business. No doubt he knows Kevin’s entire life story after spending a mere twenty minutes with him in the gym.
I gave DaQuayvius a quick stink eye then asked the new boy, “What do you prefer to be called, Kevin or Kev?”
He mulled it over then answered, “Well, sometimes people call me Kevin, and some people call me Kev. But my real name is Anferny. My mom just likes how Kevin sounds.”
Not once had I heard the name “Anferny” mentioned in any discussions about this kid, so I had my suspicions. I asked him, “So what should I call you – Kevin or Kev?”
He replied, “Anferny.”
OK, we have a winner. For the next thirty minutes, I called him Anferny. “Anferny, do you have a pencil?” “Anferny, come and get a math journal.” “Did you learn how many cents are in a dollar at your old school, Anferny?”
At about half past eight, Miss Knox dropped by to see how the new kid was doing. When I told her about the name change, her mouth dropped, and she took “Anferny” out into the hallway to speak with him. A couple of minutes later, they came back into my classroom, and the little boy said to me with a sheepish grin, “You can call me Kev now.”
Oooooookay...
If this happens again tomorrow, I’m going to make an executive decision and start calling him Doofenshmirtz.
After helping “Kev” with his identity crisis this morning, it seemed a little anti-climactic that our after school staff meeting would be all about the Campus Crisis Plan. Back in mid-August, we were each given a document roughly the size of the Greater Chicago Area phone directory and told to memorize it. This document was the Crisis Plan, and in brief, it tells us what to do in the case that a crazed gunman or bomb-toting maniac wanders into our school. Basically, we lock the doors, pull the blinds, and cower beneath our desks. Oh, and we are also supposed to slide a special green laminated card under our door into the hallway, telling everyone that we are A-OK.
Not surprisingly, many of us were wondering just who was going to see that sign, if we were all locked in our rooms. Are we putting out the sign for the benefit of the maniac stalking the halls? If so, should it really be the green sign, or the red “All is NOT OK” card? Or do we slide out the green one, and then once the maniac starts trying to break down our door, slide out the red one – real subtle-like?
In order to test our new knowledge, we played a mock version of Jeopardy. Hopefully, I am not the only one who saw the irony in this.
Not that it’s a bad idea to have a crisis plan on hand. It might have been nice to have one at HPU that time the guy crashed his cocaine-laden SUV into the corner of our offices and then ran off into the sand pit next door. Though it was exciting for all of us to stand around on the delivery dock in back watching the police search the area with dogs and helicopters, I think that if there had been a crisis plan in place, you never would have dared me to rip my shirt off and run wildly across the parking lot. Of course, if I had taken your dare, I doubt I would be here writing you this email right now.
I might instead be trying to convince some scary person that my name really is Anferny as I subtly slide a red laminated card under the door.
See ya later,
Dan Jerzone
Absolutely, I hope and pray that nothing of the sort ever happens here at my school. But there are whackjobs all around us, and it doesn’t hurt to be aware of such things. Just to clarify, though, the crisis plan is meant to deal with major incidents at the school. Antonio disappearing in the bathroom for half an hour, while challenging, doesn’t really qualify as a crisis.
A different type of problem is the clothing crisis I see going on around me. I had to ask Mrs. Fitzgerald today why she clearly has not yet had a discussion with her students about acceptable and unacceptable attire. One of her kids was wearing a sweatshirt today, and what bothered me wasn’t just the fact that he was wearing it outside, even though the temperature hasn’t dipped below 95 degrees yet. By now, I’m used to seeing kids run around the playground on a 100 degree day bundled up like they’re shoplifting from Burlington Coat Factory.
What irritated me was that this was a University of North Carolina sweatshirt.
I’ve never really understood why UNC gear is so universally popular. Maybe it’s because Michael Jordan went there? Or Vince Carter for the younger generation? I’m guessing it’s not for love of Ed Cota or Serge Zwikker. But whatever the reason, I used to see kids wearing UNC’s baby blue all the time before the district implemented a dress code.
Whenever I saw a child wearing UNC apparel, I said a silent prayer for the child’s soul, but I generally let it go at that. I don’t want to scar any kids’ psyches after all. I remember all too well a disturbing incident from when I was a child myself.
I’m originally from the Washington, DC area, and I was raised as a Redskins fan. When I was around seven years old, I was at a bowling alley here in Texas with my parents, proudly wearing my burgundy Redskins jacket. I remember this big guy, obviously a Cowboys fan, walking by and saying, “Hey kid! Com’ere and gimme that jacket so I can flush it down the toilet!”
If I had been five or six years older, I might have pointed out to him the finer points of fluid dynamics and plumbing, in order to make him aware that his proposed action was not completely practical. However, as a seven-year-old, I was too concerned with his size, the inherent threat of his slurred statement, and the odd aroma of old bread and raisins arising from his personage.
I’m not ever going to threaten to flush a kid’s sweatshirt. But I AM glad that I’m tempted far less often since the dress code was implemented this year. All elementary students now wear a white collared shirt and navy or tan slacks, shorts, or skirt. The white shirt looks nice in the morning but then winds up looking like a Twister mat after lunch, with Hot Cheeto stains, fruit juice spills, and nacho cheese flavor pockets.
At first, I didn’t really think a dress code was necessary. It’s certainly possible that having to wear identical outfits has narrowed the gap between the haves and the have-nots, but probably not, since there really aren’t many haves at my school. I don’t remember anyone flaunting their Versace, their Dolce and Gabbana, or even their LeTigre in the past.
I don’t recall any insults or arguments relating to clothing back then, either. I would have remembered hearing a child taunt a classmate with, “Ha! Your T-shirt is an unflattering shade of red!”
Maybe the problem was more rampant at other schools throughout the district, and that’s what necessitated the change.
Kids can still find ways to insult each other even within the confines of a dress code, though. When I was in elementary school, we had a uniform, and even though we were all wearing basically the same thing, I guess my pants were a little too short. The other kids called them “high waters.” I can still remember classmates pointing at me and jeering, “You expecting a flood?”
I should have just waited until I saw one of those kids wearing a T-shirt in February and retorted, “Oh yeah? You expecting unseasonably warm temperatures before Spring?”
Again, I’m not aware of these specific problems at my school. I will say, though, one great thing about having a dress code is that I don’t have to worry about my students coming in wearing sweatpants with the word, “Juicy” stitched across their rear end. I never understood why any parent would let their child go to school wearing something like that (why not save it for Grandma’s 80th birthday party?), but then I’m amazed by a lot that kids encounter at home, including their own parents’ personal dress code.
Miss Rooker, our school counselor, told me a story several years ago about a visit she made to a student’s home. The mother of the student answered the door wearing a T-shirt and flip-flops – and nothing else. The woman was not wearing anything from the waist down!
I told Miss Rooker that would have been the perfect time to use the phrase, “I find your lack of pants disturbing.”
But I ask you, how can a child NOT be majorly screwed up when there is such blatant “Porky Pigging” going on at home?
Having a dress code does create a brand new set of rules to enforce. Occasionally, kids have been sent home for being out of uniform, but that usually only happens if the principal spots it. Every once in a while, one of my kids will show up in a white T-shirt or non-regulation pants, but I’m not planning on sending anyone home for it. I’ve heard priests say that they’re not going to dismiss anyone from Mass for their clothing because they would rather have them there at church, regardless of wardrobe. I feel the same way about the kids and school. With a few notable exceptions, I’d rather have them in class than make them miss a day just because of their outfit.
My biggest challenge now is the rule that all students must have their shirts tucked in. Most kids think that a tucked-in shirt makes them look dorky, while I happen to feel that a kid wearing a shirt that goes down to his knees looks like he should be carrying a cleaver and a freshly cut slab of beef.
Quite often, when I ask a child to tuck his shirt in, he only tucks it in in the front, leaving the back and sides hanging out. THAT doesn’t look dorky?
The Battle of the Tuck is an uphill struggle because somehow these shirts always manage to untuck themselves about five minutes after being tucked in. Last week, I made up a couple of names to go with the shirt status. A kid with his shirttail out is now “Slobby McSlopslop,” while one with his shirttail in is “Spiffy McNeato.” I can go down the line in my class and say, “Hi, Spiffy!” or, “Hey, Slobby!” and the kids know exactly what I’m talking about.
Truth be told, I can’t say that this has caused the kids to tuck in their shirts any more than they did before. But it does add a little humor to the situation, and the children laugh as they tuck their shirts in (and then untuck them as soon as my back is turned). Now I just have to deal with the Talky McBlabbermouths, the Snitchy McTattletales, and the Burpy McFlatulents.
Later,
The Shirttail Vigilante
I really don’t see how you can say you don’t understand my gag-factor with Carolina blue. You know how Carol’s cubicle is all decorated in Aggie swag (Swaggie?), and how she always wears maroon tops? You know how that always annoys you because you don’t like A&M? Yeah, that’s it exactly.
Oh, and if you could get a picture of Larry wearing “Juicy” sweatpants, I would pay good money for that. The Photoshop possibilities are virtually limitless.
This morning, I was checking the backs of the kids’ homeworks to make sure they had shown their work. We’ve been doing place value charts – ones, tens, hundreds – for every problem. Most of the kids had done this as they were supposed to. “Most” unfortunately would not include Franco.
Glancing at the back of his paper, I saw no work whatsoever. Before I could even ask him where his place value charts were, he excitedly pronounced, “I did it a different way!”
He was really proud of himself, too, as if he had just discovered particle theory on his own.
I might not have been as gentle as I could have been when I pointed out to him that merely filling in an answer bubble was not really considered a “way,” per se.
I did teach the kids “the way” to do a science experiment this week. We did a project called the Bubble Gum Lab, and we finished it today. In addition to the fact that it was listed on our curriculum planning guide, I thought it was important to conduct this experiment because of this question that popped up on last year’s science benchmark test:
“Mrs. Cassidy’s class was conducting a bubble gum experiment. They wanted to see what would happen to the mass of a piece of bubble gum when it is chewed. What is the best hypothesis for this experiment?
A) the mass of the bubble gum will increase.
B) the mass of the bubble gum will decrease.
C) the mass of the bubble gum will stay the same.
D) the mass of the bubble gum will change color.”
I might not have gotten the wording of the question exactly right, but it did basically boil down to, “Which of these is the best hypothesis?”
Now, help me out here, buddy – check my science – but I’m pretty sure that when it comes to hypotheses, there are no better or worse. A hypothesis is merely a prediction that you hope to prove or disprove over the course of your experiment. If you already knew what was going to happen, you wouldn’t be making a hypothesis – you would be stating a conclusion or a fact.
For example, “Five kids will ask to use the restroom within the next 20 minutes” – hypothesis.
“Chicks dig calculator watches” – fact.
So tell me if you disagree, but it seems to me that this is a horrendous question. Since I am merely a commonplace third grade teacher (i.e., lowly peon), no one who actually writes these tests listens or responds when I bring this up.
Therefore, I decided that my kids should definitely have the experience and know the conclusion, just in case this awful question rears its head once again on this year’s benchmark. Teaching to the test? Absolutely guilty. At least the kids got some hands-on experience, though.