…the sole two third-graders to whom you were imparting your pedagogical wisdom were passing notes the entire time—and actually got away with it.
A sign that you’re teaching in Simsbury: rather than getting pissed, you find yourself beaming at their cordiality.
In culmination of Teacher Appreciation Week, I discovered a potted kalanchoe plant on my desk. (Well, technically, it’s a table, but one can always dream.) It was from Connor, a sixth-grader who remembered every single one of us who contributed to his instruction in some way this year: his math, language arts, science, social studies, homeroom, art, music and gym teachers, all the way down to little ol’ me, who tortures him with fractions, decimals and percents for but one measly hour each week.
I thought about how he must’ve carried that tray full of plants down the long stretch of hallway, his empty-handed peers snickering the words “suck-up” and “kiss-ass,” while he kept his chin up and delivered those plants to the people in his life who were truly making a difference.
It really got me to thinking. I can say whatever I want about my childhood, but take it from Connor: it must really, REALLY suck to be the vice principal’s son.
Me: “…and if you fill up the whole chart, you get a prize!”
Lucky: “What kind of prize?”
Me: “Well, you can pick. I’ve got Rubik cube pencils, Japanese erasers, Slinkies, glow-in-the-dark super balls, –”
Lucky: “I need some new games for my Xbox.”
Me: “Sorry, I don’t have anything for Xboxes.”
(Another kid, who snapped to attention for the first time all morning): “Did you say you’re giving away Xboxes?”
Me: “Ha! If only they paid me that kind of money!”
The next day…
Lucky: “Hey, Ms. L.! You owe me big time.”
Me: “Why?”
Lucky: “I told (Mr. Vice Principal) you were complaining that he doesn’t pay you enough. He said he was going to talk to you. I think he’s going to give you a raise!”
Funny, but it’s been a whole week, and the only raise I’ve seen has been in my blood pressure.
Today I rounded the corner of my office, where I tutor kids for math, and discovered two sixth-graders, drawing the most intricately pornographic image I’d ever seen on my whiteboard. I stood in the doorway and cleared my throat.
They turned around and looked surprised.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
The kid with the marker in his hand went from surprised to confused.
“Don’t stand there looking so innocent,” I said. “You don’t think I know what that is?”
“I was just showing him where I’m going for spring break,” he said.
“Oh, really? I don’t know where your parents take you on vacation, but I want it off my whiteboard. I have a bunch of first-graders coming in here any minute now. What do you think your parents say about this?”
“But they’re the ones who showed me how to draw it,” he insisted.
As of this time tomorrow, the boy and his family will be looking at palm trees, while I stare baffled at a map of the United States, wondering how I never noticed how phallic our Sunshine State really is.
When it comes right down to it, you can take the teacher out of Hartford, but you can’t take the Hartford out of the teacher.