Today, I stayed after and got the majority of my remaining things out of Room 200 and into Room 215, which is not to say that they're at all organized once they arrive there. Two of my students stayed after (read: were persuaded by the promise of service learning hours) to help me set up my desktop computer. We were going to attempt to set up some student computers, as well, but weren't able to find the necessary parts in the "computer graveyard" to make that happen. Ah, well.

One of these students is an absolute favorite of mine, though he is ... shall we say ... a challenge. During the course of our afternoon's labors, our special education inclusion teacher stopped by and said, "You know, Miz __, your class is the only one John* is doing well in." (Meanwhile, C.J.* was with John at my desk, busily plugging away.) Firstly, and I wasn't going to get into this with Mrs. __, but John is NOT doing well in my class, unless by "well" you mean persistently avoiding work and being on constant walkabout in the room. And secondly, what business do we have discussing such things openly in front of C.J., who, by the way, is an IEP student? Had we been discussing C.J., I'm sure our special education teacher would have felt some qualms, but as it stands, I got very annoyed on John's behalf.

Now John was one of my problems earlier today, and in fact he and I had a little chat about what we could do to help him get his work done. Coach class? Private tutoring with someone else? Seat separation? More work? Less work? Any way you look at it, I've got to have a conference with his parents, and soon. Frankly, I just don't know what to do with him. He's an artistic genius, and fabulous at getting technical things to work. His mind is sharp, too. (He picked up a giant historical fiction novel once that I had left out on my desk - a book that I was reading in my spare time - and asked if he could have it for his independent reading.) I know that he's really into history because he seemed very interested when I mentioned the possibility of his helping me to lead a National History Day project group. When it comes to my coursework, (or anyone else's, for that matter) I'm baffled. I truly don't know how to get him to do his work. HELP, O muse of teacher inspiration. Or, barring that, HELP, O muse of "momma's gonna open up a can of whoop-a** if John doesn't do his work."

I hate to go there, but go there I shall.

"Put up or shut up."

That isn't *precisely* what my principal told me today when he told me that with smaller class sizes, he wanted to see me take better charge of the learning environment and ensure that learning does, indeed, happen. I knew something like this would happen, of course: for weeks, I've been saying to him and anyone who would listen that the biggest problem I've had was class size. There were too many ringleaders, too many IEPs, too many non-responsive students and far too many walkabouts and petty fights.

Today, my new colleague, my principal, and I met to finalize our suggested new class lists. Of course, I couldn't simply hold on to every student I like, though not all of them are top students, academically. We decided to place academic and behavioral "anchors" in each class, as well as (of course) splitting up obvious disciplinary problems involving students who can't stand each other or like each other just a little bit too much.

Here's praying that it works. Dear Lord, give us some PEACE and let us teach these your children.

"What do you do in your free time?"

FABulous question. What do I do? I ... uh ... I watch "La Femme Nikita," "Alias," or "Lost." I bake things for my students or walk the aisles of our local grocery store pretending that I'm NOT hoping to bump into that tall, dark, and handsome stranger I danced with once upon a dream.

I do not go to the gym.

I rarely read for pleasure, as articles on curriculum, instruction, assessement, or discipline monopolize my reading. Tonight, I will spend my evening organizing the STACKS of papers I've got piled up, and hopefully doing some laundry. Tomorrow, my roomie's parents will be in town and I think we'll go out to dinner with them, but that's about as exciting as it gets.

I signed up for the Charm City Swing group recently at the Fells Point Festival, but I'm not sure my back can handle the excitement. Officially speaking, since my skiing accident last January, I've not been allowed to run, jump, dance, or do just about anything exciting.

I eat candy and chocolate and everything else I've bought to bribe my students into doing some work. I repeat, I do NOT go to the gym.

I also do not sleep very well. I feel old, boring, and lonesome. Hopefully this funk will end soon as I begin to attend my church's small group and figure out a way to get into my gym routine again. Twice in the past two weeks, I made an effort: I wore some makeup and put on some snazzy (relatively speaking) clothes. Immediately, my students began asking the inevitable questions, such as, "Ooh Miz ___, you goin' to see your MAN?!" I didn't know how to respond, so I simply implemented the patented "Rock eyebrow," which used to be MY eyebrow before a man who refers to himself as a stone patented it. Hmpf.

So to answer my university supervisor's question: What do I do when I am not teaching? Nothing terribly exciting. I have truly become Miz Teacher Lady, and that thought terrifies me.

New Teacher, Part Two.

Ms. Miracle New Teacher (which I do not mean facetiously, only in reference to her arrival being a miracle) is somewhat of a challenge to me. She has turned me into the "master teacher" (HA.) as I try to cram all of my Summer Institute training and first month's experience into a few after-school "how to be a teacher" sessions. As neither one of us studied education at university, we find ourselves entirely unprepared to be educators in a school so wholly unlike our own educational experiences in European or Middle-class American elementary and secondary schools, let alone like our university experience.

More than anything, I find it annoying that her presence points out to me all my failures. The times I've had to confess things like "yeah, you're supposed to document that, but half the time, I don't," are beginning to add up. I can see in her eyes the same zeal I had a little over a month ago, though I believe the past three days have been a baptism of sorts. Her "trial by fire" came directly with the students she'd be teaching; mine came with two small groups of rising sixth graders at a different school. Whereas I studied my "cooperating teacher" this summer and noted all the things she did that our New Teacher Institute manual said not to do. (I saw, with glee, how much an example of the "don't do this" school of education she was, and how much better off we were because we had already learned everything we needed.)

Let's just say that I'd like to go back to speak to my previous summer self. Or, more likely, to slap some sense into her.

Today I was ill, and not a little bit tired and worn out from all the crying and whining I did yesterday (see the "I hate them" series.) Frankly, I would have gone home if I hadn't known that the school would not find a substitute and would instead simply stick my poor new teacher into those rooms by herself. Being (as she would be) without a lesson plan, as completing my emergency lesson plans is another area in which I have failed completely, she would no doubt run out the door and never return. And who would blame her? And so I stayed, at first wishing death to every student saw who I thought might potentially have been the one who damaged my car. Then, gradually, I let go of some of the anger and returned to the purpose at hand, though I can honestly say that I still wasn't terribly motivated to be there. I was ill and annoyed and tired, and nearly fainted a few times. (Couldn't figure that one out until later ... and no, I'm not pregnant.) I wound up nearly falling asleep at the wheel on the way home and thought it best not to go to my university classes, though I REALLY could have used the venting session. Maybe that was for the best, too. Here's hoping that the new teacher and I survive this coming week. Between student unrest, illness, and teacher troubles (remind me to tell you about my team's lack of TEAMness later) we'll be thrilled to see Saturday.

Part two of the "I hate them" series. I apologize for that wee tirade (you should have heard the one I gave in person to any and all who would listen), but then again my university supervisor has very wisely said that I should give myself permission to feel whatever I'm feeling.

She's right. So here it is; this is what I'm feeling: I hate them because they have no respect. I hate them because they touch my things and break them without any chance of getting them replaced. (Before breaking those things - and here I'm speaking of an expensive super-duper stapler/staple gun - they also use them as weapons against one another, projectile-launching staples at each other's heads.)

I hate them, and I'm hurt by them because they took the bamboo plants my roommate had given me (ostensibly to bring calm, peace, and good fortune to my new classroom) and snapped one of them in two. I hate them because, like this, they thwart every effort I make to bring something nice or good or beautiful their way.

My best-laid plans are laid waste when I can never get them to shut their mouths long enough to get the directions they'll need to do Cool Group Project A, so I stop making such plans - which of course only worstens the situation. I am overrun day after day by voices shouting and clamoring, each one with a dire emergency (they are about to wet themselves, about to kill someone and need to be put out, or - and this is my favorite - they conveniently "forgot" something they'll need for their lesson, such as a notebook or a pen - in someone else's classroom).

They have no respect for property when it belongs to someone else (a neighbor, the school, ME) yet seem to have no problem understanding basic KINDERGARTEN principles such as "this is mine" when someone ELSE takes their pen, which is the sort of emergency that always requires my personal attention and almost always leads to fighting. These little firecrackers don't have a short fuse, they have no fuse.

They are selfish, vain, vile-tempered, foul-mouthed, materialistic, and cruel. They lack any sense of pity for their fellow students, but are easily bruised themselves. They show love or affection by fighting. Often, it begins "harmlessly" enough with punches to the arm, but almost immediately escalates.

Most importantly (for me), they simply don't want to learn what it is I'm required to teach them. I don't really want to get into all that right now, because I'm still ticked about MY CAR, which has a ginormous dent in it now from some student either punching, kicking, or throwing something at it. Do I have proof? No, not really, but I just know.

So I'm going to go vent to my principal now and hope that something can be done insurance-wise, because I have no way to pay for this mess otherwise, and it really annoys me that my car has to look like *&$% because some little punk thought it would make a good target.

I hate them. Those are my first "words of wisdom" today, after having had what was quite possibly the worst day of teaching I've had yet. I hate them.

How am I supposed to teach children that I can't stand? They consume, they destroy, they forget, they lose, they break, they scribble, they tear, they punch, they kick, they scream obscenities. Even those who "love" me are fickle in their love.

New Teacher.

A few weeks ago, when I sat talking over burritos with my school's principal about the possibility of our getting a second seventh-grade English teacher, I must confess that it seemed like a pipe dream at best, a delusional fantasy at worst. More money? For another teacher? Yeah, right, like that would ever happen.

When she materialized the Friday before last, and turned out to be a wonderful human being sitting in Principal _'s Office, I was delighted. She came in that following Friday to introduce herself to the classes, and we came in over the weekend to set up our new rooms. (Part of the deal would be that I would move my classroom out of cushy 200 to slightly less-cushy and somewhat natty and previously unoccupied 215 so that I could be right next door to her classroom (the also previously unoccupied 214).

Unfortunately, it was decided that it was too early to decide which way to split the classes, a fact of which I was only informed AFTER having moved the vast majority of my things out of large, roomy, and already set-up Rm. 200. Good old Room 200 - though it was a bit long, and the two-door thing drove me up the wall, I miss it already. At the very least, it had a snazzy paint job.

Let's see what this week brings, as I'm sure the students will be very upset and up at arms about the changes in rooms and teachers that are coming their way.