Spring Fever

It is truly that time of year. The restlessness has set in and the lack of focus is impacting work. Everyone is suddenly tardy as if there is no concern for consequences. Reports are turned in late – if at all. Patience and respect for others is all but gone and there is the occasional shouting or bitter bite-back talk and sass in the hall. Admin is rarely available to quell any issues, and when they are, even they find a little pushback. Spring fever and the nearness to the end has truly affected everyone. Everyone is ready for summer … and so are the students.

The Reluctant Student

 She is a force to be reckoned with.  She transferred into my class two months after the start of the year , but had no fear. She has a quick tongue and wants nothing more than to let it be known that she is in the room. Unlike the other girls who wear cropped tops or tees that are twisted into a knot in the back to show their waists or shirts that cut wide at the neck to bare their shoulders, she wears long skirts to her ankles and hoodies that hide everything else.  A clear sign that some type of ultra strict religion is involved. I noticed her body turned slightly away from my book display at Halloween where I placed books about the Day of the Dead and Day of the Dead Barbie dolls from my exclusive Barbie doll collection. I removed them and then went further to remove my Harry Potter Collection. She never said they bothered her, but when I pointed out that I sensed her discomfort and had moved them, she grabbed me and gave me the biggest hug.  

My student does not get get grades. Other teachers thought she was a struggling student. I sensed otherwise. She doesn't like to do the work, so she doesn't. It has become a battle of wills. When asked why she doesn't, she says she has to take care of  her four siblings until her mother gets home. When I threatened to email parents of those who had not done their work, she goaded me." Go ahead, she won't answer. She never reads it anyway." She was right. 

I tell her I don't care, I am going to stay on her and not let her fail, and she smiles. But she still did not write the essay.

Every question is answered with negativity. When I ask how was your weekend, or day, or evening, she always says, "Terrible." When I create a silly morning question of the day about which is better, Adidas or Nike, she quips, "Neither, they are an overpriced waste of money."  No matter the discussion, she shouts out the loudest most pessimistic phrase she can muster.

For spring break she complained because her family was going to Peru and that it was going to be horrible while I tried to engage her in conversations about seeing her grandmother to no avail.  

Upon their return from spring break, I circulated around the room to ask my other students how they spent their weekend. She actually said the first positive thing ever. She said it was better than she expected. And when I finally had spoken to every child and returned to my desk, I couldn't believe what I found. I looked up and across the room at her and saw her looking at me side-eyed with a sly little smile on her face.  There in the center, sat the most beautiful hand painted mug from Peru. 

Dawn's Star

As she quietly rose

in the dark,

She reached out 

and turned on 

a small light.

Muted purples and pinks

snaked across the floor

Beneath a wall of

Black blue 

Expanse filled.

A curtain of smokey grey shadows 

Gently took her hand,

helped her rise up,

and hid her

blushed orange body

As she dressed.

Finally,

She took the stage

In her most brilliant yellow,

a vibrance

man could not look upon,

And was a star.

Ocean's Lullaby

As I sit here in my favorite Caribbean getaway, I am drawn to write about the 'sound of the water that softly calls out to me.

Ocean's lullaby

sings us quietly to sleep

music for the soul

o

I Am Back!

Living with two persnickety, attention-seeking discs (C5, C6 and L5,S1) requires careful and thoughtful movements. They will go all out to steal the attention of any extracurricular events going on in your life. You can be preparing to leave for your 10 day dream vacation and dragging your super-stuffed, supersized suitcase out to the car when one or both of them will jump up and down screaming we want to go. Your knees will buckle under the weight of them, your body will do a momentary spasmic dance, and your vocal chords will chime in with a soprano-like call and response. 

You call out, "Ah!"

Your spouse responds, "Are you okay?"  

Because you are not canceling your vacation, you breathlessly lie, "Yes, I'm fine," and resign yourself to bringing the duo along. 

Then, you engage the emergency tactical disc car entry protocol: Sitting Help Intervention Technique (S.H.I.T). You turn your body sideways, back up to the open car door, carefully sit, and gently lift one leg, then the other before slowly turning in the seat to face forward and begin to dig in your purse for a naproxen.  

Not Too Long

 I'm writing  to acknowledge the receipt of a comment that renewed my faith in writing. I write long. Some would say too long. Okay that would be my husband. But I do feel sometimes that we are being forced to write shorter and shorter pieces, while mine seem to be getting longer and longer. As I wrapped up my short attempt yesterday, I realized it had become my longest one yet, and I had resigned myself to knowing that no one would take the time to read it. As it turned out, not only was it read, that person left very kind remarks and it was clear that they did not merely scan it, she had read the entire entry, She renewed my faith in readers. I had been focusing on how to cut it back without losing the integrity of my writing, and now I know that I do not have to. 

The Seasoned Educator

The older teacher arrives at school, a tad bit late, but before the bell. She moves slower these days and either cannot move fast enough to get out of the house on time, keeps going back for things she has forgotten like her i.d. or car keys, or simply doesn't care. Making a cup of coffee for the road outweighs the expectation of a prompt arrival by a landslide. Besides, she ponders, what are they going to do, (while we are in this era of teacher shortage) fire me? She giggles to herself at the joke based on a reality of after having spent the entire last year mentoring a brand new English teacher and creating sub plans for the constantly rotating substitutes for the other four classes.

She places her car in park and leans across the middle console to grab her puffy lunch bag overflowing with extra cookie filled containers for her co-workers, a Walmart bag of Jolly Ranchers and Dum Dums for the Kahoot game, and her giant purse jingling with a collection of keys carabiner-ed on and dangling off the side. It is also filled with candy: Smarties and peppermints for her own consumption.  

She pulls, and it tugs back. 

Somehow the strap has gotten tangled around the head of her umbrella and no yanking in the world will release it. So she gracelessly hefts her body across the console and around the tall cup of piping hot coffee in the center cupholder daring her to make a wrong move. Her legs jut outside the car. The cold rain splatter her bare ankles. She stretches and scootches until her finger tips finally reach the umbrella and free it from the space between the door and the seat. Could she have easily gotten out and walked around the car to free it. Yes. But why when you can start the day with yoga-like stretches to get the juices going. 

She climbs out of her car, situates the bags and the coffee, and lifts the umbrella as she starts to traverse the parking lot in the cold dismal rain when she spots a young girl off in the distance "nakedly" clad in a cropped top and short shorts. There is no umbrella, no jacket, no hat. She has her arms wrapped around her mid area protecting or warming herself as she trudged slowly and miserably along. The teacher realizes this student, who is not hers, still has to walk the length of the building to the student entrance on the other side. She runs over, careful not to drop the coffee, and gives the child her umbrella. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith," she says with a genuine and very grateful smile. They all seem to know her name, though she only knows those of her own.

"You're welcome. Just drop it off in the office," she calls over her shoulder as she sprints for the nearest door, which happens to be the morning holding area -- the gymnasium where the other 300 or so sixth graders are waiting to be released to the locker area.

She weaves between bodies, bumping a few with her bags before hearing a boy pleading with some young teacher to be allowed to go to the lockers early to drop off his cardboard. Upon reaching the doorway, she sees him. The tiniest little fellow, a sixth grader whose body has forsaken him by taking its own sweet time to grow, is holding a display board taller than him by an inch and triple his width. Where do you even buy anything like that? she wondered before approaching him and prying it from his grasp.

"Who is your teacher?" 

"It's Mr. K.," a relieved munchkin. "Thank you."

"Ok, I'll put it in his room." 

She, now, with the skill of an acrobatic juggling act, balances in one hand the three bags and the coffee, (careful not to spill a drop) and carries the huge display board down the hall before pausing to shout back, "Hey, what's your name? I will put it on the sticky note for your teacher."

"Cayden!" he shouted back.

"Okay." 

It's always "Cayden." They are always busy, needy little fellows she thought.

After dropping off the board with Mr. K, and then stopping to open up her own room while carefully setting down her coffee, she heads out into the locker area to yell at children: "Keep it moving." "Keep your hands to yourself!" "Stop running!" "Hey, you dropped something!" "Get to class!" No, it is not her duty; hers is in the afternoon, but the dean needs help, and the 300 plus will never make it to class without the supervision. The teachers whose duty it is to be there are never anywhere to be seen. They don't have the stomach for it. 

As she stands there barking orders at those who need the cattle prod and giving greetings and acknowledgments to those who need the love, all the while getting bumped and stepped on, a new young teacher creeps out of her den to make a last minute dash to the restroom (their bladders are still in training). Suddenly, the crowd goes wild and the students come alive and are screaming and yelling "Hi Ms. - (pick a name)" like she is a superstar celebrity, and they are paparazzi. 

It's okay though. The seasoned educator is not jealous. The neophyte needs the love to make her feel good and confident as a new teacher. And the older teacher revels in the fact that she secretly knows it is only because the newbie will play Roblox and Blooket against them, and understands their slang, and their jokes, and has more patience for noise, and will tolerate more tomfoolery. Heck, she would have been the vet's favorite teacher ,too... if her teachers behaved that way -- they didn't. 

She knows she's loved in a different way. All she has to do is miss one day of school for a doctor's appointment, and she is suddenly interrogated by 75 nosey 11 year olds to ascertain why she was absent. And,... it helps that know her grades are always a little bit higher on assessments.