The Hardest Thing about Teaching

I recently found out that one of my favorite students from last year (let's call her Karen here) is pregnant.

Some of my kids this year were talking about how they never see one of their friends anymore, since he dropped out, got his GED, and started working. I like to try to get to know my students as much as I can, and so I asked them more about the situation.

"Ever since he knocked up his girlfriend, Karen Jones, he ain't been around."

As soon as I heard the name, my heart sank a little. Karen was by no means the brightest student in my class, but she was a really sweet girl, she worked hard, and I liked her a lot. In fact, she was one of the people I was most looking forward to seeing at graduation, and the one I was most disappointed with not running into. Now I know why she wasn't there.

It's not that I think Karen will be a bad mother; honestly, if any 18 year old girl is capable of being a good mother, Karen is probably the most likely candidate. She is likely to have the support of her family, she is compassionate and interested, and she is a genuinely good person interested in the welfare of the world. I am just sad for her and all the things that I feel that she will now probably be forced to miss out on in her life. She showed some interest in traveling - she asked me about places I'd been and places I wanted to go, asked what kinds of things you can do and learn abroad. It seems unlikely that an unwed teenage mom with a boyfriend with a GED will get to see much of the U.S., let alone Europe or Asia. Her chances of going to college and enriching herself through education seem slim. I also got the impression that Karen was a little bit more sophisticated and cosmopolitan than many of her classmates, and I had hopes that she would be able live a life that satisfied that part of her. While it's not set in stone, I kind of get the feeling that where she is now will kind of be her life from here on out. I'm glad that her boyfriend has not abandoned her and is fulfilling his responsibilities and taking ownership, but I also feel bad for him. I don't really know the kid, but I think it's probably safe to say that "be a father" wasn't on his list of things to do before turning 18.

I've wondered if it would be appropriate for me to contact my former student and say something to her. Like I said, she was definitely one of my favorites, and I want to make sure that she's doing alright. I could imagine her not dealing with the stresses of pregnancy and the prospect of the rest of her life so well. But honestly, I wouldn't know what to say. First of all, I haven't talked to the girl in 7 months. More importantly, it's not like there is anything I can really do - What I want to do is express sympathy, but that doesn't really seem appropriate. Maybe she is excited at the prospect of being a mom, and even if she isn't, it certainly won't help anything for me to tell her that I'm sorry this thing happened to her and that her life may as well be over. I'm sure that's too cynical a view - there is plenty of time left in her young life to enjoy many things in this world, but she won't have the opportunities that she might have had otherwise. I feel like any effort I might make to reach out would be at best patronizing, and at worst implying that her pregnancy is some sort of curse.

The thing I really love about my job is also turning out to be something that will probably be really hard in my life. I have the pleasure of meeting and getting to know all of these really great kids. They become a part of my life, and hopefully I become a part of theirs. It's gratifying to hear a student say that something I did in class influenced his or her life. It feels wonderful.

But this situation also highlights the fact that after a short time, these kids are gone from my life, just as I am gone from theirs. I would love to keep in touch with all of them, but the fact is I have trouble remembering the names of kids I taught less than two years ago. Of course, some stick out - there are students like Karen that I will probably remember for the rest of my life, but even with those students, I may never have any contact with them again. Memories are great, but it's difficult to realize that most of these great people I work with every day are just fleeting parts of my life.

I genuinely like my students; even the ones that are a pain in the ass in class have positive qualities, and nearly all of them are people that I really enjoy getting to know. I dislike the fact that in 5 years I probably won't have a clue what is going on in most of their lives. Of course, it would be entirely unreasonable to expect that I would be a big part of every kid's life for the rest of his life, but that's kind of what a part of me wishes sometimes. I look back and remember my teachers, and I wonder how many of them remember me. I wonder if they want to remember me. If it would feel good to know what all of their former students are up to, or if it would just be too overwhelming to try to keep up with that amount of information. Practicality limits what we can know, but I think that I would love to be able to keep tabs on 20 years of students, and continue to have personal relationships with all of them.

I hope Karen is doing alright now, I hope that she does alright in the future, and that all of my students have long and fulfilling lives. I want the best for every single one of them, because I get to know them in a way so much more personal than I ever thought that I would. I hope that some of them decide to stay in touch, that I continue to have such an interest in their development, and that they can remember something that I taught them. I hope they remember that I cared about them when they were in my room, and that they know I keep caring about them after they leave. I hope that my students live lives that influence others to do good, and that they feel as fulfilled by whatever they choose to do as I do by teaching.

Greatest Hits, Volume 1

I spent some time today going through the archives of a blog I used to contribute to with some folks I graduated with. It was meant as sort of a support group for new teachers - it was great, and I really enjoyed reading about all the insanity that the people in our profession deal with on a daily basis. I'm a little bummed that it's died down, but I guess now that we are a bit more experienced, we might not need the support as much.

Anyway, I wanted to share one of the posts I wrote for that site here. It is, without a doubt, my strangest teacher story to date. Part of me kind of wants something else this batshit crazy to come along and rival it, but I'm terrified of what that could be.

So I now present, in all its glory:

The Rat Incident

Working with 9th graders, you sort of begin to expect outlandish things. Students shout out at each other across the room like vikings in a mead hall; they try to escape from the classroom, squirming through a barely open door like a cat slipping under a fence; God help you if a bee flies in through an open window - you might as well be in the middle of Tokyo as Godzilla approaches.

In my short month and a half working with freshmen, I have seen mayhem. I see mayhem everyday, I expect mayhem. That could not prepare me for The Rat Incident.

I don't know how these students get out of class so easily, but everyday my class is visited by escapees from other teachers. This usually plays out with my pushing them out into the hallway and closing the door in the wayward student's face. On this particular Thursday, though, things went a little differently.

I was enjoying the relative quiet of my classroom sounding only about as loud as a 747's engine room, as opposed to the inside-the-space-shuttle's-rocket-chamber sound to which I am accustomed, as my students were working on writing a memoir. All of that changed when my class received a visitor.

"Yo, Ike, you want some of these fries?" the mystery student asked, handing Isaiah a styrofoam takeout container.

"Hell yes, motherflipper!" said Isaiah, taking the container from his friend, using the parlance of the student told not to swear in class.

As I was getting up to remove the interloper, I was distracted by Isaiah's jumping and screaming, as if he had just heard a gunshot. 

Well, Isaiah screamed and jumped like I would have if I heard a gunshot, but since my students are usually the ones perpetrating the shootings around here, they might react differently.

By the time I got to Isaiah, the gift-giver was gone, running off down the hall. When I looked in the box, I immediately understood what had so shocked my student. In the styrofoam container was a large, dead rat caught in one of those sticky traps that gets the rat's fur so matted and tangled that there is no hope of ever removing it from its tiny cardboard coffin.

"Ugh, that's disgusting, Isaiah. Go throw it away. Outside."

Isaiah is the type of student who doesn't like to be told what to do, and so even a reasonable request, such as throwing away the disease-ridden corpse of a dead rodent, can become a source of disagreement.

I saw a dead rat and a room full of squeamish 14 year old girls. Isaiah saw a dead rat and a room full of squeamish 14 year old girls. And a chance.

This is when things started to get out of hand. Isaiah started chasing the girls around the room with the rat. Girls were jumping on desks, screaming in voices so loud and shrill that they would drown out air raid sirens. I had 12 girls rushing from one side of the room to the other, knocking over desks and each other, all in pursuit of a safety that did not exist. A place where their classmate would not follow. Luckily, we only had about 5 minutes left in school, and so it was time for students to go to their lockers and get their things ready to go to the bus. This was a perfect way to get Isaiah and the rat out of my classroom, and to a trashcan.

Taking this opportunity, I allowed everyone into the hall and directed Isaiah to a trashcan. Unfortunately, he took this opportunity to chase around those girls who he was not able to terrorize in class. He even chased a teacher around with it.

It was about this time that Isaiah had an absolutely brilliant idea:

"Hey, I should go get Mr. C with this."

Mr. C is our principal, and he does not like bullshit.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Isaiah."

"Naw, man. It'd be funny. I should go get Mr. C."

"Yeah, Isaiah. You're right, go get Mr. C."

Good life decisions are not Isaiah's strong point.

"So I can go? Yes!"

Isaiah ran out the door to the buses and the waiting principal. Maybe I won't have to see him for a day or two.

Believing in the Resolute Urgency of Now

Last week was my first week back to school, and it was exhausting. Regular readers of this blog may have noticed the lack of posts recently, a direct by-product of the return of students into my life. Several times in the last 10 days, I had ideas for posts, or resolved that I would write something today, but then I fell asleep on the couch instead.

As a result of this exhaustion, I decided that this weekend would be filled with glorious nothing.

Then I woke up on Saturday morning. As I lay in bed, awake, but not really ready to get up, I started perusing Facebook on my phone. I saw update after update of friends from JMU who had made the trek to Blacksburg for the David vs Goliath game of James Madison vs Virginia Tech, and I started to feel a little bit of regret for opting not to go. At that very moment, the phone started to ring. Seeing that it was my friend Jenny, I answered in typical fashion:

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?"

The reply was what I expected, but not in the voice I expected.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK THIS IS?"

I did. It was not Jenny, but our friend Travis's mom. She proceeded to harangue me for not being at Tech for the weekend, and then passed the phone off to yet another friend, who told me I should come to the game. I looked at the clock. It was 9:30 - I had just enough time to make it to Blacksburg for the 1:30 kickoff if I left immediately and drove fast.

I thought for a second about my plans of laying on the couch all day to recuperate from the rough week, but I knew I didn't really have time to contemplate my decision. If I was going to go, I had to go now. I went with my gut and said I'd be there as soon as I could. Getting that phone call in the middle of second-guessing my decision to stay home felt something like providence, so I just went with it.

If you pay attention to college football, you've probably guessed that I am extremely happy with the decision I made. JMU beat VT 21-16 in the biggest upset in this young college football season, and my beloved alma mater gained some attention in the national spotlight for beating one of the top teams in all of football. More than that, I got to spend unexpected time with friends, run into many people I haven't seen since college, and share an historic moment in our school's history with all of them, and many others.

This may be true with your university as well, but the sense of community among JMU students and alumni seems extraordinary to me. I feel such a bond with people I barely know when we each express our love for our home in Harrisonburg. Many outsiders have expressed wonder at how strange it is that almost all JMU students love their school SO much; I don't know if I can really explain, but there does seem to be some sort of magic that we feel. Dukes are without a doubt the happiest, friendliest, most positive people I know. It was special, and I feel incredibly blessed to have been able to share in one of the most inspiring moments in our school's history with a group of like-minded people.

It would have been easier for me to decline the pleas of my friends (and my friends' parents) for me to high-tail it across the state to go to the game. It would have been a lot easier to lay on the couch all day and maybe watch the game on TV. It would have been easier, and it would have been the logical decision, but it also would have been the wrong decision.

I don't know why I keep needing to remind myself that life needs to be lived in the moment, that planning things out too much is silly. My very first tattoo reads "Believe in the resolute urgency of now", a reminder to myself to accept things as they come and not worry about left-brained things like logic and practicality. The universe is full of amazing experiences just waiting to be had, and every time I allow myself to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me, I am thankful that I did. I think most of the greatest days of my life were unplanned - the results of whimsy and whims. I am thankful that Travis's mom drunk-dialed me at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, I am thankful that Emily took the phone from her and asked me to come to the game, and I am thankful that I heeded the advice that I had put under my skin and did something kind of stupid and totally fun.

Go Dukes!

The Subtext of Every Mixed Tape

Last night on Facebook, I saw a quote from Alec Sulkin, writer of many Family Guy episodes and generally funny dude:

"I can't say it as good as them but I'd sure like to fuck you. (Subtext of Every Mixed Tape)"

Had the poster not been a recent recipient of a mixtape of mine, I probably would have found it quite funny. Even though she was, I still think it's a pretty good line.

But it got me thinking - is appropriation of someone else's art for your own purposes ever an artful endeavor? Can making a really good mixtape be something worthwhile, or is it inherently a cop-out; a futile attempt at masking one's own lack of creativity and talent?

I've long operated under the assumption that there is a subtle art to the creation of a good mixtape. I've created dozens over the course of my life; for myself, for friends, for various parties or activities, and yes - for girls I have wanted to fuck at different times. I have a set of rules for how the music should progress. Where the most energetic tracks should appear (tracks 3,7, and either 10 or 11, depending on the length of the cd). How to build up to crescendos and then safely back away, while remaining enteraining and interesting. It may make me sound like a braggart, but I feel like I am a pretty damn good mixtape maker.

But is that worth anything?

As apparent as my mad mixtape skills may be, my lack of any musical ability whatsoever is equally apparent. I've tried playing guitar several times, but I'm never able to progress very far before I plateau and get too frustrated to continue. I love to sing, but I know I'm not very good. I can barely clap a steady beat, let alone throw in any kinks that might make my attempts at percussion more interesting or musical. Writing is the one artistic talent that I sometimes possess, but even with that, I am more inclined towards analysis than fiction or poetry. I haven't tried much serious songwriting, but the little bit of poetry I've written is truly atrocious.

I love music dearly; it is a big part of my life, but I've always been stuck on the outside looking in. Mixtapes became my way to become part of the community. I may never possess the talents to be in a band, but this one thing I can do well proves my worthiness, at least in some small way.

It is both a wonderful and terrible thing to be an appreciator of art. I love the worlds and the feelings that music, film, literature, painting, and photography have opened for me, but it is painful to watch nearly every one of my attempts at any of these categories fail so miserably. Even when I am able to create something that I am proud of, I can always hear that voice in my head adding a "for you" to every "This is so good!"

In his tweet, Sulkin highlights the silliness of trying to get in on a party that you weren't invited to, and he does it in a sharp manner that has made a lot of people laugh. I appreciate, and even partially agree with, his sentiment. But I do think that there is some value in making a really good mixtape as well - songs feel different, and make you feel different, when they are placed around different types of songs. A good mixtape elicits emotional response in a way that is unique. You can't find the same feelings on the artists' original albums, because feelings compound and morph and flow as you continue listening. In the same way that a single sounds different at the end of an album than it does on the radio, the pieces of a mixtape sound different in that particular arragement than they do in any other.

I would never claim that making good mixtapes makes me an artist, but I do think that there remains the smallest shred of artistry in their creation. You may feel I'm deluding myself, and maybe I am, but I don't care; making mixes is something I do well, and something that allows me to feel connected to a world I would otherwise be isolated from. It may not be the same as singing for a crowd every night, listening to them sing my words back to me, but it's what I have and I love it.