Today, I had an emotional and heart-wrenching day at the school. I’m still unclogging myself from the excess amounts of frozen margaritas, quesadillas, and shrimp I had at Mama Mexico last night, and a weird morning in which I waited until the very last minute to leave my house and take my hour-long ride on the silver limos, one labeled “F” and the next labeled “A”. I had no reason to go into school other than pride, because I had a good lesson plan ready for my kids, and I’d prefer to teach my children rather than some random (and often confused) substitute.
In general, it started off auspiciously enough. My homeroom children (Team Orange as I shall refer to them as from now on) did their work, and the progress in their mathematical reasoning and explanation. Even with the little discussions going on, I still found the whole 2 periods successful on a few levels.
Fast forward to the fire drill. Unfortunately, Team Orange decided to lose their damn minds. Not only did they decide to make tons of noise while we went downstairs, one of the children (who I later found out felt distress over his mom’s hospital admission) completely showed me disrespect when he went BACK into the class after I called his name 3 times before I said, “We need to go!” My AP followed the class and yelled at them for them to keep quiet.
Of course, when we got out of the building, I had all types of things to say to the child, most of which includes a free call to his father and detention with me. I further thought of the ramifications if one or more of my children stayed behind, considering our homeroom’s on the top floor. We were the last class out of the building, and I felt a little shame, too, not because I hadn’t explained the fire drill rules carefully, but because the principal told us how well we did for that drill. I begged to differ.
So I let them have it for a while on the bottom floor after everyone went back to class. The aforementioned AP also had the same conversation, but those little eyes definitely welled up twice after what I had to tell them: about how if anything happened to them, I’d have to jump back in and rescue someone. If I lost them, I’d lose my mind. They’re not just a liability, but my children, and I’m responsible for their well-being.
I do concede that I have a bit of a “hero” syndrome when it comes to my homeroom children, but I also know that one can’t help but treat those children like your own when you see them more than you even see your own family five out of seven days. As much as fire drills make me ill, I instantly acknowledge how I’m an emergency respondent if I’m missing one of my students.
In the middle of her tirade, my AP said, “Mr. V, what would you do if this student was missing?”
I said, “I think I’d go back for them,” in an understated tone, because I felt my throat clamp up.
People don’t take into account how good teachers can’t and won’t sit idly while their students rot. We’ll push them when they prefer mediocrity. We’re magnanimous and scrupulous all at once about children’s shortcomings. We’re reflecting on how to make ourselves more accommodating to their needs, academically and usually personally, too. In other words, it’s a matter of life and death.
jose, for whom life is not promised …
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Every morning, I’m usually in the class, setting my board up for my homeroom class, who also happens to be my first period class on Thursdays and Fridays, so it’s almost like having an extended homeroom. The whole school routinely says the US’ Pledge of Allegiance, and the responsibility to recite it over the loudspeaker lands on a lady I’ll call Lady Pledge for purposes of anonymity. She usually starts the pledge at exactly 0805 hrs., so within 5 minutes of the kids making it up the stairs, we start it.
I just read a third installment of the 40th Anniversary edition of Rolling Stone (yes, I’m a subscriber), and read an awesome quote from Al Gore (who I honestly believed in since 1999). In response to the question of how to engineer sweeping social and political and industrial change in a short period of time (i.e. before the ice caps melt):
This week in my blog, I’m engaging in lots of civil disobedience. You’ve been warned.
In 2000, when I finally had the language to express my frustrations and quandaries about the state and history of America, I started to refer to Thanksgiving as “Happy Indigenous Slaughter Day” to commemorate the millions of indigenous people slaughtered by the incumbent European oppressors who pillaged, raped, and committed ruthless genocide amongst the many across this hemisphere (and in other continents). The history of these states demand that we appropriate the more tender (and proportionally few) moments of those events: people of different origins celebrating together after months of long and arduous travels where we can commune in peace with our families. Unfortunately, just like the day itself, that’s too far from the truth. It’s an ideal that we can strive for, and sometimes substantiate enough to mimic such joyous feelings, but the word Thanksgiving irks me some.
I was eating dinner at a fine Irish establishment at Washington Heights in the middle of the parent-teacher conferences at my school when someone mentioned the eclectic mix of music above us. Somewhere between Tom Jones’ “Pussycat” and my Irish nachos, I thought: “Well, as long as they don’t play ‘Age of Aquarius,’ there might be a sense of normalcy in this predominantly Dominican neighborhood.”
Sunday’s a great day to write these random thoughts:
- Gary Payton’s the latest great player out of my favorite generation of basketball gods to “retire.” 
SMACK!
