The first trimester has recently reached its conclusion. I've bid farewell to my beloved 3rd and 4th graders for they were a lively bunch and not entirely without a properly functioning intellect. Since, I have moved up and on to the 5th and 6th graders who should be able to handle more complex, mental exercises, commonly known in the teaching profession as explicit grammar instruction! [the screams, shrieks of children echo in the fore and aft]
One may or may not be surprised to learn that I am a relatively easy-going, mild tempered teacher who is not prone to assign homework, quizzes or tests, not entirely because I don't believe in grading but because I'd rather avoid the paperwork. I also tend to follow the communicative method, day after day. Take that and combine it with my sincere desire for the children to truly enjoy themselves in class and the result might be characterized by a casual observer as a seemingly chaotic clusterfuck: 30 children skipping about, all looking for a partner to interview, inquiring about their present taste in books, tv shows, preferred dinner entrés and the like, all in a steady, vocalized roar, loud enough to create a vigorously, roiling boil which, when untempered, will reach the point of spill-forth in any self-respecting Catholic school teacher; two of which are perched daily at their desks in the back of the room, eyes glaring with a look that, if it could kill...
I roll into 5th grade at about 2:00. The teacher has the children prepared with Spanish notebooks out and bilingual, pocket dictionaries on the desk. The teacher, well, she uses this time as preparation: the mindless grading of papers, the dull task of entering scores in her journal, the desperate watching of the clock. All of her efforts will come to no avail. Spanish class has begun and the the mayhem is not far behind. Why the teacher doesn't simply vacate the premises and seek refuge in the teacher lounge is beyond me; It would make a better situation for all involved. But no! The teacher stays and it gets hot in her kitchen.
It starts with the look in her eye and the reddening of her face that makes her look like a pissed off tomato. This should be enough to put the fear of god into the children, however and unfortunately, they are looking the opposite way, they face me. I, on the other hand, face the children and the glaring, murderous visage of the teacher. I manage, mostly, to ignore her as do the children. But when there is a will, there is a way and this way consists mostly of yelling, shouting and, in general, verbally violating the children who never see it coming. One minute, they are in an ecstatic bliss, enjoying the intellectual stimuli as is presented through the Spanish medium by yours truly, vocalizing what had been strange and foreign sounds, flashing smiles to their classmates who share in their embarrassment at uttering such obvious non-sense, when giggles begin to emerge and the rumble grows stronger; then, at the very next minute, the teacher in the back of the room is no longer the master of the demon within. She releases violent, verbal blows, vocalized slashes, hot steel of castigation, shame, and demoralization is struck, lacerated into the souls of the children. The power structure must be preserved and the children must know their role and pay the price, much to their horror and mine.
And it gets worse. Last Wednesday, after school, I was coolly making my way up the stairs trying to avoid the principal while slipping into my car for a clean escape, when, at last, I found myself confronted by the secretary. At her side, there stood one of my students, whimpering, teary eyed and confused and I wondered how she had arrived upstairs before myself. The secretary demanded that the student owe me an apology for her behavior in class and that she promise not to tap her hands on the desk again. It seems that during the class, perhaps while my back was turned, she was extraordinarily rendered from the class and sent to gitmo, the principals office. Dumbfounded, for I hadn't the slightest idea that she had been forced from the class, I accepted her apology.
the end?
2 comments:
I said it before: someone ought to cleanse that den of papism with holy fire! Just make sure the kids are outside first... But those nuns can be quite crispy I hear.
Linus, you are a good friend of me and I know your heart is pure, however, I must condemn such a statement that advocates such violence, even when leveled at such odious creatures; after all they are our sisters.
perhaps a good reception of spoiled tomatoes in and around the head and face, down at the town square, would be more appropriate.
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