A Piggy-back Ride

I've never had a piggy-back ride from one of my students. But I've learned that I shouldn't be shocked at anything when working in middle school, especially with students in special ed.

I got a new student at the beginning of this school year. His name is Fuming Fury. No joke. That's his name. Now yes, I did insert a different rendition to protect the identity of the not-so-innocent. However, his parents gave him a name synonymous with Voilent Tantrums because they thought it was cute. They even made sure I knew the correct pronounciation when I met them at Open House.

Fuming Fury isn't really all that bad, most of the time. He's actually an agreeable character. Although he's mentally retarded, he is usually very eager to learn and is proud of any accomplishments he makes with me in reading and writing. He even comes in early some mornings to work on the sounds and to memorize the sequence of the alphabet.

Remember that most of the time portion of the last paragraph? Well, Fuming has bad days here and there. And when they're bad, they're hideous. Although I'm generally one to believe that people should be accountable for their own behavior, I really don't think Fuming is entirely responsible for or understands his own actions.

Fuming told St. Patience one day about a disagreement his parents were having with a group of neighbors in their "trailer park". The resolution to this issue would be solved quite simply--the ever-popular fight. Apparently, his father planned to fight three men after work one afternoon. Since "Daddy could fight two men but not three," his mother would join the contest and hit one in the head with a frying pan. Learned behavior.

Yesterday in class, Fuming desperately wanted attention. When I say desperately, I mean that he was willing to go to certain extremes to get it. I'd love to dole attention out amply upon all of my students, but when one is teaching ten middle schoolers to read and write one and two syllable words, there's only so much time.

He began by making intermittant noises similar to those made by Chewbacca on Star Wars. This isn't too bizarre for a middle schooler; they often test the limits of their changing vocal chords. I corrected it and went on. I changed the color of his block a few times, but when he kept it up, I asked for his discipline card. The fun started when I received a no from him. Since he's usually compliant, I could tell at this point that we were headed downhill. I took his discipline card from his binder and gave him two demerits. As I wrote them in, he slammed his hand on my overhead projector cart. When he discovered that the belligerent overhead projector card wouldn't yield, he attempted to flip it over. Fortunately, Hyperactive Brilliance was there to catch it. (Hyperactive Brilliance, now beginning his third year under my tutelage, is another story.)

Hyperactive Brilliance guarded my overhead projector like a damsel in distress. Fuming lost interest in the damsel, and flipped over his own beloved desk. At this point, I have Hyperactive call the front office and request the presence of our sheriff's officer, while I attempt to restrain Fuming.

Fuming didn't take well to restraint. I tried speaking to him calmly as I put my stomach up to his back and wrapped my arms firmly around him, securing his arms to his body. He still had great control over his feet, which he displayed by dragging me behind him as he used the force of his body (and mine) to knock over other desks and a lonesome chair.

"Ooooooh! Body slam him, Miss!" said one of my students.

I heard giggles coming from the other students as I settled Fuming to the floor, bracing my body over his. Atleast I could rest assured they weren't going to have nightmares over this.

Finally, an assistant principal walked into my classroom to find me hunched over an emotionally disturbed and mentally retarded student. Although he was still fighting to break free of my hold, the intensity had waned a bit.

"Let him up," she said in an irritated tone. (Oh, did I bother you?)

I let him go. He went immediately behind one of my reading tables and grabbed a chair on the other side. He lifted it as he looked at her.

"Put it down," she said several times. The officer stepped in. Seeing him, Fuming put the chair down.

Students continued to giggle, and then Ms. Irritable gave them a solid rebuke for their irreverence.

Officer Big, a 6'7" black man that no one messes with, instructed Fuming to pick up the desks he overturned. He said it in a calm tone. I guess you never have to get mean when you're the size of semi-truck. Fuming fixed one desk, which was good enough for Officer Big, who escorted him to the office to collaborate with administrators on the best method of correction.

They sent him home. Fuming went into the custody of his inept parents.

I attempted to bring my class to its homeostasis. Didn't happen.

Nipple Confusion

I didn't think it went on as late as junior high, but apparently, I was wrong.

When a person teaches in the same classroom a number of years, one develops a reputation. One of mine is that you can tell me things. Weird things. Odd things. Things that I sometimes don't want to know, but I don't tell them that.

It was last school year that the term nipple confusion took on a new meaning.

"Yeah, Miss. When you're in the locker room changin', the eighth grade boys come up to you an' pinch your nipples real hard. And you have to sing a nursery rhyme 'fore they'll stop. 'cept when they're pinchin' your nipples like that it's hard to remember any. The only way you can get out of it is if a coach comes by and says, 'hey knock it off!' then they stop."

Poor guys. I know from experience that being female in junior high is quite a rite of passage. I guess boys have their own brand. It's hazing, without the promise of fraternity status.

Which leads me to ask, Why do boys have nipples?

According to my husband, they aren't there for sexual stimulation. And men don't lactate. I don't imagine God ever meant them to be a handy pubescent torture tool.

I wish coaches would hang out in the locker room more often, because I don't think those boys want me to teach them nursery rhymes.

lessons unplanned

No one warned me that St. Patience would be out today. She arranged for a sub, but the only sub that could even moderately fill her shoes would need to be arranged by The Almighty Himself.
By mid-afternoon, the school noticed that the Adaptive Behavior Unit was more job than any mortal sub could handle, so they let her fill the inclusion teacher's position, and he acted in the stead of St. Patience. (Think of Elisha walking in Elijah's footsteps.)
My last class of the day rolls around. Defiance is in fine form, his horns freshly polished and claws extended, ready for the attack. He insults other students, who retaliate. Any familiarity with middle schoolers will tell you that this can go on for eternity, so I hush everyone, including him. He doesn't care much for open rebuke (or any rebuke, for that matter), and promptly refuses to work. Prodding him with humor and threats of hugs only angers him more, so I step away and resume class. The assistant offers to remove him, but I tell her to leave him--he needs to be in class. She sits with him, intermittently encouraging him to participate. Seeing that my attention is on the other students, he makes noises with the manipulatives I have passed out for the warm-up spelling activity.
Since most of my students have their primary disbility in written expression, I quietly ask him to cease the noise-making. He gives me the finger.
"Did he just give me the finger?" I ask Mrs. Enduring, the assistant to St. Patience.
She nods her head, "I believe he did. And I think you need to mark his card for that."
As it turned out, Defiance didn't have the card on which I record such demerits. Imagine that. Usually, failure to produce one upon request is an automatic detention, but since he's an adaptive behavior unit student, I wasn't quite sure how this would work. I let him know that I would inform his advisory teacher of this, and left it at that.
I resumed my lesson with the other students. Within five minutes, St. Patience's Elisha comes forth to check on any progress being made by Defiance. Upon being enlightened by Mrs. Enduring, he announces that the assistant principal wants him sent to her if he does anything out of line.
"Well, Hollering Book... it looks like you need to send him to the office for giving you the finger." Mrs. Enduring advises.
I put down my spelling manual, and ask the other students to excuse me (again).
"I'm sorry, Hollering Book. I know he takes a lot of your class time. You've been patient enough with him today." she apologizes. I don't think she owes me an apology. She's behaved very well throughout class.
As I sit to write the referral, Defiance jumps from his seat, throws his binder at one of my bulletin boards (it nearly hits another student in the head), then bashes his fist against the door. When the door doesn't part like the Red Sea at his command, he slams his fist into the door knob. (I wouldn't personally try that one.)
He successfully turns the knob. And just to show that belligerent door who's boss, he throws it against the opposing wall.
"Oh. My. Gosh." said Mrs. Enduring.
Some students giggled, some had jaws dropped, but all were wide-eyed at the irascibility of their beloved classmate.
He was outside and was intercepted by Elisha. Since my spelling lesson was no longer the highlight of the day, I asked the remaining dismayed students, "Okay, who took a whiz in his cornflakes this morning. C'mon. Fess up. I know one of you had to do it!"
They let out a hearty laugh and I finally go them on track again.

My lesson took nearly an hour. It should have taken fifteen minutes at the most, and we could be onto something else. Other parts of the lesson were shortened, due to the impromptu lesson on human behavior.

My lessons were disrupted many more times that afternoon by the secretary and assistant principal checking the damages to my door. (It has a split through much of it and needs replacing.) Several maintenance people from the school district came by to see how it could be secured temporarily until a new door arrives.

My tenure in the classroom has taught me that most behaviors originate in the home. When I say behaviors, I mean both good and bad. Students that are polite and considerate of others tend to learn that at home, usually through direct instruction. Students that tease others and display poor attitudes usually learn that at home, though they often are imitating what they see at home. I could go on, but that is the primary pattern. I assumed Defiance had learned this behavior long before coming to my room, and attributed it to one of his mother's boyfriends. My assumption would be only partially accurate.

During my conference each day, I take the time to grade papers, make lesson plans, and do any of the immense paperwork piled upon all educators by supervisors, administrators, and governmental powers. I decided long ago, however, that I would make my students priority #1, so if a parent needs to be contacted, I do that task first.
I was on the phone with a parent (unknown and unrelated to Defiance), when Defiance and his mother opened my classroom door. I asked if they could step outside and give me a few minutes, as I had another parent on the line and needed to finish my conference with her.
"Oh, I don't need to talk to you. I just came to take a look at this door I'm gonna need to pay for." she informed me, in a rather short tone.
"That's fine, but please give me just a minute. This parent is entitled to confidentiality."
Apparently, that wasn't the right thing to say. In a rude tone, she informed me that she didn't need to talk to me right now, but that she would certainly be getting back with me. (Lucky me.)
"Wonderful." I said, giving my best shot at sounding cheerful.
"Wonderful." she mimicked. Defiance stood there the entire time.

I suppose we now know the source of the problem. Too bad we can't fix that. I hear many people saying what we ought to do. It ranges from counseling to forced sterilization.
The fact is that we live in a perverse and foul world. There have always been people like this. The question we need to ask ourselves is how we rise above it, and free ourselves of its hold.

middle school psychopath

I haven't taught a psycopath in many years. That's a good thing. I don't miss them when they're gone.
I know they tell you in the schools of education that you're supposed to treasure all the wonderful little angels that you get, but some just aren't that wondeful. And they certainly aren't angels.
But budding psychopaths? I really don't miss them when they leave. In fact, I really wish they'd leave the planet, but if I said that out loud, some over-zealous school psychologist would say that I had some sort of repressed anger against my students and have me committed. Said shrink would probably even go as far as to say that my subconsious is conveying my intentions.
(Why do we tolerate these people? And why do our tax dollars hire them?)

Anyway, I now have the second psychopath of my teaching career. I experienced my first during my very first year of teaching. It's a wonder I didn't up and leave by the end of the first semester. The boy flew off the handle at the smallest thing. One day, he and another student were cutting up. I quietly called them over to me after the dismissal bell. The other student, typical adolescent, quietly came up, ready to plead his case. What did my psycho do? Yep, threw a fit that would make the devil proud. "I didn't do anything! Why don't you get off my ass, you stupid ass bitch!" and proceeded through the door.
Looking back on it, I really didn't handle it well. I followed him to the covered walk-ways and had a screaming match with him. I should have just popped my head out the door, hollered, "Hey kid, I'm not stupid! I happen to be a highly educated woman!" before calling the campus sheriff's officer to go hunt him down. But, you live and you learn.

I'm now on year seven, with a new, precious little psychopath. If I can give the original from the year 2000 any credit, it would be that I've learned to let it go. No one can change him, and few can teach him much. You just keep enough documentation of his disruptive behavior, until it cumulates into enough evidence to have the demon permanently cast out.

Today and yesterday have been quite a circus. Defiance comes into class in fine form. He has learned in prior educational settings that if he acts up enough, he goes to a whole new classroom, where a teacher rewards him lavishly for miniscule behavioral accomplishments. That's how public schools deal with students with the severest of behavior problems. They know that the student really does want to behave, but lacks the motivation. (We have evidence of this. Somewhere. Really.) So they set up programs that allow said student to be an exception to the rules that all other students follow without much fanfare.
Well, Defiance may have met his match. (Time will tell if this statement is accurate.) The new teacher in the behavior unit has decided that this isn't appropriate (ya think?), and that he needs to be required to stay in the classroom and learn to earn any rewards. (What a concept.)
She sits right next to him in my room. He makes noises. He slams on the desk. He throws his pencils around him. Then, he looks around to see if he's amusing anyone. He usually is, but I'm getting control of that. I've threatened punishment to anyone who dares to become his audience. (Based on past experiences with me, they choose to ignore him.)
The teacher sitting next to him, henceforth known as St. Patience, corrects him each time, but seldom removes him from the room. Part of me thinks the world of her for it. She's sending him a clear message that he isn't the one in charge here. The other part of me just wants him gone so the others can learn something. They all have disabilities (mostly reading disabilities), and school is hard enough. Do they really need to endure his persecution?
Knowing I have an obligation to at least give him a chance, I try to bring him into the lesson. He tells me he isn't going to do his work. He refuses the strategies I try to teach him--the strategies that make school and life so much easier. I go through the process of reasoning with him, but know that it's for mere documentation. It isn't getting through like it would to most other adolescents. (Adolescents may be a strange lot, but they're certainly predictable.) Not with this one. He's waiting until he's done with me, until he's done with St. Patience. My classroom is his comedy club, and I'm destroying his profits by ruining his act. He's marinating in his own wickedness until he's done with his would-be audience, the one that was lead astray by my audacious discipline. All that matters is what he wants. In his mind, we all exist for his purposes.

Where are my keys?

I can never find anything. I try my hardest, but I'm always losing something. Today, I lost a binder full of teaching materials that I had worked on meticulously this summer. My patient husband finally helped me locate it. I'm getting ready for another school day tomorrow--the first day of week three.

I loaded it all in the car tonight. Wilson readers? Check. Binders of teaching tools? Check. The fig preserves I plan to sell to sugar-addicted colleagues? Check. My tote? Who knows. I think I left it at school. I couldn't say. I keep extra items in there that I think I need, if only I could remember to keep up with the tote itself.

I bathed my dog, and all of my clothes are ironed. I've packed my lunch for tomorrow; it's red beans and rice with sausage. Dh cooked it today. Yummy.

Last school year, I was constantly running late because I could never find anything. I made a vow to change things this year. So far, I'm doing well. I just need to put my keys in a spot where I can find them tomorrow morning.