About Those Breasts

Got your attention, huh?

At the end of last week I was helping first period explicate some sonnets, and for homework I gave them Shakespeare's Sonnet 130, which begins (in case you've forgotten) thusly:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

Now, our principal, who I'm judging is about 65, likes to make the rounds in the mornings, and pop his head into random classrooms, standing at the door for a while. He happened to pop in just as the kids asked me to read the poem to them, since it helps their comprehension when I do this. I did so, and then we began talking about the physical comparisons in the first two lines. Things were going well, and they were enjoying being outraged by the narrator's apparent rudeness, and I guess the principal was enjoying it too (he was smiling), so he continued hanging around. No longer holding the poem in my hand, I innocently asked the following:

"What is the next comparison? It's the hair, right?"

(Class) "No! It's the breasts!!!"

"Oh (checking peripherally). Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Oh. Well, o.k. - the breasts. The first thing you need to understand is Shakespeare is not trying to be pornographic..."

And from there I tried to explain the ideal of alabaster skin, etc., as quickly as I could without stopping giving the kiddies a chance to butt in. We moved right ahead, and soon the principal, like Batman, had disappeared without notice.

After he was gone I got this: "Mr. P., you totally tried to skip over the breasts on purpose, didn't you?"

I denied it and denied it, but they weren't buying this. I suppose I'm busted, though if they busted me, I think it was the part of me called my subconscious.

I don't suppose it would have helped to have replied, "No kids, trust me. I never skip over the breasts."

The Schizophrenic Day

That's the reality for me, each and every school day. My first period is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Not perfect, mind you, but as good a class as I've ever had, taking behavior and aptitude into account. Then I have a planning period, which is usually harried and far from relaxing, but at least offers some alone time. My third period is yearbook, which provides for publishing-related headaches, but is peopled by a small class of exceptional kids. Can't complain there.

And then, there is fourth period, a class as frustrating as any I've ever had. Both first and fourth have about five kids too many, but when around 12-15 of those kids are difficult and/or seriously unmotivated, then the game is up - at least according to the standards I try to set, which are not too unrealistic, I think. It is unbelievable how much time I spend policing, or waking people up. Some of this can be chalked up to it being fourth period, but, when I vented to a couple of the decent students in there about my frustrations, one of them simply said, "What do you expect? Take a look around at who's in here."

So, my mood swings wildly, usually from up to down, each day.

I'll take suggestions.

Memo To Ms. O'Connor

Dear Ms. O'Connor,

Since I'm certain you are still writing perfect short stories at your home on the Big Farm (where I'm sure you are keeping a much less troublesome pea fowl coop), I thought I would pass this along for your use. I overheard it at the North Carolina State Fair today:

"Step up here and play, folks; there is a guaranteed winner every time. Hey, what would Jesus do? I'll tell you what He'd do - that Guy would step up here and turn one ticket into a thousand tickets. You know He would."

Sincerely,

A lowly, not-humble-enough fan.

The DRK's

One peer group I had forgotten about since my own high school days in suburbia is the Disaffected Rich Kids (DRK's, heretofore) crowd. Sure, at my previous teaching location there were disaffected rich kids, but while there were some similarities (heavy partying, academic ambivalence, and the penchant their parents have for buying them off), those rural kids were mostly big louts who rode around town in their new trucks, raised hell, and hardly made a secret of it. Many of them will have burned themselves out by age 22, and will have burned themselves into the stuff of George Jones tunes. And they don't try to hide much at all from their eye-averting parents.

The DRK's I refer to are a different breed - wealthy, generally not natives to the area, lingering at the intersection of skate-rat, emo, hip-hop, and Goth Streets. They are generally academically smart - though not motivated - and much more under the radar when it comes to the drinking, drugs, and sex they are involved in. They talk about it all, but you have to really have your ear tuned right to hear it. Their parents tend to be divorced, possibly re-married, and again, they've bought the kids off, except with PlayStation 3's instead of cars and trucks. Many of them are well-behaved in the classroom, but they always strike me as being on the verge of some sort of breakdown - they write on themselves with pens, and laugh too hard and loud, and try too diligently to be conforming non-conformists. They are more likely to be achievers, but also likely to spend time in rehab or psychotherapy (not that the rural Bubba's wouldn't be prime candidates as well - they are just less likely to go). Again, this is a type I can remember from way back in the late '80's at my school.

Well, in the back of my room, near my computer, sits a special little DRK who likes to write about how he doesn't have any real free speech, and how he hates cops, and other charming stuff. I wonder when he's ever seen a cop in the neighborhood I'm told he lives in. He makes fun of the way others smell, and of one girl's local accent (I set him straight about that in a hurry, you mite 'a guessed). His mom used to check up on him periodically, but has stopped, I notice, since his behavior has worsened. Last Thursday he started going on and on about how his grade had improved to a 78, and though I thought that sounded too high, I didn't stop to ponder it too long. The next morning, someone who rides the bus with him told me he was bragging about changing his grade on my computer; I looked, and sure enough there was a 100 where a not-yet-made-up test should have been. The grade went back to 73 quickly.

So, he sits in suspension for a couple of days, having denied everything, of course. Bet you can't wait until he hits the working world, huh?

What She Said

Well, Wyfe beat me to the punch on this one, but I probably couldn't do the subject the same kind of justice anyway. My post was going to be titled, "T-Ball Assistant Coach Agonistes".

I can report that tonight I was liberated - I got to pitch because the usual dad wasn't there (and I was more accurate than he usually is, natch). As for poor Wyfe, she can't remember anything about the actual game, since she was too busy peeling children off fences again.

Song of the Line

Back in August I sang the praises of both artist and writer after I read a great Oxford American profile of Henryk Fantazos written by Jack Gilbert (both fellow North Carolinians for many years now, btw!).

Well, it turns out the two of them have been friends for many years now, and have just collaborated on a new publication, a collection of Gilbert's poetry and ten new copper engravings of Fantazos's, entitled Song of the Line. I am now in proud possession of the book, and have just gotten started with it, but I'm having a blast with it so far. Gilbert's work fits my idea of poetry: accessible, but open to new discoveries on each re-reading. And the Fantazos engravings are mesmerizing, full of abnormal yet recognizable characters who are mysteriously dignified. Both men, it seems, have the good grace to be humorous in their seriousness.

I'll have more to say after I finish the book, but in the meantime check it out for yourself.

My Day As A Celeb

The final Mr. P-led yearbook came out at my old school on Friday (remember, a rare fall delivery book), and acting upon previous discussions, I was asked to come down and read the dedication at the afternoon assembly held in honor of the dedicatee. I worked it out so that I could get a half day off, and rode down to hog-farm country one more time. Yes, I was nervous and cheerfully anxious about seeing former students and colleagues, and I had only practiced in my head what I was going to say. But, frankly, my nerves vanished after I looked at the assembled and realized - already - just how tiny the group seemed. It almost seemed like I was in the classroom instead of on the stage.

So, when I was introduced I got a nice, hearty round of applause and many screams, and I sort of felt like a mini-Beatle, which I'll admit was flattering. I told everyone I missed them and I loved them, and heard a few "We love you toooooo, Mr. P!"'s in response. Then I told a couple of folksy stories about the dedicatee, a friend of mine (while I'm bragging, I was on my game, because I got lots of laughs), and read the words written in honor of him. After the ceremony I signed yearbooks for an hour, gave and got lots of hugs, and shuffled off back home.

It was a satisfying day, but I also realized pretty quickly something else that made me feel good. It was clear, upon leaving, that I had made the right decision, and that indeed it was time to move on to something bigger and more challenging. I felt more like I was visiting a friend's place, rather than a second home I'd been pining away for. Given the anxieties I outlined yesterday, this was comforting. Now I find myself really looking forward to getting to work tomorrow. Probably this is a sure sign that something crappy will happen, but hey, there a certain amount of those days I'm destined to have anyway.

Thanks old school. New school, I'll see you tomorrow.

Up and Down, Up and Down

There's a reason I hate change. Oh, I know the only constant is change, and we can't grow except through change, and blah blah blah-dy blah blah. But change - unless it is the change from something catastrophic to something heavenly - chafes me something awful.

The reason for this, probably, is that I am not patient. All summer I told myself that the new job would involve many adjustments which might take me a year to make, and this was just the beginning of what will hopefully be a long stay, and that it would take a while to find my niche. So what's the problem? Well, the problem turns out to be that all that stuff is TRUE! WHO KNEW?

So my mental state is very day-to-day right now. One day I love my first period, and the next I'm changing their seats, and then they are angels again. Then the next day my fourth period - which will never be great - resembles a jungle, and it appears I've never set foot in a classroom before. So, I call parents, make referrals, etc., and then they seem fine. One day I feel like the yearbook staff has accepted me as their leader, and the next I feel like they want me to leave them alone. One day I feel I've settled in to the particular faculty culture, and the next I feel quite lonely. And on, and on... On Friday I left on a high note, especially because I heard some complimentary things from my department head. But who knows about Monday?

The good news? My first observation went well, and my colleagues (unless I'm totally misreading the signs) have already accepted me and determined I am an asset and an enjoyable colleague. The bad news? Regardless, it will take more time for me to truly feel at home, and there is just no remedy for that but, well, time. I guess I just need to admit defeat on that front and live with those fun feelings of uncertainty.

I may be slightly paraphrasing, but I believe C.S. Lewis wrote, to himself, that "there is nothing to be done about suffering except to suffer." He was speaking of something much worse than job change, but the point is well-taken.

Feeling More Like Home, In More Ways Than One

Well, last week was the first full one where things at the new school just seemed like home - right down to the petty things (lost planning period time) that all high schools seem to engender, and that seem designed merely to piss off teachers.

But really, it was a good week, and I can feel my confidence level rising with the kids, and can tell that - like my old kids - they like me and like the class. That is, if they have to have an English class, mine seems fine to be in.

I was all prepared to gush about this toward the end of last week, but lack of time and 28 essays intervened. And then, on Friday afternoon right at the 4th period bell, I heard the dulcet strains of, "MR. P., THERE'S A FIGHT IN THE HALL!"

My first reaction to such news is always a) a barely suppressed "damn!", and b) heading toward the fight in a kind of "I'm trying to look concerned and in a hurry and in control while not really wanting to be in too much of a hurry, and not liking any of the alternatives actually open to me." So I tried to make my way through the throbbing crowd of shameless teenage onlookers, and saw, through the perfect circle they had formed aroung the festivities, two black girls beating the living snot out of each other. I have never seen a fight of such ferocity, and before I could get near them, one had flung the other through another teacher's doorway and into her room.

What I will always remember is the rush of students who immediately converged on the doorway, horrid little vultures ready to follow the fight into the classroom, and the fortunate circumstance that the teacher was standing close by to stop them. If she had not been there, I swear there would have been 100 kids in that room in no time. My view of human nature at that moment bordered on Mark Twain-esque pessimism (boy could he have written out that scene). Eventually I helped grab one girl and hold her away from the other, trying to hang on tight without actually breaking her lower ribs.

Some people leave a scene like that and shake for a while after. I didn't, but I marvel at how quickly such a situation focuses your entire being on one thing so sharply. I remember every detail of what I saw perfectly, but can't remember much about my own movement, or exactly how I made my way to the fight and helped break it up. Once you are sucked in to something like that, you are sucked in for good until it is long over.

Conversation With An Indignant 10th Grader

"So, you say you are taking Web Design? That doesn't happen to be the same class Kirk is in, is it? He's in my 4th Period."

"Oh. My. God. Yes! He is soooooo annoying. And, get this (eyes narrow). He lives near me and rides my bus. I can't wait to get my license - I sit in the back of the bus, and I'm the only girl, with like six guys around me.

"Wow. I hope you have a mean streak."

"God, they are so annoying. I'm nice to them, but you wouldn't believe it. Do you know what they sit back there and talk about?"

"What?"

"Star Wars!"

"Really. Well, that's popular in my household right now, too."

"Yeah, but your son is four!"

"Well, actually six."

"And they talk about Yu-Gi-Oh!

"Um... yeah, I can't defend them there."

"I mean, please grow up!"

"This reminds me a little of an old t.v. show called "Freaks and Geeks". But you probably weren't even born when it was on the air. Anyway, when do you get your license, again?"

"November 6th at 2:45. 2:55 at the latest."

Please Don't Hate Me

I'm sorry, folks. The heart is willing, but the body is too tired or busy for meaningful, or heck, even non-meaningful posts right now. Let me get beyond tomorrow night's round of t-ball and Senior Night yearbook presentations, and maybe Wednesday will be fruitful. I have many good things to tell, I promise.

Two quick reports from today: I entered the building at 6:50 this morning and found out the stifling atmosphere inside was due to a broken air-conditioner which had been out since Saturday. And it's been in the 90's here the last two days. You can figure out how the day went from there.

I also got to listen to a junior quite innocently tell other members of the yearbook staff about her father's three cars, which don't include her mom's vehicle, or her own BMW. And there is the Paris trip awaiting her after graduation.

Well, I'm no hater of the rich, but I'm not a big fan of the gauche (innocent though it seems).

Same Ole', Same Ole'

Open House was last night. Mostly it's the parents of the good kids who come, though I did have one parent of a struggling student show up, and she was very upset with her son for the report I gave her. Still, one reliable indicator of a good student is whether or not the parents come to open house - I'm guessing 90% of these kids will be A-B students.

The old yearbook advisor, who is now working half-days, shares my room with me in the mornings. He has been teaching for 30 years or so, and he told me he one of his good buddies was on the school board for years. His buddy's opinion is that you can pull a student's first grade cumulative folder and his socioeconomic/family records, and pretty much determine his future as a student from there on out. That is pretty stark - and deterministic - and yet it is probably true.

But some of the exceptions to that rule sure make for wonderful stories.

Wow.

Well, with two birthday parties, t-ball, in-laws in town, the Wyfe's birthday (not one of the parties) - and, oh yeah - school, I'm not over last week yet, and here a new one is upon us. Alas, little blogging time.

But I will mention that, since the in-laws were in town, we got to have one of our 2-3 movie nights of the year (I think this is #2 for '07). What did we see?

LISTEN TO ME FOLKS, AND LISTEN GOOD! WE SAW 3:10 TO YUMA AND IT WAS BRILLIANT! TOTALLY BRILLIANT! WHETHER YOU LIKE WESTERNS OR NOT, GO SEE IT! THE ACTING! THE STORY ARC! THE ACTION! THE 10 DIFFERENT INTERESTING AND SURPRISING STORY LINES! THE MORAL DISCERNMENT! THE METAPHYSICS! THE SERIOUS WALK DOWN THE ROAD WITH A POSTMODERN ETHOS BEFORE THE TURN TO REDEMPTION! BEST THING I'VE SEEN IN 3-4 YEARS!

Get the picture (wink, wink)?

Freakin' Bizarre

That would definitely describe my former high school of employment - which is part of its charm, by the way, and also part of its curse.

I have discovered, this evening, that the school has been all over the blogosphere - and certain news sites - because of the principal's decision regarding what kind of shirts with what kind of flags represented on them could be worn on a certain important date that just passed. The answer: none, including American flags. The reasoning: they are having big problems with Mexican flag shirts, and the like, which include gang insignias on them.

Now, it feel like the twilight zone to me, because I know the principal well, have worked under him, have played sports with him a couple of times, have had meals with him, and really like him. And this flesh and blood person from my life is getting ripped on by bloggers right and left (ACLU-types). Do I think his decision was sound? No, not in principle (no pun intended). But look - this guy is a country boy from rural NC, and as red-blooded American as you can get. He went out and got American flags for all our school rooms last year so that we could properly say the Pledge of Allegiance each day. I don't believe he made a decision based on namby-pamby respecting-others-feelings-pc baloney. He did it because of the real gang problems they are having there, and probably wanted to avoid conflicts that would distract school business.

Yes, all this is another way of saying that a few gangbanger hispanic kids are holding the school hostage, in a way. Yes, that is something that should be stood up to, conflict be damned. But I'm just pointing out that this is a really good guy getting bludgeoned here.

What's also interesting to me - and this is a topic for a longer post down the line - is how at my current school so many things like this just wouldn't be issues. The kids as a whole simply don't push the envelope in the same way regarding dress code, gang wear, etc., and when they do they get cracked down on quickly. Is it simply a matter of who your population is, or is it the culture the school has passed down from administration to administration?

Pied Beauty

As a general rule this is not a blog about my religious thoughts or experiences, but today is different. There are moments when a cluster of people or experiences, seemingly random, suddenly make sense in a way both instructive and, perhaps more importantly, sublime. The Christian among us describe this as Grace, something we are offered all the time, but rarely are smart enough to see, or receive. Today I had one of those moments, while at church, though I was hardly prepared for it. But suddenly the up and down nature of the past week, the potentially miraculous and the depressingly imperfect, came alive for me in a new way.

The optimism from Week #1 at school seemed to slowly dissipate all during Week #2 as the pressures of too-much-work-not-enough-time became reality (typical for this point in the year), poor behavior and absences already started to become manifest, and the oppressive heat/drought conditions continued here, with no relief in sight. On both Wednesday and Thursday afternoons my fourth period was difficult to get under control, and I was down on myself for poor classroom management. Gilgamesh hasn't exactly been revving my engines, or my students', up (this is the first, and maybe the last time for ole' Gil and me in the classroom). My planning periods are shortened due to homeroom, and my grading load was piling up. I wasn't getting enough sleep, and my son's t-ball team, for which I'm assistant coaching, was even lethargic and apathetic during Wednesday evening's practice (the chubby kid - there is always one -kept telling me how much he didn't want to be there).

Friday morning was the low point for the week. A homeroom student asked if I prayed, and told me his grandmother was dying of brain cancer. I told him I did, but didn't truthfully qualify it - I pray poorly, on-the-run, or sleepily with the lights out. Another homeroom kid who normally seems sweet completely threw me off kilter when she angrily snapped at me for calling the "band move" she was demonstrating a "dance move" ("It's not a dance move, its a band move!"). Later I was mad at myself for not upbraiding her, at least in private, or retorting sarcastically (I'm not above it), but I was actually too stunned to respond. Then first period was a mess - I made a joke that fell flat, and suddenly felt self-conscious. I was uninspiring and even sweating, and just didn't feel in command until late in the period.

Yet, the day, had its triumphs that I was happy to ignore at the time. Fourth period, which is full of so many distractions, was good, even sweet. They are never going to be great, but I expected much worse on a Friday afternoon. Both English classes got into a word brainstorming exercise, and yearbook continues to be fun - a diverse group of personalities so far working well together. I had a nice talk with an asst. principal at lunch duty - the guy will probably be the next principal, and seems the right kind of person for the job: steady-as-she-goes, friendly but stern.

And during the week I started hearing from some of my favorites from school #1 via e-mail. Aside from hearing about two fights in one morning before the bell even rang, I had this from a senior who is as close to my heart as any student has been: "I'm very glad to hear that your liking where you are now... 'cause you know it would be a shame to leave where people absolutely ADORE you, and not be appreciated now."

The miraculous, and the imperfect. Today we were late for church, as usual, and got in just in time for a flawless sermon on Paul's Epistle to Philemon, something I've never stopped to notice, I think: Paul and a runaway slave are incarcerated in a dirty jail cell, and discover that the slave's master is a convert who Paul himself evangelized. The short letter Paul writes to the slave's master, on behalf of his cell mate, is a "love letter", perhaps the greatest "love letter". But the sappy, 1967-ish hymn after the sermon is a huge letdown - redeemed only by the bell accompaniment (I wish we could have just heard the bells). While we were listening to the sermon, my son quietly pouted - bottom lip jutted out, angry eyebrows - for being told to keep quiet. Periodically I coax him closer until he finally sits on my lap for the morning prayer. During the offering, the choir, with winds accompaniments, sang a rousing rendition of an American classic, "Simple Gifts". The choir director's son, three or four years old, trotted out in his tiny Sunday suit and, during the chorus, tapped the glockenspiel on the off beat - losing his timing only once, and then picking it back up. The past few days seemed transformed right there, and all the week's emotions found their way to my eyes and throat.

It was our turn during Sunday school to serve the special adult class for those afflicted with Down's Syndrome and other illnesses and retardations. Some are loud and disruptive, some restless, some obsessive - most are barely intelligible in their speech. My son loves when we do this - he loves to come in and help us serve snacks to them, though he's not quite sure what to make of them. One day I'll tell him, these are the ones at the top of the heavenly-leading steps in Flannery O'Connor's story "Revelation". From imperfect to miraculous.

When we got home we heard, coming down the street, the unmistakable tones of an ice cream truck - the first we've seen here all summer. Oh, and the forecast (at least for now) is calling for blessed rain by Wednesday.

Amen, Brother.

Joseph Epstein has a mostly depressing take on "The Literary Life", circa 2007, in the current The New Criterion. Depressing, but probably on the money, for the most part. I do love the end of this passage from the piece:

Some while ago I was asked to write about (Richard) Russo’s novel Empire Falls and a novel by Jonathan Franzen called The Corrections, which is steeped in hatred for the middle-class from which Franzen derived. The comparison between the two novels reminded me of an essay Matthew Arnold wrote about the difference between Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary, which was that Tolstoy, the larger-hearted man, came to love his heroine and Flaubert never veered from his loathing for his. A good heart remains the first requisite for a great novelist.

So true, so true. It's also a first requisite for great teachers, I've noticed. And for most other worthy endeavors.

Week 1 Retro - The Specific

My room is at least 50% larger than my old haunts, which helps because of all the yearbook computers and affiliated gear. I love the extra space, but I think a room never feels as much like home as it does during the planning period, where one can unwind and exhale in safe environs. Unfortunately, I have to camp out in the work room and media center during planning so a roaming teacher can use my room for 2nd period. There is a plus side here - there is less chance I'll waste planning/grading time when I'm not all cozy in my room.

So, first period is (right now) 28 kids, and thus far only two of them give me worries - not about conduct, but about passing the class. One is already convinced he'll be playing ACC basketball in three years, and has been sleeping and uninvolved thus far. The other told me he flunked last year because of absences; he's been sleeping too. A majority of the rest of the kids, I swear, would be potential honors kids at my former school. I haven't had to raise my voice above the noise in this class yet. Thus far, I looooooove first period.

Third period is yearbook, and while I'm certain there will be many hours of sleep lost over the yearbook, the class is thus far out of sight. At my old school the biggest problem I probably had was in having complete say over the staff, which led to a lot of dead weight, and personality conflicts. Some of this was my fault - I wasn't as insistent as I ought to have been about such things - but the class was never given the privileged status it ought to have been. Now, I have 14 kids who, while displaying slightly varying work ethics, all seem to be at least acceptably motivated, and cooperative. As the new guy coming in, I would not have expected to be accepted as readily as I have been (again with the "knock, knock").

If I have tension at the end of the day, fourth period is most likely to be the culprit. There is an irritating little group of mall rat/skate rat types who are hyper, immature, and sassy. However, even after moving a couple of them and having some post-class discussions, I can tell they like me so far. That doesn't mean they will automatically straighten up, but it can't hurt. And, they have not disrespected me when I've disciplined them, which is refreshing compared to past experiences. There are also 28 in this class, and it definitely is not going to be as fun as first period. They bear watching, but I'm not dreading them (yet), and there is something to be said for that.

On to week two, in which our intrepid author will no doubt learn all his first impressions were completely wrong...

Week 1 Retro - The General

Let's start with some general observations from my first week of school in my new environment. First, it was probably the best first week I've ever had as far as all three classes running smoothly and efficiently. Some of this is due to my own improvements; most is probably due to having fairly good kids (knock, knock). Tomorrow I'll do my retrospective on some more specific details, but for the moment I'll report satisfaction that my classes and I will at least be able to "do bidness", sometimes cheerfully.

Second, I had no idea how it would feel to be in the midst of 2,000 students when I used to be in the midst of 550. The answer is, not much different, because I don't see all of them all the time. In my little corner of my building, I'm basically just seeing segments of the school population each day, so it doesn't feel overwhelming. Granted, when I took my junior homeroom to its class assembly with the principal, I noted that the entire junior class, gathered on the bleachers, looked like the whole student body of my former school.

Speaking of the assembly, the principal (rumored to be retiring this year), said "Good Morning," and then stood in a pose of stoic defiance, as if he were staring at each individual eye to eye. The kids got quiet in a hurry, except for one smartie who let out a "Whooo!" Minutes later, two girls were led out by a history teacher. The rest of the time the kids were completely attentive (well, at least silent), though I know they didn't want to be. But by God, they were, and I never saw that happen at my old school.

The teachers at my old school were almost all wonderful to me, and willing to help with almost anything. But, partially because there were only four of us, members of my department there rarely collaborated or came up with skeletal gameplans for how certain subjects would be approached. None of us would have refused to help each other, but we were content to all do our own thing, for the most part. Some of this was also due to the knowledge that one of the four was, sad to say, an embarrasment who nonetheless posed as a know-it-all.

My current department is much more collaborative, and everyone is much more active in asking the new guys if we need help. Case in point: after cobbling together some writing and short fiction lessons to get through week one, on Friday I needed to sit down and really plan out my next couple of weeks, especially what I'm going to do with Gilgamesh. However, due to homeroom my planning period has been pinched all week, and I had to attend training on how to set up a web page. Ordinarily this would have added up to leaving later on Friday than I would have liked, but all I ended up having to do was check with one of the other 10th grade teachers, who keeps the "10th Grade Notebook", a massive compilation of lessons and activities in oh-so-neat page protectors. Within thiry minutes I've got next week's Latin roots activities and quizzes ready to go, as well as vocabulary lists, Tuesday's lessons on Ancient Mesopotamia and its literature, and enough Gilgamesh stuff to choke a goat.

What I can't wait to do later in the semester is add to that notebook with my own variety o' cool lessons for The Tempest, La Commedia Divina, and "The Metamorphosis". Of course, I'll probably have to borrow the page protectors off someone - neatness isn't really my thing.

Yeah, I'm Here

I've had something going on the last two nights, and time has not been a friend to my blogging. Things should settle down a little now, and I will give fuller reports about school week #1 this weekend. Suffice to say that it has been a fairly smooth week, periodically mottled by a few spasms of loneliness. It is not easy to start a new job, but as these things go I'm having a smooth time of it.

One tidbit: a sweet student has already brought me a gift. It is a chalkholder, which she said would help me look cooler than when I was writing with the large, pink piece of sidewalk chalk. And indeed it does.

More coming soon.

These Are The Times That Try Men's Souls

I hate the first day of school, but I hate the day before the first day of school even more. It's impossible not to be nervous, and nearly impossible to sleep, minus medication which I don't take. I haven't had much last-second planning time this weekend on account of two birthday parties for one son, and a little assistant coaching for t-ball practice. Perhaps these activities have been good for me - taking my mind off things. That is, if Putt-Putt/Go Karting on a sauna-esque evening, and ball practice in Mespotamian summer conditions can ever be good.

Where to start when reporting on school happenings and new job trauma? I don't know - let's throw out a few random thoughts, and hope I survive the coming week, gradually finding the ability to put together cogent blog posts with available time (ha!):

*My room is barren and sad compared to the immaculately decorated rooms of the other English teachers. Hopefully I'll have a few years to refine things, but I've always had a disadvantageous man's touch with such things.

*No one thought I was weird for wanting to teach The Tempest to non-honors 10th graders. But for my troubles I have been put in charge of organizing a unit on potential activities, projects, etc. in case others want to incorporate it into their own curriculum.

*I'm in awe of some of these teachers - many of them gave workshops on Friday, and they have their stuff down pat. I have strong knowledge and the right demeanor (and attitude) I think, but as a teacher and classroom manager I still have a long way to go before I'm on some of their levels.

*In my five years at my former school, I didn't cumulatively hear the words damn, hell, and sh*t out of the mouths of teachers as much as I did in one week of workdays at my new school. I also heard the "f" word fly out of a science teacher's mouth twice in one conversation. Interestingly, the main perpetrators were almost all teachers/administrators nearing retirement.

*I didn't get my first lesson plan written until Friday afternoon at 3:15. Let's hear it for procrastinators.

*Our Open House night was cut short by a wicked thunderstorm that knocked the power out. So instead, we had to stay until 6:00 the following two days to give parents a chance to come by. Speaking of tempests, what kind of omen was that?

*However, no one is really checking up on us - we don't have to sign in or out (except workday mornings), or punch time cards, and it is assumed we are doing our work when and where we are supposed to do it.

*Did I mention I will never sleep well tonight? Yeah, I did. Well, what sleep I get will be harried by bizarre, frightening dreams that could keep a Jungian in business for a year (that was Jung, wasn't it?).

*I hate the first day of school. Pray for me, folks.