I See This Kid

I See This Kid

I see this kid in front of the building
Pants way too baggy
The crotch at his knees.
A cap
Bill pointing straight to the side
Laughing, holding a skateboard
Waiting for the bell to ring.

I see this kid in the hallway
Her hair is pink, and orange, and maybe green
Big buckles, chains, adorn her
Baggy pants
Laughing and walking
With a friend

I see this kid in class
Polo shirt, shorts, flip flops
A hemp choker around his neck
Writing a poem, doing his work

Who are these kids?
What will they become?
My guess is..
Parents, teachers
And
Maybe engineers.

"Friendship Is Not One Big Thing, Its a Million Little Things"

Previously in this blog I talked about writing assignments I give my class. I always write what they are writing, and am quick to share. Today I led a great lesson on friendship. We watched three short videos with different friend-based themes and discussed each. The last video ended with a young man proclaiming "Friendship is not one big thing, its a million little things." I used that as my prompt and turned the kids loose. below is what I wrote, and no I won't share this one with kids. I did not use my school only language.

Friendship can either be the most comforting or most terrifying aspect of life. In the minds of some middle school children it is the only thing. In an ever-changing digital world where the number of friends you have on My Space or Facebook is a badge of honor to be worn proudly there cannot be a timelier topic. Last week The New Oxford American Dictionary named unfriend the word of the year. Unfriend is defined as a verb meaning to remove someone as a friend on a social networking site. Teenagers and young adults interviewed on the subject almost unanimously felt being unfriended on-line is more devastating than a face-to-face blow out. Is it no wonder the saying “Friendship is not just one big thing, its a million little things.” Is confusing to kids today.
Friendship is like a wedding cake. There is a big bottom layer. Sure I see these people as friends, but in reality they are acquaintances. People I know and like, but not really friends. You bump into them at wedding receptions and during happy hour. For the most part you are happy to see them, exchange pleasant greeting and move on.
The next layer, that smaller middle layer of the cake are the people I work with. The bond is obvious and we have a common goal. Because of these commonalities you grow close. Many times you travel to conferences and meetings with these Dudes, sit in meetings, and share that common pool of blood, sweat, and tears. With this group it is not one big thing, far from it, it is the million little things. You share joy over a kid acing a test, or finishing a paper. You cry together when a student loses a parent to death, jail, or desertion. You grieve when a treasured colleague changes schools. The million little things you have in common build a bond that knows no bounds.
The top layer, that small little chunk of sugar and frosting forgotten in the freezer, are the friends you love. You help them move with out complaining, even when the thermometer is topping out at 100 degrees. You drop what you are doing to go give them a jump start at 5:30 a.m. You leave for work 45 minutes earlier than usual so you can follow them to the mechanic then give them a ride to work. You make a million little sacrifices and get back so much more than you can count. These friends listen to you never ending litany of “fucked-up decisions made by dick-headed non-educators posing as administrators.” They pull over so you won’t puke in the car. They clean your fish and fix your lawn mower. Those friends you share a million little things with are the ones that are there when you need that one big thing.
Friendship is not an easy A. Many people grade themselves as friends closer to a C, but a high C. If you get what the saying “Friendship is not one big thing, it is a million smaller things” means that’s all that matters. You understand friendship, and live that value. Unfriend means nothing to you.

Fanning the Flames

Thank you Indianapolis. November 5-7 I attended the National Middle School Conference in Indianapolis. Teaching at the middle level is quite possibly one of the most hazardous jobs on the planet. Lacking HAZMAT suits, tazer guns, or pepper spray we wade into battle everyday armed with nothing but a laptop and a sense of humor. Dr. Sharon Faber, as entertaining an educator as you will ever see, puts it best when she describes the typical 8th grade boy. “They run everywhere they go, bump into something then make a sexually inappropriate comment when they get there.”
Seriously, I thoroughly enjoy teaching Middle School. The trials at this level are a daily reminder of just how much adolescence can suck. Each day brings Johnnies who’s heads are fighting a losing battle with gravity. “It’s weird Mr. T, as soon as I sit down gravity pulls my head straight down to the table, I’m weak I can’t lift it, oh I’m so weak.” And whose hormones are in the red zone, “I can’t believe that bitch said that, that is it, she is through, I will ruin her life.” To that one I step in and in my best Ward Cleaver intervene, “Excuse me Johnette, no matter how mad you are at one of your friends you must be respectful, think of more school appropriate language to express your feelings.”
Johnette stops texting, looks up blankly, pops a bubble and murmurs, “I’m talking about my mom you Asshole.”
God I love it. The conference in Indy stoked the old furnace. Each session I attended offered me hope, fostered confidence, and fueled the creativity I’ve always relied on in the classroom. The icing on the cake was the opportunity to be a presenter. For the second time in five years a few of my colleagues and I led a session on technology in the classroom. We once again presented to a jam-packed room. The feedback we received praised our enthusiasm and ingenuity, and validated our belief in what we are doing. And for that I say, Thank you Indianapolis.

My Best Day Ever At School

I gave my students the following assignment. Write a short personal narrative about either your best day ever at school or your worst day ever at school. When I give writing assignments I always write along side the kids. Here is what I wrote.

My throat was so dry no amount of water could slake my thirst. I had not slept for five nights. Every possible worst-case scenerio imaginable had been played and replayed in my mind like a favorite episode of Seinfeld. And yet, believe it or not, this was my best day ever in school.
From August 1980 until December of 1993 I trudged my way through college. To say my journey was more like a marathon than a sprint does not even begin to give the process the recognition it deserves. It was a marathon for sure, but imagine a marathon that at different times during the race you have various handicaps thrust on you. “For this mile and a half you will have a broken leg, wear a blindfold, and have a 100 pound bag of hammers tied to your wrist.”
I staggered, stumbled, fell in the mud, but always, and baby I mean always, picked myself up and raced on. December 19, 1993 I finished the race. I was a college graduate. And that day led me to my best day ever at school. On that day I had that degree in education and I was a teacher.
So, cotton-mouthed, sleep deprived, bowels of water and knees of jelly I stood at the front of the class, looked those 4th graders in the eye, smiled and sang to the mountaintop, “Good morning class, my name is Mr. Theobald, I am your teacher.” My first day of teaching was without a doubt my best day ever at school.

Nobody Smokes Anymore

I sometimes think my Mom’s two main food groups were cigarettes and coffee. Sure she would eat, usually after the rest of the family. With seven kids around the table, 8 if you include the old man, she had little time to sit down and join us. But during the day when children were off terrorizing their teachers, or hanging out at the pool, mom was on the cigarettes and coffee. For her smoking was a social event, a vice to be shared only with those few close friends who could appreciate a smoke filled kitchen and a pot of fresh black coffee. She wouldn’t smoke a cigarette with just anyone, no sir, that was a privilege reserved for only the chosen few.
A quick check of the contents of the ashtray was like reading the guest book after a wedding. The brand of butts ground out in the bottom of the tray revealed the afternoon’s smoking partners. If it was only Kents, you know Randi had walked up for a quick cup of coffee after lunch. These little chats usually revolved around Alter Society gossip and the latest troubles of their respective brood. Camel non-filters let you know Jeanne stopped by after her weekly trip to the grocery store. I can still see her, “I only have time for one cup Liz, I have ice cream in the car.” Jeannie loved those camels. She would take a hit, then daintily pick tobacco scraps from her tongue. A few ground out Marlboros and I knew Phyllis was up. Mom and Phyllis usually had the most animated, and longest conversations. Swim team, children, grand children, fights with spouses, and gossip, gossip, gossip.
These four women accounted for 24 children. I would be curious to know how many of those 24 smoke today. My guess is very few. I know I don’t. But I do miss the smell of cigarette smoke in the kitchen and the sound of my mom’s laughter. Nobody smokes anymore, it’s kind of sad.

School is In

Now that school is in session I am back on the blog. I had a great summer, short, but great. Over the next few weeks I will share some of my summer experiences, but today, I want to talk about school. As the year begins, my 16th as a teacher, memories of years gone by rush back. This year I find myself thinking about my third grade year.
I always look back at the old elementary school building in Red Cloud with a certain amount of reverence. The drinking fountains in the middle of the floors, the wooden stairs warped in the middle from so many Ked’s and P.F. Flyers tromping up and down through the years. My favorite feature was the little hallways each classroom had for the kids to hang their coats. It ran the length of the room and had hooks on the wall. There was a door at the end of it that entered the classroom at the back of the room. We put coats, lunches, boots and any other random paraphernalia we brought to school for the day.
My teacher in third grade, who will remain nameless at this time, was not the best classroom manager in the world. Jeff Neely and I did nothing to help her. Very early in the year we figured out a wonderful little fact. If you acted like an idiot in class she would send you out in the hallway. Neely and I were all over this. Class would start, we would get mouthy, boom, “to the hallway.” You would think she would have been wise to us, you would think she would have figured out to not send us both out there at the same time. My guess is she knew better, but having the two of us out of her hair, was the ultimate prize. Neely and I loved it.
We were supposed to sit on the floor with our backs to the wall quietly until she came out to to retrieve us. That lasted about 10 seconds. First we would check out the lunch boxes. There was always a bag of m & M’s, a Reese’s Peanut Cup, or a Nestle’s Crunch to snag. Having satisfied our craving for a snack we began inventing different games to keep us occupied. The one we truly loved was “How far can you get?”
It went like this. One of us would get up and take off down the big, wide staircase and then come back. “How far did you get Jeff?”
“ I made it to the second floor, down by Mrs. Stokes’ room.” Then I would try and outdo him. One day I made it all the way down to the basement, past Mrs. Barta’s (A freaking saint) and all the way to the music room then back up. Neely couldn’t live with this, he had to top it. Off he goes down the stairs, and then I hear, “Jeffery Neely, where are you going.” The voice of God? No Just Orpha. Seconds later, and I truly mean seconds, back came Jeff on a dead run, he slid to a stop and sat down quickly. Orpha was not that easily fooled, she was on his tail, and her claws were out. “Are you supposed to be downstairs young Man?’
“No.”
This was too rich. “I told him not to go, I told him to stay here.”
I looked at Orpha with my best Opie Taylor smile.
She looked at me, her eyes narrow, no trace of a smile. “you know Ted the less you talk the better off you’ll be.”
I still haven’t learned that lesson.

You'll Never Go Back

Sometimes the worst curse is to excel at something. From the time I was a small child I was a natural regarding athletic endeavors. Swimming and baseball occupied those pre-teen years, and I did well in them. When Junior High came storming into my life football and basketball became my passion. The skills required for these sports came effortlessly, and I enjoyed everything associated with both. Often on weekends, in the evening, or all summer I would play pick up games with older kids.
I loved football. The practice, doing drills, getting yelled at by the coaches all just thrilled me. By the time I was a senior in high school I was getting some ink in the papers and some college coaches were calling and knocking on my door. Small colleges, but colleges nonetheless. If you have never played football it is hard to describe the buzz I got during games. In the huddle when the play was called, and I knew I was getting the ball it was magical. Taking the handoff or the pitch and turning up field, stiff-arming some lowly safety or running over a linebacker, dragging some poor sucker for a few yards, even getting creamed were all huge rushes. Hauling myself off the ground and trotting back to the huddle I couldn’t wait to get the ball again couldn’t wait to hit and get hit.
Once the comfort zone we all know as High School was over I went on to college to play football. That is where the fun left the game. Everything was too serious, the coaches were too picky, and above all I partied way too much. Way too much. That whole “you have to go to class” just didn’t stick with me. Nobody gave a crap if I slept in, or skipped class, or didn’t do my assignments. No one cared, especially me. Before I knew it my grades sucked, my parents were pissed, and I dropped out of college. My Dad, never the great communicator, told me, “You’ll never go back, You’ll never graduate. The glove had been dropped, the line had been drawn, the challenge had been… You get the picture.
I didn’t go back for a while, and more than once I started to believe the old man. Maybe I wouldn’t go back, maybe I wouldn’t get that degree. There was months and even years that I didn’t think about college. I had a pretty good job. The paycheck wasn’t huge, but it was a living. Life could be worse. Sure enough, the idea started creeping back in my mind. Get that degree, get that degree. Slow was the way to go, I knew that much. I took a class here and a class there, then declared education as my major and started taking it seriously. Not one to ask for a lot of help I wanted to do this on my own. I continued working full-time and started taking 2 or 3 three classes a semester. I had a wife, two beautiful baby girls, a full-time job, and was taking as many classes as I could afford. No school loans for me, no sir, I was paying my own way.
Thirteen years after I graduated from High school, I got my Bachelor’s degree, and I did not owe one penny in student loans. I did all the work and I paid for it myself. I will never forget the look on my Dad’s face when I showed him that diploma. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many smart-ass, in-your-face little snippets I wanted to yell at him. I didn’t. Later I went on to get my Master’s Degree, and I am very proud of that, but not as proud as I am of that Bachelor’s Degree, not as proud as I am of being able to look at my old man and just shake my head, knowing he was wrong, knowing I would go back.