Hansel and Gretel

In class we started a fun new unit. We are putting kids in situations where they have to look at both sides of an issue, pick one side, and defend it. Hansel and Gretel was a great opening for this unit. The kids had to pick either Gretel's side or the witch's side and defend it in a five paragraph essay. As always I wrote along with the kids. So...Here it is.

At what point is enough enough? Home ownership and taking pride in your property is an ideal we all feel strongly about. If property owners are not allowed to protect their homes in any manner they see fit we will at some point be living in total chaos. In the story Hansel and Gretel the Witch was perfectly justified in keeping the little miscreants captive.
Hansel and Gretel were openly and willingly trespassing on the witch’s property. It is true they were lost and starving, but they did not even knock on the door. They didn’t look around and ask for help, they immediately began vandalizing the witch’s house. The witch was only doing what she felt she needed to do to protect her property.
The witch provided food and shelter willingly to the children. When she caught them vandalizing her house she did not yell or scream at them, she took them inside and fed them and gave them a soft bed to sleep in. Gretel herself said Hansel was given all the food he could eat. This hardly seems to be wrong.
The witch allowed the children to work off their damages. She could have very easily called the sherrif, taken the kids to court or turned them away. She allowed Gretel to work, to help pay for the damages. The witch was old after all, she could not do the work herself.
I am the last person to advocate child abuse. Locking kids up and keeping them against their will should never be acceptable. The witch was doing none of these. She was an old lady whose house was vandalized. She was providing shelter to some lost and lonely kids. That was hardly a reason to get shoved violently into an open fire.

A Boy Named Osama-A Man Named Adolph

Sometimes people are just ignorant. Sad to say that means all people, including me. My wife told me about a lady she works with. Not a close friend, just a colleague. This somewhat fastidious woman, and concerned mother, was upset her child had to read a story about a boy named Osama in school. Definitely a tough name to have in this day and age, and your heart has to go out to the kid. I did a little research and tried to find out what I could. The child is an Islamic kid attending school in New York. The constant harassment he received over his name left him severely traumatized and led to a botched (if you could ever call an unsuccessful suicide attempt a failure) suicide attempt and a transfer to a school for traumatized students. I guess it figures students would be pretty cruel to a kid named Osama. After all kids are by nature quick to jump all over strange names, and man can they be hateful. Osama, however, wasn’t bullied by other students, far from it. In his own words he described his classmates as being very supportive. No, Osama was bullied by teachers. Teachers, just like me. He was told he would never pass no matter what he did, he put up with comments like, “Oh Osama you’re here, and I thought you were hiding in a cave somewhere. The school principal went so far as to tell Osama, a Nigerian-born Muslim, he would be better off in an Islamic school. This went on for over two years and led to the eventual suicide attempt. In his new school Osama prefers to be called Sam, but will revert back to his given name when he reaches 18.
Where do my stupidity and a man named Adolph figure into this? As unpopular as the name Osama has to be for people carrying that moniker through life in this day and age, Adolph was equally hated in the post-war years. You know which war I’m talking about, the last one we won. As a child my neighbor across 4th avenue from us was named Adolph Lucas. Mr. Lucas I’m sure was a nice man. He never missed mass, always shoveled his walks, and his wife Mary was quick to share a freshly baked cookie. None of this mattered to Don and I. We were shitty to Adolph Lucas. We would see him get home from his job with the county roads department, park his pickup in his driveway, and make his slow purposeful stroll up the sidewalk to his front porch. Don and I would hide behind the bushes and yell terrible things at Mr. Lucas. You can imagine, especially if you know Don, what we yelled. The name Hitler or worse yet Heil Hitler, Nazi and a number of other equally insulting barbs were constantly hurled. Think about how cruel this must have seemed to Adolph Lucas. Imagine what he must have been thinking as he took communion and there stood Don and I as alter boys in our cassocks, doing the work of the Lord. My guess is he wasn’t mad, he didn’t consider suicide, and he wasn’t looking to sue anyone. My guess is he felt sorry for us.

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.