Top Five Bonus: A "Teacher" Moment

     Previously, I shared a Top Five Stupidest Students Moment, reminiscing about a less than brilliant moment of my own.  Now allow me to share with you a truly special moment – the Top Five Bonus: Stupidest Teacher Moment.  It came just this past year, at the expense of one of our own Never Finish commentators – he who is known as Schloto-Monster.  Otherwise known as Fatty McFatFat.

     You see FMFF and I “teach” in the same school (I use the quotes only for him.  I don’t teach.  I inspire.).  And since last year’s fall raffle when we started a faux feud to try and get our classes to raise more money, we’ve been going back and forth with pranks and insults.  He puts me as answer to a quiz question (Q:  What is the ninth level of hell?  A:  Heisler’s class), I imply he has a sexual relationship with one of our common students (did I mention we teach in an all boy’s school?).  Silly little teasing like that.

     The kids eat it up.  The ones who like me readily join in on teasing FMFF.  The ones that like him… well… there was that one.  And then they got caught spending too much time together behind closed doors and… well…

     We’re polar opposites.  He’s a right wing conservative, I’m a middle of the road’er with a slight liberal lean.  He loves the outdoors.  I think of the outdoors as that thing I have to go through to get back inside.  He’s Fatty McFatFat.  I’m Slim Goodbody.  You can see why there might be a little healthy competition.  But it’s all in good fun (he’s sure to retaliate for this on his own blog – see Jason’s Space link to the right – and I’m sure it’ll be moderately, sort of, not really funny).  No harm done.

     Except for the porn.

     One of the best things about our school is that we have a laptop program.  That means every student and every teacher (or inspirer in my case) is provided with a laptop (I’m typing this on mine).  And one of the best tricks I’ve learned during my time here is the Old Homepage Switch.  I picked it up from my senior class two years ago.  Whenever one of them left the room, someone else would immediately go to his laptop, pop open his Internet Explorer, and change his homepage.  Usually to something dirty, disgusting, or both.  Gay porn pages were a popular choice along with a site that, inexplicably, had only a photo of three frighteningly old men sitting naked in a tub with each other.  The perpetrator would then shut down IE and wait for the computer’s owner to return and the fun to begin.

     So you can probably guess what came to my mind when FMFF left me alone with his laptop in the faculty lounge.  

     Originally, I simply thought I’d send his browser to WeightWatchers.com.  At the last minute, I decided to do something more.  I changed his homepage.  I admit, my imagination failed me a bit at that point.  The best I could come up with was BigWhiteAsses.com.  Not my best work, I know.  But just then FMFF returned to the lounge and ushered me away from his computer with a girly cry.  

     I left, had myself a manly laugh and thought no more of it.  I assumed he had caught me, known what I was doing, and changed things back.  And that was what I continued to think for the next several days.  Then, three days later, during one of my sophomore English classes, I got my first inkling that something was amiss.

     One of my little buggers:  “Did you put porn on Mr. McFatFat’s computer?”

     Originally, I said no.  Then I thought about it.  “Maybe,” I said.  “Why?”

     And so he shared the story with me.  FMFF had been doing a “lesson” on something historical (he’s a social studies “teacher”).  He wanted to use some visual aids so he hooked the computer to the projector and opened up Internet Explorer so he could do a Google image search.  He was expecting to see the familiar school homepage.

     He saw Big White Asses (.com).  On the big screen.  For the whole room to see.

     He stuttered.  He stammered.  He blamed me.

     Yet, he took a suspiciously long time to close the image.

     I’ll give FMFF credit.  He did try to fight back.  When I was absent a week later, he enlisted that same student that “liked” him to help fill my desk with shredded paper.  Of course, I don’t use my desk and really compared to Big White Asses, shredded paper is just… shredded paper.

     But it’s OK, FMFF.  You’ll have your chance.  Someday.  

Check Out the New Blog

Those of you who are regular readers (Howdy, Harwell) may have noticed a new link off to the right. My Adventures With Stinky and The Bean. This is my newest blog. Partly inspired by the excellent book Why My Wife Thinks I'm an Idiot by ESPN's Mike Greenberg (a must read for anyone who likes sports, has kids, or is married), and partly by my desire to be read by people who might not cotton to the sort of stuff I put here, S&B (as it's known in the trade) is my
"family friendly" blog. Chock full of marriage / kid / dog / moronic man humor, fun, and maybe even a few life lessons along the way.

Take a gander. At the very least, it's good for another five to ten minutes of procrastination, easy.

OUT

Top Five - Number Three: Meet the Moron

For the last two years, the great state of Ohio has made every sophomore student in its school systems take the OGT – the Ohio Graduation Test. In order to graduate, every student must pass this test. Obviously, we could get into quite the discussion on whether sophomores should be taking this test, the merits of the test itself, the havoc it has caused with many a high school’s curriculum, and all the other pedagological issues that surround it. But we’re not here for that. We’re here for #3.

The moron.

I don’t have another name for him or for what he did. Unlike Jack and Shane and their somewhat intellectually challenged antics, the Moron did something simply idiotic. Bordering on the should-get-you-kicked-out-of-school-for-being-dumb. Something I actually had to – are you ready? – punish.

One of the OGT tests the students have to take is on writing. They are required to write two separate essays during the course of the test, each in response to a provided prompt. The prompts are of the typically “test” variety, usually focusing on some sort of opinion question, aimed toward seeing whether Moron and his ilk can actually have an opinion and back it up. My job is to make sure my students understand the sorts of things the OGT graders are going to be looking for, so they have the best chance to succeed. To that end, I showed them sample questions and responses, along with actual graded responses from last year’s test.

“I’m going to give you some rules of thumb,” I said. “These are basic guidelines you should follow to make sure you don’t sabotage your score. Always write two pages. That should give the graders plenty of evidence that you know what you’re doing.” Nods all around the room. “Always stay on topic. Don’t wander off into a discussion of what you had for breakfast.” More nods. “And whatever you do, make sure your answers are appropriate.”

“What does that mean?” I was asked.

“Well,” I said, “take the sample question we looked at about whether you believe there should be drug testing for high school athletes.” I popped that one back up on the projector. “Don’t decide to be funny or, in some cases, honest, and write that you don’t believe athletes should be tested because then your coach’ll find out about your four joints a day weed habit and kick you off the team. Or because you’re on the ‘roids and then you won’t be able to bitch slap anybody during the next game when your ‘roid rage gets out of hand.” They laughed but they got it. “Basically, don’t write anything that would get you detention.”

I informed them that I would be out of school the next Tuesday and that on that day, they would be taking a practice OGT writing test. Two prompts, two essays, due by the end of class. “And,” I stressed, “I will be grading them.”

Their two prompts:

1. Should the driving age be raised from 16 to 18?
2. Should we go to a year round school calendar?


Enter Moron.

I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t really grade them as hard as I should have. It was a lot of paperwork. I got behind. I had a new baby at home who believed sleep was for the weak and so I was bleary eyed and punch drunk and mostly skimmed most of the essays. Until my skimming eyes passed over one word in Moron’s work.

Bullshit.

OK, time to take a closer look. And then marvel at the stupidity.

Turns out that Moron had some very definite opinions on both topics.

On raising the driving age – count him as a NO. Allowing 16 year olds to drive was important because otherwise they would be dependent on parents to get them to any number of activities. But, he said, even more important than that was that 16 year olds need to be able to drive so they can go get beer on their own. And pick up chicks. Because:

“Beer is good. Chicks dig beer. And guys dig chicks. Sometimes even chicks dig chicks So, kids need to be able to drive for beer runs and chicks. MMMMM….. beer. MMMM… chicks.”

His take on the year round school was even better. It focused primarily on the idea that year round school would lead to a higher suicide rate among students because they would be deprived of the time off needed for – you guessed it – beer runs and chicks (he didn’t specify if he meant straight chicks or lesbians). And, then the highlight of the entire thing:

“Besides, we don’t learn anything anyway. All teachers do is assign bullshit busywork so they can do their own stuff instead of teaching us. Teachers get paid way too much as it is for the fucking bullshit they do now.”

I’ll allow you a moment to let that sink in.

Got it? Good.

So, clearly, I had no alternative. I dropped a zero on Moron, immediately failing him for the quarter. And I sent home a photocopy of his essays with a letter for his mom and dad to sign, or else I would turn in a Report of Misconduct to the principal and Mommy and Daddy Moron could talk to him.

Moron was appropriately contrite, explaining that he thought it was busy work and if he had known it was for a grade he would never have done such a thing. He was a good kid, after all.

The last day of the year – their final exam day – during another student’s final presentation, Moron pulled his shirt off and sat bare chested in my classroom, giggling with two of his buddies.

I leave you with one last thought to ponder and fear – this is only #3.

Top Five: number 4 - The Stud

As promised, here's "more later" (Harwell, you ain't getting anything done today).

So, this would be #4 in the Stupidest Students Top Five: The Stud. And before you go getting the wrong idea, believe me, this isn't nearly as sexy as it sounds.

The student in question was a sophomore, let's call him Shane. Shane was a Chatty Cathy of a student; constantly talking with those around him about anything that wasn't class related. But it wasn't his fault. You see, Shane had ADHD / ADD and, as any education professional can tell you, that means nothing is his fault.

It's his condition, you see.

Anyway, Shane, as I mentioned, was constantly talking, which meant Shane was constantly not paying attention. This would be evidenced in his quiz and test scores, which were perpetually in the low double digits (as in 15, 18, 23...)It was also evidenced in the document that landed him here at #4, his To Kill a Mockingbird essay.

We had just wrapped up reading Huck Finn and Mockingbird back to back. It gave the students an interesting look not just at literature, but at the evolution of race relations in America. In keeping with that idea, I assigned the students to write an essay, focusing on the theme of race relations / civil rights, etc. One of the suggestions I made was to compare either Huck or Atticus Finch with a significant real-life figure in the civil rights movement.

Shane liked that idea, apparently. He liked it so much, he did it twice. More on that in a moment.

The other directions for the assignment were straight forward enough: five paragraphs, 500-700 words, use evidence from the novel to back up your point. All spelled out at the top of the assignment sheet in BIG BOLD PRINT. Perhaps, I should have used fewer words because, apparently, the ADD monster kept Shane from reading all of the directions.

If only the ADD monster could have saved me from reading his essay.

It was there, in the middle of the stack of thirty some odd essays I had to grade, tucked between two his classmate's neatly typed and printed works. One handwritten page. At first I thought perhaps an essay from another class had accidentally gotten mixed in with my stack. One written by a paraplegic, clutching the pen between his teeth, scribbling out the words as best he could.

No such luck.

It was one page, but more importantly, it was one paragraph. All about Atticus, supposedly, though there was no mention of him or the novel after the first two sentences. Instead, the paragraph went on to discuss the heroic similarities between Abe Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr. From what I could translate of Shane's hieroglyphics, Abe and Martin were both heroes. Sworn enemies of racism and its inherent evils (my words - his were something like "They both hated the Klan and rednecks"). They both worked to right injustice wherever they found it ("They helped negors" - his spelling, not mine). But neither of those were Abe or Martin's greatest contributions. No, Shane had found one far, far greater. So great, he repeated it 15 times throughout the essay, virtually word for word every time.

"Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King Jr stud for black people."

OK... um.... well... Oh... I get it. Stud = past tense of stand.

My bad. I thought he meant... well...

yeah.

I showed that essay on the overhead projector, as I always do with student essays, to my other two sophomore classes (I remove the names so nobody knows who the idiot is). And as bad as Shane's idiocy was? Even worse was that only four kids out of 62, even got that there was anything wrong with Shane's sentence.

Guess that's what you get with No Child Left Behind. Thank God we've got George Bush to stud for the youth.

OUT

Top Five Bonus: Day of Dead Meat

OK, so since I've been up, more or less, since 4:30 with the baby, and the brain isn't functioning as well as it might, and since Harwell is desperate for procrastination material (besides my story I emailed him!), here goes...

This is a Bonus for the Top Five. Not one of my students. Me. As a third-grader at Woodland Elementary, the same school my father taught in until just last year.

Throughout my childhood, my father had many nicknames for me. Stupid Bastard Kid was popular after the incident with the plugged up toilet. SFB (short for Shit For Brains) was also a widely used option. But perhaps no other name summed things up as much as his favorite. Dead Meat.

As in, "My boy's Dead Meat from the neck up."

Witty man, my father.

As I mentioned, my father taught third grade in the same elementary school I attended as a young lad. In fact, he taught in the classroom directly next to mine (the room next to Mrs. Cooper, who was about 133 years old then and still carried a stack of books big enough to squash a third grade head). As I didn'tmention, my father had the sense of humor of a third grader as well, particularly when he got around his trusty sidekick, the school janitor.

Why did my father hang out with the janitor and not his fellow faculty members? He liked intelligent conversation.

So, one fine afternoon, while I was engrossed in a biography of Abe Lincoln (who will show up again in the Top Five - be ready, there's a quiz at the end), my father and the janitor, were standing outside the room. And decided to have a little fun.

"I bet I can get his attention," my father said. "Without using his name."

The janitor, wise man that he was, knew a sucker's bet when he saw one. "Too easy," he said. My father, always up for a challenge acquiesed and allowed Janitor to lay down the terms. "One chance," said the custodial marvel. "One chance. One word - not his name. He looks up, you win. If not..." He thought for a moment. "And no cheating. No yelling 'Fire!' or anything like that."

Again, my father agreed, safe in the knowledge that he had a secret weapon.

You can see this coming, right?

He leaned in the door, as close as he could without coming in the room. "Dead Meat!"

My head snapped around like it was on a swivel, to see my father and his janitorial buddy standing there, laughing.

After some debate as to whether my father really won (after all Dead Meat is technically two words), it was agreed that it really didn't matter. Because after all, like some Pavolvian dog with that damn bell, I had answered to Dead Meat.

And thhe truly sad part? I stil answer to it to this day.

I know, I know. Not my best work. But its early / late. And I'm tried. And I'm dead meat from the neck up.

More later.