Lights Out

I am blogging when I should be grading narratives. But! I'm having a problem this year: some of these stories are good! It makes me want to read them, not grade them. A lovely problem to have.

"'How dare he play off beat!' she said to John. He frowned and nodded in agreement. She went to find the drummer to tell him off, but when she saw him, a great wave of sadness suddenly overtook her, and she almost began to cry. She couldn't help it. She had never in her life seen a man with such miserable eyes."

I know it isn't The Most Original Ever Thing, but I was pretty much dying to know what happened next, and why that poor drummer was so sad. Right? And it was prettily put. I like that "she couldn't help it." (That was a blended quote, btw, which every one of my seventh graders can do--blindfolded, and with their hands tied behind their backs.) I like the rhythm of the thing. Rhythm is so crucial in writing, even expository writing, and I don't know why no one gets this. Rhythm in writing, the sounds of the words in your mind as you read them, is key. Just my opinion, people, but I'm right.

I think the reason my kids are writing so much better this year is that I don't entirely suck. I've figured out my style, and I'm in it. I used to struggle to find something that worked, watching other teachers and trying to be like them if they were good. But I'm not imitating anyone anymore. I'm teaching the same classes I taught last year for the first time ever, and I feel completely spoiled having everything prepped out. I mean, I change it, but it's to make it better, not to ohpleasegodletmehavesomethingtoteach

themtomorrowsoicangohome. And I can make it a lot better, because it was thrown together the first time through. I'm in my own room all day, and nobody is in there but me, so I don't have to spend time moving my work space. 

Also, I've learned a lot about classroom management. I've created this persona, and it totally works. I yell, and I whisper. It's very dramatic. I'm very formal and stiff, but then, when they least expect it, I kick off my Danskos and perch on the air conditioner and twirl my scarf and shoot the shit with them. It is so much fun. When someone in the classroom does something like interrupt me, I take my time. I take a long pause. For drama. I am mortally offended, etc, etc. Last year I would've rushed, thinking I had so much to cover I didn't have time to glare for 35 seconds. This year I know better. If you glare for 35 seconds, they think you're crazy. They whisper about you in the hallway.

"Did you hear about Ms. S totally flipping out because Ashwin tried to speak while she was speaking?" 

This is very effective: you want them gossiping about you. All I did was glare. Or maybe I whispered, "excuse me." But I play that shit out. I don't care if it takes the entire class period. The next thing you know Ashwin is telling his buddies I threatened to launch a nuclear missile because he doesn't wanna seem like a wuss, and everyone is writing four drafts of their narrative when I only asked for two. Real drafts, even--that look totally different from the version before. With growth and process and shit.

The other thing I do is I tell them why I freak out. I say, "I want to get your papers back to you on Monday. So, I do not wish to spend 16 hours correcting things you already know, or moving your staple because you put it in the wrong place." And here I sometimes pause and twitch for a bit, acting as if the mere thought of a misplaced staple is ghastly and debilitating. It kind of is, actually, once you've moved 150 times however many papers they write. You'd think it doesn't matter where the staple is, but you'd be wrong. These are seventh graders. You try reading a paper that is stapled in the absolute middle, or in the shape of a goddamned boy band. (I know. You cannot fathom. I couldn't either, at one time. I mean: what shape is a boy band, anyway?)

When I give my How To Turn In A Paper speech, the students are riveted. They're taking notes. Nobody told them to. But I walk by, and they are letting each other copy the parts they missed, and on Sean's paper, it says, "STAPLE. Only one! Not in middle! Not in shapes!" And I haven't even really started yet. Then I start talking about what it means, on a karmic level, to waste the life you have been given and the moments of everyone else's lives in this classroom saying anything less than relevant. And then! I give them Cs. Not all of them, mind you. But some. The ones who half-assed it. I mean: really? You are getting me for free, and you don't try? This is the statement you want to make with your moment? This moment? The one that you will never have again? I do not think so.

When I was in grad school, there was a principal I really admired. She used to be an English teacher. She said to me once, "Men have lots of power. The only power women have is drama." I dismissed this comment (but not really, since I remember it) as sexist. Now I see that she was only responding to the rest of the world's sexism. And she was right.

We all think of drama as a bad thing. I suppose. But those kids wrote four drafts. Four, people. Not all of them, but definitely a third. Today we had a department meeting, and I asked, "um. . . the 7th graders this year--is anybody else having them write four drafts?" 

"That seems a bit much," said one. "Why do you do that?"

"No, I mean--are they doing this without being required to." 

"What?"

Silence.

"Yes."

"Huh. No, don't be crazy. Nobody does that. Are they sick? Like OCD? Are you making this up?"

Today somebody called me to say her kid was having a hard time in my class.

"Good," I said.

She laughed. "You're such a bad-ass. We love you."

This was not the response I expected. Parents are all so relieved to have somebody working their kids. It's like nobody else does it. Could this be?

This brings me to a related (not) topic. My child has the massively annoying habit of switching on and off the light switch and locking and unlocking doors. He loves to do this. It sounds not so bad, I realize. But you have to be here. He cannot stop. He has broken lamps, trying to play with them. He has plunged us into darkness at the worst possible time. He has made our poor morning eyes suffer from too much light. He has shut the cat into every room, one at a time. He's locked us all out on the balcony. Locked in, locked out. It all sucks. He cannot resist. I have forbidden him to touch any lights or locks. He knows and can recite. 

"What are the only two things I ask of you in this life?" I say. 

"Don't touch any locks or lights," he says, as he turns off the kitchen light at the exact moment I need to look at something which is BURNING OVER AN OPEN FLAME. Then he dances over to the balcony and locks himself out there, for good measure. Why, why? Just: why?

The end.