Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Cake

There was a kid, Javier, in my English class. Quiet, with the shaved head, numerous facial piercings, and sullen expression in vogue for young people, he exuded a message of "leave me alone." I bumped into him once late at night, at the midway at the State Fair, an uncharacteristic place for me to be, but, you know, my kids dragged me there for one more ride on the bumper boats. In his leather apparel, including leather pants, with the pierced face, and within a group of other young sulking men, Javier did not cut a welcoming image, and I would have avoided him, if he had not called out, "Hi Teacher!" with a boyish wave.

He did not offer much information about his life, and I didn't ask. When the class completed this inane exercise in the textbook on a topic of cooking lessons, he did respond aloud to the question: "What was the first meal you ever cooked?" He said when he was a boy in a little Mexican village, he had roasted a chicken. He caught the chicken in his yard and killed it himself, he said, by swinging it by the neck. File that under odd questions, odd answers.

A custom for these classes, I found out, is to have a potluck on the last day of class. Not wanting a big production, I passed out a sign up sheet and advised the students to write down their names and what they wanted to bring, if they did want to bring food or drink, but not to feel obligated to bring something. Javier put his name down and wrote "Cake."

Last day of class, I wonder if Javier is going to show up at all. He does, tardy, but treat in hand, and he does not just have a Pepperidge Farms frozen edible with him, nor is it a predictable concoction from a mix. He carries in this big three layer pink cake, with a tri-colored marshmallow design on top, bursting with fresh, pastel shaded, whipped cream, the kind of thing you would expect at your wedding.

The class sighs at the cake. This is a surprise. "Javier, did you make that?" I asked.

"Yes, Teacher."

"You must be a really good cook."

"Yes, Teacher."

I guess the killing and roasting of the chicken was a formative experience for this young chef, which is why he had told the story. File this under hot water bottles: cold on the outside and warm on the inside. The teddy bear inside the pitbull costume.

I think there are more people, more young males, like Javier out there than we realize: Sweet.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Mr. Manners

There are signs of progress here. The baboons whom we formerly hired to teach the children some manners are slacking off. Birdie has been refusing to go to sleep without resting his soft little head on my arm. Now isn't that cute and snuggly? Sure, except when I'd rather not lie there with a light blaring in my eyes, indefinitely, the evening ticking away, while he burrows around and jabbers himself to sleep. There are still a few things I would rather be doing, and that is besides scrubbing the squalid kitchen. Birdie demands, "Arm," or he says plaintively, "I need your arm."

Last night he was almost asleep and I tried to ease his head onto the pillow. Almost asleep, he said, "May I please have my arm?" Of course this was not his own arm a chainsaw had dropped on, but last time I checked, this arm was still attached to my body. At some point children develop personal boundaries, but evidently we are not there yet. At least there was a "please," so the baboons did teach him some human words.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Bunco Night

"Hey Birdie's mom, I'm going to my grandpa's," Birdie's friend at kindergarten tells me. "It's Bunco Night."

Oh so that was it. "That sounds like fun," I tell Jaron.

That morning I had walked into school with Jaron and his mom Cheryl, as I do many mornings. I have made some new friends with the parents at the elementary school, and I see them every day. They are cheerful people who tell jokes, share stories about their kids or their former lives without childcare duty, and swap recipes. I look forward to hanging out with them; they are the happy people who make my life happier. We have exchanged phone numbers, taken our kids trick or treating together, and had some play dates. We are the over-40 parents as distinguished from the teenage parents who look like they are 12, have lots of tattoos, and wear pajamas and slippers to drop-off.

So when we were walking into the school, Cheryl called out to another one of the mothers, "Hey are you going to make it tonight at 6:30?" I wandered purposefully toward the kindergarten, not wanting to seem like I was asking to be invited, too. Ouch: junior high school all over again.

Jaron asks if he could come over for a sleepover. "Sure, you are always welcome to come over," I tell him. "How many sleepovers has Birdie been to?" Jaron asks, and Birdie holds up a fist with no fingers showing and scowls meaningfully at Mean Mom. "ZERO". Chip off the old block.

"I have been to---oh so many I can't even count," the five year old friend goes on, wiggling his fingers. Oh boy, just like his social mom.

Bunco is a card game, I found out, but also a really carefree all-girls get together. Maybe the next year the fun parents will learn how fun I am and invite me to bunco night, too!

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Why I Love My Job

It is exciting: it keeps me guessing about what the student with the ankle bracelet, who is on house arrest, was in the Big House for; and also whether it would be wise to inform him he has not attained the standards necessary to pass my English class this semester. No, using the phrase "titty bar" in his paper was not the only reason he is failing. Are there bulletproof vests made in some stylish material for the anxious paraprofessional?

My students are nice to me. They don't yell, "You're a Big Meanie!" , talk down to me and say "duuuuh, Mom.." Sometimes they bring me sodas or trinkets as peace offerings.

My students respect physical boundaries. I don't get pawed, trampled, my hair pulled, snuggled by youngsters who act like they would rather still be breastfeeding than eating solids at the ages of 5 and 8.

I get to do something I know how to do. I know how to analyze prose and diagram a sentence. How do you wake up sleeping kids who are sleeping like rocks when there are only twenty minutes before the first school bell rings? What is the proper grip to force a small, clenched mouth open to brush the teeth inside? How do you control two beings SCREAMING at each other at the top of their lungs over who gets to hold the cat. How do you protect the cat? What do you say to a little person who pleads, "I'm hungry, I'm cold, and lonely." If you have also failed this quiz, the correct answer to the last question is hot chocolate, but it has to be sugary, preferably hfcs and non-nutritious so don't dare try to sneak in extra milk.

I don't have to ASK Dad, could he please be ever so nice and read a kid a bedtime story? Would he mind chasing his darling child down and scrubbing his face if he happens to have a chance to take a tiny break from answering pressing listserve questions about grasshoppers? Isn't there an amazing recipe for soft boiled eggs that he used to make, and wouldn't he like to possibly please FEED THE KIDS who are screaming I'M HUNGRY! instead of downloading photos right now? I get home really late and everyone is asleep and I do not care whose teeth were brushed, and whether they had Cocoa Crispies for dinner. At least I didn't have to cook it.

My students have problems. They are poor, badly educated, single parents, runaways, survivors of abuse, but they are trying to improve themselves and I am trying to help them. I used to want to be a counselor, but I did not want the big responsibility for someone I barely knew's well-being. Now I hear about so many problems---the evictions, the addictions, the sick kids, the violence, the untimely deaths, and I have a little beam of hope to offer, I hope, in education. Maybe the students can even get out of their own heads for a while, too, while reading the Declaration of Independence.

Wi-fi! I do not want it in my home since I would never see my family again; they would be abducted by computer games and bug guide searches. BUT, that is like not wanting potato chips in the house when I would also have my hand deep in the bag. I'd be addicted too, but I am holding out, still trying to put stock in simpler activities. Cranberry chains for the Christmas tree, anyone?

The semester comes to an end, like it is now, and then another comes as a fresh start with new faces and new challenges. I wish someone would let me know what the prison release guys had been in for, though.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Sim City

Dylan took his saved allowance (about $50) to the school book fair and spent it on computer software. He was trembling with anticipation to play Sim City 4, in which he could "build and magnage huge cities, establish vast transportations networks, keep Sims on the go by road and rail, airways and waterways," and so forth as the mayor of Sim City. But first he had to build the city.

He was busy at the computer for an hour, during which time he uttered comments like, "Awesooooooooooooome," and "Holy Mother of God!" so I knew he was engaged. After another hour, he wanted to show me the city, and so I received a guided tour by the 8 year old mayor.

There was a jutting cliff on the side of which is an active volcano, surrounded by water. A robot walks up and down the cliff, throwing plates into the abyss of the volcano.

I asked, "Where are the Sims going to live? Where is the city?"

"Oh, who wants to build that?" he said.

So this is what the world would be like if eight year old boys were in charge. The robot is still flinging plates; I guess the simulated world is functional, so maybe he did not do so badly!