Do you know what is awesome?
What’s awesome is having some mysterious muscular pain in one’s glute, but having no memory of having done any deep lunges whatsoever. Although, upon reflection, I do sit in some tiny ass chairs during the day, and it is entirely possible that I arose from one of them over-eagerly. A colleague suggested that I might be able to call in sick with that one. I’m not sure that the drop-down menu on the website includes “Ass Injury.” On the other hand, it’s worth a shot.
Those of you who have been reading the Peachy Chronicles for some time are familiar with the fact that, regardless of what grade I teach, I manage to attract a contingent of
crazies high needs individuals who are entertaining in writing but beyond challenging in actual practice.
Today, for example, I was required to administer an assessment that has no bearing on student learning, grading, or life. Rather, it stands as a measure of teacher effectiveness that hinges on growth from the fall to the spring on this one little “task.” It is Keystone Cop-ish on so many levels, and it was rendered even more so by my students’ behavior today. The Keystone Cops were silent movie police sensations (I have been met with blank stares when making that reference in the past, so there you go). They were clumsy and there were lots of them and they ran to jump on their Keystone Cop cars in a way that people found hilarious. I guess. Like education reform. That’s my poorly-made point.
I have a couple of students who like to earn attention by flailing about on the floor. I remind them, in a pastel voice, that this is not safe for them and that I have to keep them safe. Then they put chunks of green or pink erasers into their mouths and laugh at the owners of said erasers. It is spitty and gross.
Today, my room was a veritable revolving door of my two top contenders being removed so that others could complete their high stakes, completely meaningless assessment. But the best, bestest, bestissimo times three, was when my young mad girl called Finesse (in my mind), decided that the next best thing in her life would be to put a cardboard box on her head. And walk around the classroom, preferably bumping into someone who a) she didn’t like, or b) was too well-behaved to react. I think that was her third visit to the office in an hour.
When I walked her and a couple of my other students out to the bus, I privately said to her, “Finesse. You put a box on your head. Do you want to be known as the person with a box on her head?” She said no. I’m not convinced. But I was impressed with my indisputable skill as a therapist there. She’ll probably remember that conversation as one that turned her life around. . .
Which brings me to the other insight offered by my colleague, during the glute injury discussion: “Maybe you were clenching.”