My Boy George: JEAN FRIDAY

Going to the gym is a real treat for me.  That, or just a flat out horror show.  Between the people who basically live there, color-coordinating their shoe and Lisa Frank clothing color scheme, the floating torso bros who have no regard for their lower bodies...

"All day, everyday, BRO."

....and the people who just have flat out terrible, or downright wrong, form...

KILLIN' IT, BRO.

...my regular trips to the gym is just an absolute buffet of judgement.  I could argue with you that judging people is my job...isn’t it?  We just call it “critique” or “feedback.”  But nothing brings me more joy than just people-watching.  Whether it be “slamming-your-weights-is-the-exclamation-point-of-your-set guy” or girl who wears lifting gloves to do crunches.  Also, let me go on record and say “kipping” is dumb.

Almost...

The ability to take in a scene and point out something in attempt at humor is something I love, be it at a mall or watching college football on TV.  Is it in attempt to cover up my own deficiencies?  Probably.  I will say though, that I am my own biggest critic, and I frequently interject self depreciating humor here and there.  So if you ever wondered “I hope nobody notices (insert noun here),”  my answer is “yes...and it’s awful.”  On the other hand, if you've wondered “I hope everyone notices (insert noun here),” my answer is “yes...and you’re awful.”

Is it cruel or mean?  I guess so. But sometimes you have a moment in which your judgments turn downright hilarious.  Enter:  George…

George burst into the resource/intervention room in the morning as he usually did, weaving through a crowd of adolescents in attempt to place his backpack and coat in the appropriate space, and to inform me of his lunch choice.  I had been in the room for a minute or two, talking to a few teachers about the usual topics.  It was a Friday, and we were decked out in our finest denim slacks.  Now, let me tell you I am not a jean snob whatsoever.  As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have ever paid more than $20 for a pair.  The irony I see is the more ripped, tattered, and weathered the jeans look, the more expensive they are.  Hey!  These jeans look like they were found in a rail-yard!  How much?  $85?  SOLD!  How bout the ones that were run over by a lawnmower?  JUST TAKE MY MONEY!

Jeans:  where less is more!

In contrast, you can find yourself a pair of Bret Favre penis-jeans for like $12.  Made with the finest,1-inch-thick, Kevlar quality denim.  Well, one of our intervention specialists, Mr. Lipton wore one of these pairs of terror-resistant jeans.  They were box-y, high waisted, and wonderful.

As students filed in, I took notice and commented “sweet mom jeans.”  Mr. Lipton just pursed his lips, and shook his head, seemingly calling me an asshole in a non-verbal, teacher friendly way.

Former Governor and registered sex-symbol, Mitt Romney

It didn't take long until George made his daily salutations, in which he greeted every single teacher and aide there...all except one.

“Good morning Miss Knight!”

“Good morning, George,” the intervention specialist responded.

“Good morning Mr. Kluwe!”

“Good morning, George,” said the intervention aide.

“Good morning Mr. W!”

“Good morning, George.”

“What’s for lunch today?”

“Pepperoni pizza.”

“I’m having pepperoni pizza!”

“You got it boss.”

“Did you bring your protein bar?”

“I sure did.”

“Did you bring a protein bar with marshmallows?”

“Not this one. This one is ‘Blueberry Crisp’.”

George then clapped in excitement at the thought of me eating a Blueberry Crisp protein bar, and began to make his way to his work area, leaving the group.  Being the only teacher who was not greeted, Mr. Lipton was left unfulfilled.  Not only had he just been personally insulted by me, he was downright ignored by George.

“George!  You’re not even gonna say good morning to me?!”

“Good morning, Mr. Lipton!” George said, as if he hadn't missed a beat.

“No, I don’t want your good morning,” Mr. Lipton said in a playful, bitter tone.

Again, George was (is) autistic, so he wouldn't get Mr. Lipton’s humorous, faux outrage retort.  Either way, George was willing to bury the proverbial hatchet by paying Mr. Lipton a compliment after a pause:  “I like your mom-jeans!”

Again, Mr. Lipton pursed his lips and nodded his head.  He looked at George for a moment, then to me offering me a hateful gaze, then back to George.  After a moment of silently nodding and considering his reply, Mr. Lipton simply said “thank you, George.”

George, again, clapped in excitement and returned to his work space.  I then had to return to my work space...

But not before needing to change my now urine-soaked jeans.

My Boy George: THE REPEATER

Previously:  My Boy George:  LUNCHTIME

Foster: “Good morning.  Would you mind stepping down from there with your license and registration?”

Truck Driver: “Sure, I was just…”

Mac: “Good morning.  Would you mind stepping down from there with your license and registration?”

One aspect of George’s autism is that he often would repeat things, some of which may not be appropriate.  It was not out of the ordinary for students to chide George and ask him to say certain things that any student would ordinarily get in trouble for.  I spent a fair share of time rebuking students with the fury of a thousand suns on those occasions, promising them (in the most teacher friendly of ways) that if I ever catch them doing such a thing, they will meet the deity of their choosing.  However, there were times where George’s ability to “play repeater” would bring you pure joy…

Every day, George was fortunate enough to be picked up about 15 minutes before other students.  He would inform me upon entering my classroom, “I’m leaving early today, Mr. W!”  in his usual nasally voice.  Every day he would do this.  Every day I would ask if we could switch places so I could leave and go home.  He laughs and says “no.”  I smile.  Every day would start and end with George-filled ecstasy.

When George’s mother arrived, the secretary would page his name over the P.A. system, for all to hear.  It was pretty damn annoying 99% of the time whenever random announcements or early student dismissals were made, especially during class.  However, that remaining 1% was reserved for George.  So, at 3:15, the day concluded for George.  The classroom was silent.  Then, suddenly, the “ping” sound from the P.A. system would be audible, informing those who aren't deaf that something is about to be uttered.  It was 3:15, so everyone knew the reason:

“George H., please report to the front office, you’re leaving for the day!”

The calm before the storm.  The class was silently working. Then, like the skies of our dearest nation on the day of it’s independence, George’s day came to a fitting conclusion:

George:  “Bye Mr. W!”

Mr. W: “See you tomorrow, George!”

George: “See you tomorrow!”

George then scans the classroom.  Why should I be the only one involved with the fun? George brimmed with joy at all times;  why the hell wouldn’t he share it with the world?  He then filled the classroom with a bevy of parting phrases directed to a select few...usually whoever he saw in his path as he exited.

George: “Bye Kevin!  Bye Amanda! Bye James!”

“Bye George,” they all politely retorted.

George:  “Bye Caleb (yes, that Caleb)!”

Caleb:  “Peace out, my brotha’!”

George: “(to Caleb) Peace out, my brotha!”

I smile.

George then scaned the room, and saw his teacher once again.

“Peace out, Mr. W!”

Mr. W:  “(laughing) Peace out, George!”

As George stoped at the door, he paused once again, turned around, and then as a last parting gift, informed me: “We’re having mac & cheese tomorrow!”  

My god, did that kid enjoy lunch.  I then covered my face to prevent myself from laughing hysterically.  I failed miserably, but I really didn't give a shit.

My Boy George: LUNCHTIME

“Sometimes, there’s a man, well, he’s the man for his time and place.” - The Stranger, The Big Lebowski

Any teacher that claims that they don’t have a favorite pupil(s), or claims that they like all their students equally is full of shit...or is at least halfway lying.  I’m not saying that all teachers make a list of kids they love and a list of kids they’d love to go all “Dark Knight interrogation scene”...

In only my second year of teaching, I was fortunate enough to have an excitable young gentleman in my class.  We will call him George.  From day one, I knew that George was a bit different, but he was special in many ways...

George was autistic.  For those that are unfamiliar with autism, it is a disorder that affects the brain’s development of social and communication skills. There is a very broad spectrum; every case is different. They may not “get” sarcasm, or understand tone.  They may not possess the capability to read into things in depth.  More commonly put, their brains tend to be “one track” and focused on simple things. George?  George loved himself some lunch.

*It should be noted that students with autism crave structure and routine.  So, as I explain a little more about George, just imagine these types of conversations happening EVERY SINGLE DAY. You will get an idea why I loved that damn kid so much...

At the onset of the day, the teachers would often get their rooms prepared and mingle a little bit before students arrived.  As buses and cars with students trickled in, we would often be in the halls, greeting students as they walked by;  maybe even hassling a few.  As we did this, one of our duties was to take lunch count.  The students basically had 4 choices:  whatever entree hot lunch was, Chef Salad, Taco Salad, or Packed Lunch. The scene is now set.  Now...enter our hero.

Walking into the front door, the first thing George always did was greet the secretary in his kind of high pitched, nasally voice: 
“Good morning, Miss Wynn!” he would bellow. 
“Good morning, George,” she would always politely retort. From there, George’s mission was simple:  find me, and inform me is choice for lunch.

Now, that’s not to say that George would ignore people.  He would always greet his fellow peers and teachers as he walked by them.  But he did not stop to chat; no time for small-talk.  He did not stop for a drink of water.  He didn't even stop to put his book bag down.  George was having lunch today.  And he would be damned if anyone deny him that.

So, every morning, George would greet me the exact same way:  

“Good morning, Mr. W(of course, my full last name)!”
“Good morning, George!” I always reply.
“What’s for lunch today?” George would then ask.
“We’re having pizza.”
“I want pizza!” George declares.

Regardless of the entree, George always gets the hot lunch.  He never once got a salad or packed.  His daily inquiry was irrelevant.  Still, it made me happy to oblige him daily.

Now, conversations weren't always that easy.  I would be a liar if I didn't have some fun with it every now and again…

George enters the room.
“Good morning Mr. W!”
I dive below my desk.
“MR. W. I CAN SEE YOU! WHAT’S FOR LUNCH!?”
“Ah, George you got me! It’s chicken sandwich!”
“I want chicken sandwich!”
“You got it, George!”
George claps, happily.

George turns the corner in the hallway, heading toward my room.
“Good morning Mist-”
I turn around and run.
“MR. W!” yells George, laughing.
Eventually, I stop in another teacher’s room.
“Mr. W, I found you!”
“You sure did. I’m not good at hiding.”
“What’s for lunch today?”
“Tacos.”
“I want tacos!”
“Si, senor.”
George applauds.

George enters room.
“Good morning Mr. W!”
“Hey George!”
“What’s for lunch today?”
“Spaghetti.”
“I want some spaghetti!”
“Chef salad. Got it.”
“NO!”
“Oh, sorry. Fruit salad with a ham sandwich on top.”
“(laughing) NOOOOO!”
“How bout spaghetti? That OK?”
“Yes!”

Imagine beginning your day with that.  Every.  Single.  Day.  How could you be upset?

From there, the countdown would begin, as George would wait in pure ecstasy, almost salivating at the mere thought of sinking his teeth into that delicious bread product smothered with a type of tomato based red paste/meat concoction, topped with government cheese.  It didn't matter what was going on or what time it was, George couldn't contain his excitement, and he never hesitated to let people know.  “I can’t wait for that pizza!” he would say.  “Oh I know!" I would reply, "I saw them unloading it from the truck this morning!”

You could probably count on two hands the amount of times George would inform me of the menu of the day.  When he did it, it was always in a less than tactful manner, and irrelevant to the current topic of conversation...or even sometimes during a dead silence. George would just perk up and proclaim for all to hear, “We’re having pizza today!”  I would usually tell him that lunch was still two hours away, but he doesn't care.  And honestly, I don’t either.

Mr. W: “What are the benefits of using renewable energy sources?”
George: “We’re having pizza today!”
Mr. W: “Yes we are, George.”

Finally.  The time arrives. Lunch.  The apex of the day.

For lunch, each student had to merely line up in alphabetical order.  I would then read off the names from the attendance sheet and what lunch they ordered.  The student would then collect his/her lunch, and begin his/her feast.  George was in the middle of the line.  And you always knew where he was in line, based on the localized movement of the people he would bump into as he seemingly vibrated in place in anticipation of his slice of Italian heaven.  George gets so excited, that he calls out students’ names as I do until it is his turn…

George: “James!”
Mr. W: “James…”
George: “Kyla!”
Mr. W: “Kyla…”
George: “Christian!!”
Mr. W: “Christian…”
And then…
George: “GEORGE!!!!!”
Mr. W: “I’m sorry, I don’t have a George on my list.”
George: “Mr. W, NOO!”
Mr. W: “Alright...CAN I GET A SLICE OF PIZZA FOR GEORGE, PLEASE?!”

George then claps so hard, the blood vessels in his hands are likely destroyed.  Merely a small price to pay.

George collects his pizza, sits down, and begins to eat a meal that he will probably love and savor more than I could ever love a single entree and/or woman.  “This is a good lunch!” George shouts to me across the lunchroom.  I smile and nod my head an approval.  Sure, it’s the same food I used to eat 15 years ago, but to George, it’s like dining at a 5 Star restaurant, or a really really nice Denny's.

Once his meal is finished, George informs me (with sauce typically on his face) that he did not save any of his lunch for me because he ate it all.  I call him a jerk.  He laughs and asks how my protein bar was.  I tell him it was good, but probably not as good as his lunch.  He claps in excitement and then sits back down in his seat.  The countdown renews yet again...

You often hear the phrase “negativity breeds negativity.”  With George, the opposite holds true too.  It was impossible to converse with him without having a giant smile on your face.  If you didn't, it was likely because you had no soul...like, literally no soul because you would have to be dead. I think if everyone had a little George in their life, the world would be a better place...or at least lunchtime would be.

George will return in many more adventures, including:  "The Repeater" and “Mom Jeans.”