A Picture's Worth A Thousand Deaths

I've never seemed to have much luck when it came to pictures, be it school pictures or even a candid photograph.  In my elementary school years, I was much fatter.  Back in the day, there were two choices for school backgrounds:  neutral pastel blue or gray or TERMINATOR LASERS!  Because it was the early 90's, everyone wanted the "robot genocide" background because it was the best way to compliment their mullet or rat-tail.

"Give me your clothes, and your motorcycle."

And there I was:  fat, surrounded by a boring backdrop.
Fast forward maybe 20 years and my incompatibility with the snapshot is still a legitimate talent.  Don't believe me?  Go on Facebook right now and find a mutual picture of us.

See? Ruined.  Even 200 year old Native American photographs are more illustrious and they refused to smile on account of their firm believe that their souls were being vacuumed away.  The horrifying thing is, I am just as cursed outside the frame.  I don't need to be in the picture for bad things to happen.  It has become an inverse four-leaf clover.  My spirit animal is a deer being hit by a Hummer.

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Exactly 1 year ago tomorrow, I was in attendance of the U.S. World Cup qualifier in Columbus, OH.  Ninety minutes later, a cadence of cleats struck the pavement in the tunnel to a 2-0 victory.  In a matter of moments, we would learn that we had secured our berth to the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.

Deuce-Face

I was ecstatic. I had witnessed history.  I was also tired and simply wanted to make my way home, wash the sweat and dried beer showered on me from the fits of joy following each goal.  Sure I was only going to get maybe 5 hours of sleep, but in the long run, it would be worth it.

While tickets were close to $50 each, the total investment of the game would be roughly five-times that amount.  Upon returning to my car, I discovered that my driver's side window had divorced the rest of my car.  Like tiny pieces of glitter shimmering in the streetlights, my window had been shattered into hundreds of pieces.  There was no Stone Cold Steve Austin to follow, though.  No Jim Ross screaming about "the Texas rattlesnake."  There was only panic.

I just remember saying "no no no no no!"  and circling the car in a frenzy.  Upon further inspection, my laptop case was gone.  And that explained it.  Some colossal dick saw the case, thought "wooo free laptop," shattered the window, and fled with its contents:  some graded pre-tests from my students, some pens and post-it notes...and my school pictures I literally had just gotten that day.  Obviously I never got the bag back.  Odds are the guy checked out what was inside, saw there was no computer in there, and tossed it in the nearest alley way or dumpster.  But not before cutting out a 3x5 and securing it to his fridge that is likely kept together with 3 rolls of duct tape; watching over an appliance holding expired mayonnaise and a lifetime supply of bologna.  Which brings us to today...

I strolled into the office after school as part of my usual routine:  use the restroom before I left, and check my mailbox for any important documents.  Today, the school pictures arrived.  My box was saturated with no less than 15 envelopes, one of which was my own.  Paging through to the bottom, I glanced at my picture.  However, 85% of my face was being obstructed by the paper surrounding the clear plastic panel used to preview the photo.  So I did what any normal human being would do:  I took my picture out of the envelope.  What transpired next took a mere two seconds, but its effects were everlasting.

As I was holding on the rest of the pictures, I couldn't get a firm grip on my own, and dropped it.  It fluttered in the air like the feather in the opening/closing scene of Forrest Gump as it descended toward the floor.  In one final, gliding motion, it disappeared underneath a door...a bathroom door...an OCCUPIED bathroom door to the LADIES bathroom.

What do you do?  Leave the scene?  It's your PICTURE.  It's not like they can't put it together.  Do you "make the first move," knock on the door and crack a joke to try and cover your tracks:
"So what do you think? You can put that up on the mirror if you want to!"

Or do just simply wait and try and play it off?  Pretend that you have no idea what just happened and then quickly take the evidence once the patron leaves.  More concerning, however:  who was in there?  A teacher?  Secretary?  One of the curriculum directors?  A parent!?  I soon got my answer...

After a flush, 15 seconds of running water, and a few clicks of the paper towel dispenser, the door opened and out walked one of my fellow teachers, Mrs. Elerly.  In her hands was...well, me.  Her look was that of "is this a joke?" combined with "are you serious?"  With a feeling of relief, I gave her a surprised look and said "sorry, I was aiming for Mr. Branson's (the principal) door."
She merely laughed, and gave it back to me.

After a brief moment, I looked at my still-frame self and shook my head, as if to say "what the hell were you thinking?"

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.

Answers from the Kids: Year 2014

Hi.

How are you?  You look good.  Seriously.  Have you lost weight?

Anyway...a few months ago I decided to air my grievances in regards to the 2013-2014 school year.  It was like watching half of a Rocky movie: no happy ending, no uplifting workout montage; only Stallone getting the shit kicked out of him and the credits roll.  

Needless to say, there was a bit of “radio silence” since the last entry, during which I decided to remove the previous chapters from this very blog. In short, it’s easy to burn bridges as soon as you cross them.  In order to give a better representation, I want to distance myself from last year a bit more.  The story is all finished; it will see its due time.  But not yet.

Consider a woman who carries her offspring in her womb for 9 months: completely changing her lifestyle, watching and monitoring her every move; later, spending hours in labor, having her body and special places stretched and wrecked in ways that one may think are physically impossible, only to have her lying in a Long Island Iced Tea of bodily fluids, and you decide to ask her: “hey!  Let’s start planning another!”  

While I've been told childbirth is the most physically exhausting experience to ever endure, I bet she could conjure just enough strength to find the nearest Bio-hazard slot and stab you with it’s contents. Is it a topic worth discussing? Sure. Is it a topic to discuss immediately after producing a living creature via Slip-and-Slide? Not if you value your penis, guy.

Much like our heroic mothers and their children in utero, I’ll need to let this tale sit a bit longer until it is ready to see the world...only my child is black AND white, and I’m not going to post pictures and talk about it every social event.

So...that’s that.  Moral of the story:  wait.  Now let's have some good old fashioned fun on the World Wide Web.

Multi-cultural friends surfing on keyboards in the atmosphere.
Just like they predicted in the Old Testament.

The genesis of another year brought on the typical educational research on my part:  the interest inventory/questionnaire.  It’s really great because it helps me at my job, but also satiates my need to judge others.  It’s a win-win.

This year’s crop was a bit different, in that instead of asking the usual “Mr. W looks like…” question, I asked a broader question in which I had them complete the sentence “My first impression of Mr. W was…”  I found this to be a bit better, since it would widen the scope of responses as well as stop softballing the Zac Efron answers.  And honestly, it’s fascinating to hear a completely neutral party’s first thoughts of some semi-athletic hobbit who claims to know science.  So, who am I in the eyes of an adolescent?

Ok.  I see it now.

“...a guy who looks like a ‘Mario.’”

- Ok.  Interesting start.  Probably the dark facial hair?  Not that I have facial hair, but I will go on record that I could grow a VERY HANDSOME FULL MUSTACHE IF MY ROOMMATE WOULD LET ME.  I also can jump high, collect coins, and murder my enemies with turtle shells.

“...angry.”

- Good.

“...he likes food.”

- That one stings.

“...happy?”

- No?

“...intelligent and athletic.”

- Scholar of the Year.

“...when I first saw you, I thought you were a crazy person.”

- Ok.

“...serious and sarcastic.”

- Nailed it.

“...he looks nice but strict.”

- As in I look nice, or I’m a nice person?  I did wear a nice shirt that day, I think.

“...cool and laid back but kinda short and I know his wife.”

- ............

“...this should be good.”

- Ok, this one I legitimately laughed.

“...his eyes are gorgeous not trying to be weird, they just are sorry! LOL!”

- Thanks!! LOL! WTF?! (emoji)

“...his eyes are really pretty.”

- Thanks.

“...he’s young” and/or “...he’s in high school” x 24

- Why do I do this to myself?

Then, two days later, the floodgates burst open:

“Hey Mr. W, we decided…”

“Yes?”

“We decided that you look like Zac Efron.”

“Oh wow.  That is very neat.”

IT'S GONNA BE A GREAT YEAR, YOU GUYS.

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.

Casanovas and Cougars

“I think of all the education that I missed.

But then my homework was never quite like this.

Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad,

I'm hot for teacher.”

- Van Halen

Am I a good looking man?  I would say so.  I’m not trying to sound arrogant, but I know at the very least I am not ugly.  Hell, my students think I look like Zac Efron.  You have to have a certain degree of confidence in this life, especially in the dating world.  When you see a beautiful woman and “inquire”, you subconsciously make a self-judgment in which you deem yourself sexually appealing enough to court this fine young vixen.  Now, if she shoots you down, that all goes to shit, but for a ephemeral moment, you could look in the mirror and see Ryan Reynolds looking back at you.

My first year out of college in my preliminary year of teaching, I was a solitary man who was still somewhat living the college lifestyle.  “Survive till the weekend” was pretty much the motto.  Students would often inquire about your personal life or what you did (if anything).  For the first several months, you would just get random questions as they tested their boundaries, as they learned about this stranger who is so wise in the ways of science:

“Are you married?”

“No”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Are you gay?”

“No.”

Their rationality is indeed comical.  “He doesn’t have a wife, nor does he presently date someone.  Well that can only mean ONE thing: this man adores playing butt-darts.”  I could honestly count on multiple hands the amount of Facebook messages (before going completely off the public social media grid) that I would get from students that would say “hai teachr!  Dis iz (name)...r u gay? Cuz (student) said so...”  Ultimately, you realize that there really isn’t anything you can do to stop the murmuring.  Kids are going to talk.  You just hope they don’t discuss these “rumors” with their parents…and thank god it never came to that, because I could not imagine that conversation.

One fall evening, we held parent/teacher conferences.  The format was basically open-house, each teacher to a table.  Parents could mingle around as much as they pleased with whatever teacher they needed to see.  You could typically divide most of the parents of troubled students into classifications based on just two replies:

“They did what?  I’m gonna beat they ass!”

or

“Well...he/she says they don’t understand, and that you won’t help them.  I just don’t understand how a teacher wouldn’t help their student.”

The latter of these two responses made me want to eat my own head.  I work with your child every single day in class.  I SEE what they do and HEAR what they say.  Are you aware that your son was making spit-wads or “hornets” during class?  How about the time he took 5 minutes to sharpen a pencil?  You do realize that your daughter talks more than any two people, right?  That may inhibit her ability to hear.  But no, that’s fine.  Just believe ANYTHING they say.  After all, why would they lie?  It’s not like they’d get in trouble.  They would?  Oh.

The worst of it is, the kid is sitting there, just looking at you from across that table as their mother defended them to the death...on an outright lie.  “Is it because you don’t understand?” Mom would ask her son.  He would then nod in the most solemn, somber demeanor, as if to show he was ashamed.  Meanwhile, I am glaring at him, unblinking, waiting for him to make eye contact so I could shout, “LIAR!” with only a cold gaze.

After conferences, student behavior typically divided down two roads, either because the kid got his ass beat, or mom/dad made excuses for their child in front of you, pretty much undermining everything you’ve done and pretty much communicate to their child “keep doing what you’re doing.  No matter what happens, I got your back.”  Ah, parents.

The next day, during my 6th period class, there was a little more social activity than usual.  Even weirder was the fact that they were looking at me as they whispered.  You can typically discern between students looking at you because they know they shouldn’t be talking, and students that are looking at you because they are talking ABOUT you.  This instance was the latter.  Regardless, I presumed that I didn’t want to call attention to whatever it was.

After about 30 minutes in, it still hadn’t subsided.  I opened my desk, grabbed a CD (for you youngsters out there a CD or “compact disk” are these amazing circles that can mystically produce melodies) and used it to check my complexion.  Did I have a booger?  Did I grow a beard suddenly?  Is my zipper down?  Am I gay?!  I would soon get my answer (about the talking...not the gay).

One of my students, Seth, finally broke the silence.  He strolled up to me and in his husky voice, inquired, “Mr. W... you’re single right?”

I just replied, “What does this have to do with what we’re working on?”

“We just need to know…”

Hold on...who’s we?

“Yes, I’m single.  Get back to work.”

Seth walked back to his seat, and then whispered something to a quiet girl, named Ali; a quiet girl who was now blushing red.  Seth was kind of smiling as he whispered, then made a gesture toward me, imploring her to do something.

Why was she blushing?  Why did they care if I was single?  I mean, that’s kind of an abnormal question to be asking me.  And what did Ali have to do with all of this?  I expected better things from her.  She was always a nice girl, and her mom was really nice too, who I had just met last night and OH GOD NOOOOOOOO…

But Ali was already walking towards me.  It all made sense.  I wanted to run, but I’m a teacher.  The only place I could have gone was behind my desk, or maybe slightly to the left of my desk.  Ali was the color of a beet by now; she then sighed in embarrassment as she informed me:

“My mom thinks you’re hot.”

“Uh, ok.”

“And she wants to know if you’ll go on a date with her.”

The class waited in anticipation for my response...

"Yes, Mr. W...DO IT."

“That is really nice, Ali, but I don’t think I would be comfortable with that, seeing as you are my student.”

“Pleeeease?  It would make her really happy!”

“No, Ali.”

For the rest of the day, Ali would pop her head in my room and just say “pleeeeease?!”  I would shake my head no.  I started doing the math in my head.  Ali’s mom would have to be at least 30’s, and that’s if she became a mother at 18.  Was she even pretty?  She wasn’t ugly, I know...GOD, WHAT AM I THINKING?!  Maybe it was Ali’s idea...maybe she heard her mom say I was “nice looking” or something and took that as an initiative to “make her mom happy.”

After last transition, Ali popped in again with her plead.  I said no, but this time I asked “was this all your idea?”  Shockingly, Ali said “no, it was hers.  She came home and was like ‘why didn’t you warn me!  I wasn’t ready for THAT!’ and she asked me if I could ask you out.”

My mouth said “Oh…” but my brain said “what the hell kind of mother has her daughter ask out her teacher on her behalf?! What is wrong with people!? There is no such thing as normalcy anymore!  There isn’t any code of conduct anymore!  There is no Dana only Zuul!”

I felt bad for Ali, too; stuck between two hypothetical lovers.  She just wanted her mom to be happy.  And if that was by dating a, at the time, 23 year old, so be it.  I knew the kids would give her a hard time, but she handled it beautifully.

The next day, I hoped that it had all blown over.  I didn’t get any questions about it at all...until 6th period.  Seth, once again, initiated the dialogue:

“Ali’s mom thinks you’re hot.”

“Thank you, Seth. I know.”

“Are you gonna go out with her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Ali is my student, and that would not be very professional.”

“You aren’t gay, are you?”

Modesty:  UNLOCKED.