Kule.

Found a note in my trash on the way out the door today. Feeling the desire for a bit of early teen-aged gossip (most notes are between girls demanding advice on who they should start to like), I glanced over it. In said note, one girl complained to another that her class was boring. Student in my class said that she should add my class instead. Other student response? "I wish! Miss _______ is sooooo Kule, with a K!!"

I'm not really sure what that means, exactly, but I'm assuming it is some kind of ultra powered cool. And not that I want my entire reputation as a teacher to be based solely on whether or not my class is pure entertainment, this gave me quite the ego boost as it means I've finally accomplished something I always wanted for some strange reason when I was an early teen: to be called cool by other early teens. Only took me a decade to get there, but still. . .

Score.

What you say. . . what you mean. . .

It's a final round of parent teacher conferences tonight. I've been telling my students all week that if they come with their parents I will give them a treat, and that I promise I won't say anything mean about them in public.

Of course, what they don't know is that I am also a master of euphemism. Here are some of my favorite things to say, and hear at conferences along with their "translations":

1. Your child is very social! They have so many friends.
(Your child never shuts up. No, seriously.)

2. Everyone in class really seems to enjoy your student.
(Everyone in class knows who your student is because they are so "social".)

3. Your student really adds something to our class. When he/she is not there, we notice a difference.
(I know that God loves me extra on the days when your kid doesn't come.)

4. Your child is very unique.
(Your kid is "special" - like, "don't eat the paste or put hand sanetizer into the pencil sharpener" special.)

5. Your student is very active.
(By the time they leave class, their desk is about three feet away from where it should be.)

6. Your child has a special kind of . . . extra sense about them. . .
(Buy your kid some deoderant please?)

I HATE ENGLISH!!

I don't normally make a big fuss when I see notes being passed in class. So long as they are passed between people sitting near each other and it doesn't stop them from participating, it's not a big deal. I reserve the right to take whatever I see, and as long as the passing isn't distracting to other students, then it's not a problem.

Today, one of these notes was left behind on the desk of a female student in one of my classes. Naturally, I picked it up. It read something like this:

"Hey ___________! I just wanted to write you a note. K. Bye!"

"Thanx - soooo bored. I hate English!"

"I know! I HATE IT!!!"

And so on.

Now, I'm not personally offended by this. Anyone who has had the pleasure of interacting with twelve year olds knows that their affections change in a minute and their sense of hyperbole is amazing, even if they don't know what the word itself means. So I'm not really personally offended by the letter. It wasn't the most exciting class. They're entitled to be bored. Plus, unless I'm a really awful judge of character, I know that at least one of these two note-writing fiends almost always likes class. The other one is a little more difficult to read, being of the more quiet variety, but I'm not inclined to think that 'the other one' is always hating class either. At least not all caps and several exclamation marks worth of hate.

But I can't just let it go. The opportunity is too choice.

So tomorrow, these two students will receive a little note of their own from me that will read something along the lines of:

Dear _____________,

If you choose to write mean notes in class, please be kind enough to recycle them before you leave. I don't like cleaning up after you.

Love,

Boring English Teacher

Ahh. . . the passive aggressive punishment. . .

P.S. I have Robin Hood

Never tell your students about your dating life.

I made the mistake of telling my students that I was being set up on (yet another) blind date last weekend. So naturally, the next day we had school, someone asked how it went.

"Well," I said. "I didn't actually end up getting to go. The person I was being set up with ended up having eye surgery last weekend, so he was actually blind. Kind of funny, right? Ok, so moving on with our announcements. . . "

And so went the day. I didn't hear anything else about it.

Until we did a letter writing activity meant to help students improve on some figurative writing techniques. The assignment? Write either a love letter or break up letter. This is a portion of what I read:

Dear Whoever Grandpa Set Me Up With,

. . . You love me like flowers need rain, you love me like I need chocolate, you need me like I need Harry Potter. Wait. What was that? You don't love me? . . . Your fra-gee-lay little world will be struck with dynamite. And your little eye surgery is a plane on fire. You thought you could get out of our blind date. Humph. I shun you.

P.S. I don't need you. I have Robin Hood.

The "response":

Dear Miss ____________,

. . . I think it will take me five years to get over you just like another guy did. You were the love of my life, but now. . . you are like a frightened animal who doesn't want to come near me.

Now. . . there are many times in class when I'm fairly sure that whatever I say goes in one ear and out the other but suddenly my quirks or odd sayings or ridiculous personal stories have come back. These kids are all very invested in my personal life. Probably more invested than I am at the moment.

Just goes to show: when you don't want them to listen and remember they're all ears, when you want them to pay attention they're off in space. Maybe I should find a way to couch assignments into embarrassing personal disclosures. Like: "I went on a date a few years ago where we did __________, just like I would like you to do in class today. Now, this assignment needs to be two pages long - the same number of hours as the movie we watched. . . "

MLIA

At the beginning of the year I went down hard on cell phones. I really hate them. I don't understand why thirteen year olds have need of them. The number of iPhones and Blackberries I've seen in the possession of 7th graders makes me feel a bit sick. So I threatened with pain of death the person who would dare bring such an offensive electronic within my line of sight.

And, to my credit, I am an expert phone catcher. I have an ear for it. If it vibrates, I'll take it.

Until now, apparently.

Today during work time I was back at my desk working on the lesson for Monday. Everything was going just swimmingly until I realized the entire class was laughing.

Now, I play an 80s music station on Pandora every now and then that will pop up with songs I have to be aware enough to skip in hope that they aren't listening too closely to lyrics. They usually aren't. Thinking I hadn't been paying enough attention to the song, I turned around and said ". . . was it the lyrics?"

More laughter.

". . . so what is it?"

Boy in the back raises his hand:

". . . someone's phone just went off. It was really loud."

". . . really?"

Entire class: "It was sooooo loud! And you didn't even turn around!"

Go figure.

MLIA.

We love you Conrad, oh yes we doooo. . .

Something very strange happened during my sixth period today. This class is admittedly very social, but for some reason nearly all of the boys were in their desks and working when the bell rang, and large chunks of girls filtered in giggling and squealing and being altogether too hormonal all at once. More than was strictly necessary at least.

Students were working well enough on their bellwork, though, until I made the mistake of saying the word "library". This was about the point when twenty-odd girls all squealed like mad. Deafeningly so.

Me: "Ok, what is going on?!"

Girls (in unison): "REALLY HOTT DISNEY STAR IS HERE!"

Me: ". . . who?"

Girls (in unison): "REALLY HOTT DISNEY STAR IS IN OUR LIBRARY RIGHT NOW! CAN WE PLEASE GO AND SEE HIM?!"

Me: (unsympathetically): "No."

This precipitated a deluge of bribes and pleads, including promises of chocolate (tempting), money (illegal?), 'but he's my future husband!' claims (unlikely - he's probably closer to my age than theirs!), and (my favorite) - the 'But I'll DIE if I don't go!' (I'd like to see it.)

To make things worse for these poor hormonally charged wee-women, I showed no mercy. I closed the blinds so that they could not see out of the windows. I drew a "picture" on the board of said Disney star so that they could have "no excuse" for wanting to go, since he was already here. I would occasionally look out of the blinds and say "Oh look I think I see- oops. Not him."

So while they didn't get as much work done as they perhaps should have. . . I had all kinds of fun toying with them.

Is that wrong?

I told you so. . .

I told my students at the beginning of the year that I could beat them collectively in anything involving Harry Potter trivia and that they could try and come up with a question I can't answer about the series, but that I doubted they could do it since I've never lost a game of Harry Potter trivia and don't intend to start.

A few of them have taken me up on the offer, but mostly with off the cuff kinds of questions that most people who've read the books in the class would also remember. Until yesterday when a student in my last class came up to me after obviously putting in at least a little more thought as to what might stump me:

Student: "You know how you said that you'd be able to answer any Harry Potter question? Well, I think I have one that you won't know the answer to."

Me: "Go ahead."

Student: "What is Harry's vault number in the bank?"

Me: "713."

Student: "Dang it."