The following is a true account of events experienced personally by the narrator. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. (I know that names are often changed to protect the innocent, but in Mr. T’s 4th block… innocence does not exist.) Continue at your own risk.
You’ve all seen those “inspirational” teacher movies, where the affluent, middle-aged white woman takes a job teaching the dregs of the worst school in the worst city in the country; you know the ones I mean. Michelle Pfeiffer did it in Dangerous Minds (which has been on HBO recently, reminding what a God awful film it really is) and then later on Mine That Bird taught some kids how to Freedom Write (whatever the fuck that is.) What do you mean it wasn’t the horse? Hillary who?
Anyway, real life doesn’t work like that. I know both of those abortions-on-film were based on true stories, and there are the Ron Clark and Crazy Joe Clark (principal from Lean on Me) stories, but they are exaggerated, taken out of context and few and far between. (Apparently, you can only make radical differences if you are an unattractive, off-putting white woman or have the sir name ‘Clark.’) I’m sure that there are inner city classrooms that are as rough in reality as they are on camera, but I don’t work in one of them. I work in inner city Disney. That’s not to say, however, that my kids aren’t insane… because they are. Do they throw desks through the window or bash administrator’s skulls against the floor (another Lean on Me moment)? Negative. (At least not yet.) But every class has its own quirks. My first period is chatty and spacey, but easily managed. My 3rd period may be retarded. There’s no punch line there… they are retarded. The majority of any given class period is nothing more than a competition to see who can draw more penises on each other’s manila folders. Fear not, aging citizens; the next wave of world leaders may not be able to provide adequate health care or sustain social security, but your hospice residence with be donned with the finest dicks in the land.
But 4th period… that’s the real gem. From the beginning of the year, they were a handful… and there were only eighteen of them. When the semester changed, I acquired a slew of brand new knuckleheads via free agency. It became a three ring circus; no elephants, no jugglers, but plenty of clowns.
Step into my world (from 1:45-3:15, anyway.)
From the moment the bell rings, I’m on cell phone safari. I’m like Donald Schultz spotting Black Mambas in the rainforest trees (sorry, I’m a huge Wild Recon fan.) Their definition of slickness is pretending that they’re looking at the bell work while the very conspicuous Blackberries rest in their laps. Apparently I am as dumb as I look.
Big deal, right? The cell phone thing comes with the territory. Read on.
Once the bell work is done, the games begin. Reggie always comes to class with a healthy supply of zip ties. As I try to explain “The Lost Generation” concept in All Quiet on the Western Front, Reggie’s attention is dedicated to searching out unsuspecting victims. He is as conscientious as a hawk in this endeavor. He cannot define conscientious or endeavor… or hawk. But, he always finds his prey. Ah, poor Deon… he was actually paying attention. He may understand why the post WWI generation was considered lost, but he is also now zip tied to his chair.
Still not impressed? Well, allow me to introduce you to the fine art of “knapsacking.” Remember when you were in grammar school, and you would reach over to your unsuspecting neighbor and give him a shoe-wedgie? Well, welcome to the new age of classroom pranks (ironic that the newest prank has such an antiquated name – who calls a bookbag a knapsack anymore?) When an unsuspecting classmate goes to the bathroom, there is a mad rush to grab their bookbag. Every item is removed, the bag itself turned inside out, and the contents replaced. I have four students, including Reggie, than can perform this operation in less than fifteen seconds. I’m not going to lie… it’s kind of impressive. You know, in an idiotic sort of way. They are brazen with the knapsacking… they will attempt it at any given opportunity, no matter what I’m doing. I could be giving the final exam, and as I speak the words, “Okay, here’s the most important part…” I will hear the distinct giggling and rustling of papers that denote a knapsacking. They’ll take their lumps…as long as their mission is accomplished.
In the back corner, Christian (black) torments Aaron (white) by showing him pictures of half-naked white girls on his cell phone. Aaron lectures Christian on miscegenation (although he isn’t quite so eloquent with his wording) and invokes curse words that offend even my sensibilities (and you know how motherfuckin’ hard that is to do!)
Next to Aaron sits Billy. Billy informed me on day one that he does not do work. He also informed me that he enjoys getting high with his mother, and, just yesterday, asked Tanisha if black people eat fried chicken after they have sex. He did not pose this question subtly, or in an “inside voice.” Billy does not possess an “inside voice.” Neither does, Tanisha, come to think of it, as just last week I caught the end of a story in which, in her exact words, “Dis nigga kicked me in my pussy!” Alright, then.
Are we having fun yet? Good.
-Alisha is two months pregnant. Her child is already smarter than her. It has to be.
- Dominique is a tremendously talented artist. She is also a lesbian. She showed me her portfolio once. I needed to think about baseball… quickly.
- Stefan calls me “Mr. Jenkins.” This is not my name. He thinks this is hilarious. I am baffled.
Understand that these are not complaints. I don’t see these kids as the class from hell. Maybe what’s above sounds like no big deal to you; if that’s the case, you should be in this line of work. You’d flourish. There are days when they are in full-on knucklehead mode, and that ninety minutes feels like an eternity. But there are days when they are on their A-game, and all is well with the universe. But here’s the thing; I’ve never referred to them as “bad.” They are not bad kids. I give them a hard time, sure. I made some cracks earlier about their intelligence levels. In no way do I believe these kids are stupid, so if you’re getting ready to judge me from up in your ivory tower, just unbunch your underoos for a second. Teacher’s have to joke about their kids the way soldiers in a war have to make light of death. It’s the way we remain sane. I know things about those kids that would rip your heart wide open. I’ve read journal entries that made me fight back tears. Some of them are damaged. Some of them are misunderstood. When I call them “knuckleheads,” it’s with the utmost esteem and affection. Those are my kids.
A couple weeks ago, I had jury duty. I had to arrange for a substitute. Since we have no money in the budget for subs, other teachers end up having to cover classes. I hate this. I hate having other teachers come into my room – not because I don’t trust their teaching ability, but because the simple fact is that my kids only behave for me. This is especially true of 4th block. It is the epitome of controlled chaos. Three different teachers covered that class on the day I was out. Here are the quotes I got from them upon my return:
Teacher 1: “How do you deal with that class? They are an absolute nightmare. I don’t know what I would do with them.”
Teacher 2: “They’re pretty wild. One of them was nice enough to call me an asshole.”
Teacher 3: “I was just happy that no one set the room on fire.”
I can’t really get mad at Teacher 3, first off, because he’s a buddy of mine, and secondly, because I thank God, Allah and Baby Jesus in his tuxedo t-shirt everyday that no one sets the room on fire in that class. Teacher 2 is also kind of a buddy, and I reprimanded the kid who called him an asshole. I made him write an apology letter. Let’s just say that my man won’t be working for Hallmark anytime soon. Teacher 3 really pissed me off, though. Because they are not a nightmare. They are rambunctious kids. They are a challenge. They make me want to drink heavily on certain days. But, they are my kids, and you don’t talk shit about them.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep. I have to get up and teach these bad motherfuckers tomorrow.
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