Armed and Humorous

Patiently strolling among the crowded rows of her second grade class, Mrs. C spreads her attention evenly among her energetic students as they work on a writing assignment. Patiently absorbing the spray of machine gun-speed questions directed at her, she makes her way to the back of the room where a robust-bodied boy vies to gain her attention.

When she acknowledges him, his pained concern is not related to creative writing.

STUDENT, contorting his flexed arm toward his back: “It hurts when I do this.”

MRS. C, many years experienced with students who get off-task: “Well then, don’t do that.”

As she moves on to the next kid, she winks and nods at the man smiling in the back of her room.

Math-e-mad-ics

To all my math-nerd teacher friends - Happy Pi Day.

On this day of 3/14 I have no idea who discovered pi, the mathematical calculation of the ratio  between a circle's circumference and diameter (pi = 3.14); nor do I care. The part I enjoy now is when the middle schoolers bring me leftover pieces of actual bakery pie from their class celebrations.

Math and I have never had a stable relationship. I was good at it until the fifth grade when my teacher, Mr. Nowak, a kindly, older gentleman, allowed us to correct our own papers. Whether we earned our grades or not, we all received A's. The man, who walked with a limp, fascinated me after telling us he got his butt shot off in "The War."

In high school, one of my math teachers exploded from his classroom and pinned me against the lockers while aggressively manhandling my neck and chin. (In his defense, he'd earlier warned me to stop bouncing a handball against the wall while he taught class. I didn't.) I dropped his class the following week.

My final math teacher, sealed my math-less fate when he submissively allowed his classroom control to deteriorate to the point where he didn't punish kids for taping Playboy centerfolds to the chalkboard. Mr. M often showed up late for class, smelling of Old Spice, coffee, and cigarettes. The moment that likely pushed him over the edge was the day Shelvin Longley stood at the pencil sharpener, lit a pack of firecrackers, and dropped them onto the ledge outside the window. Already a nervous wreck, Mr. M nearly came unglued. Decades later I heard he died in his parent's home; a lonely, bachelor alcoholic.

Thirty-plus years later it's no wonder I can't even balance a checkbook.

A Loss For Words

Mild-mannered instructor, Mr. West, struggles to maintain control of his larger-than-normal Special Ed study hall. His usual calm, soothing demeanor increasingly agitates as the behaviorly-challenged high school students repeatedly ignore his requests to comply with even the lowest standards of classroom decorum.

 Approaching his wit's end, he lets loose with an eardrum-piercing whistle, mostly used for calling naughty dogs. With the entire class wincing and covering their ears, one puzzled student asks why he's being so "mean."

Recognizing an opportunity to craft this moment into a learning opportunity, Mr. West explains he’s not being mean.

MR. WEST, hoping to coax a vocabulary word from his students: “I’m not mad. I’m raising my voice because I’m dissatisfied and disappointed in your behavior. Can someone please tell me a word that describes my feelings? It begins with the letter ‘F’.”

STUDENT, serious and eager to have the correct answer: “Fuck?”

The entire class sits spell-bound waiting for Mr. West’s reaction.

MR. WEST, caught off-guard, expecting the word 'frustrated', pauses before he softly and defeatedly replies: “Yes. That's the word.”

Sensing his honesty, the students acquiesce and go about their studies.