Put down the remote, son Part Deux

My middle school gym coach had an unfortunate last name. Really unfortunate. She was a rather butch woman and the fact that students once found some "lady condoms" in her drawer kind of sealed the deal with the whole lesbian thing. Thus, she was forever coined "Coach Gayford" amongst the students. I never really partook is such name-calling, but I had to admit that it was kind of clever.

We never really gelled. I wasn't a whiner, per se...but I was incredibly unenthusiastic. The only time I remember truly perking up during gym class was when several girls and I stood in the corner of the gym and practiced model walks.

I rocked that shit.

But the woman tried. By the sands of time, this woman tried. For some reason, I just could never get geeked up about throwing a ball the shape of Hey Arnold's head. The other boys took it so seriously. They would get in these intense arguments about a twenty minute game of flag football and take it out on each other in the locker room.

"Guys, it's just a game," my chubby self would interject.

"Shut up, you're fat."

"Well, you get C's, so...."

ANYWAY, I bring up this gym teacher for a reason. Back in 8th grade, there was the Presidential Fitness Award-thingy. If we were unable to pass all of the tests, we would get a "B" in Phys Ed. Un. Ac. Cep. Ta. Ble. In my previous post, I mentioned the self-beating my ankle took because I refused to complete a full mile.

But when grades were brought into the equation (and I loved me some 'A''s), things got surrrious.

So, I went up to Gayford and meekly asked for some help. "G, I know you cheated on the mile run but today we're going to fix that. I'm going to busy the rest of class with Ultimate Frisbee and we'll run a mile together."

SCRREEEEEEECH. I thought I would cry and she'd just give me the 'A,' and now I have the actually run this freakin' thing?!

Alas, the shoelaces were tied and as the rest of the class enjoyed throwing a disc and getting in fights over it, I was making loops around them. Slow, labored loops.

But I was doing it. And Gayford wouldn't let me stop. Every time my pace slowed, she looked back and said, "Come on, G. Come on now." I trotted my feet, shook my head and followed her feet for what seemed like hours. I didn't stop though and when it was over, I collapsed on the ground and threw water on my face.

None of the other students took notice of me during this time (Ultimate Frisbee is ultimate, you know), and perhaps that was her mission. She knew how embarrassed I was by my pace (over 13:00) and did this for me. She brought me another cup of water, sat down next to me and said, "You just did that in 8:45."

I nearly choked. "8:45? Are you serious???"

"Proud of you, G," she said, patted my head and went back to the rest of the class, leaving me to regain my breath.

I never forgot this day. She probably has no idea that this memory stayed with me for twelve years but it has. This is so important to remember as a teacher-> you really have no idea how much you can do for a student. You may see it as something small, but it's huge to a kid that needs that extra push.

After that day, whenever someone poked fun at her, I would jump to her defense. She went out of her way to give me a tinge of confidence with that damn mile and that was pretty rad.

Two months ago, I ran the NYC Marathon. Spirit fingers.

Thanks, coach.

Put down the remote, son

I was a rather corpulent fellow. I enjoyed eating lots. I cried and threw tantrums when my parents would tell me that they wouldn't buy me a second chicken sandwich. I went back for fourths. Entire buckets of ice cream would disappear from my household and somehow end up undearneath my bed.

In short, I was fat.

So, being told that I would have to run a mile in gym class was akin to having someone pull out my fingernails with pliers. Or take my sixth slice of pizza away from me. Hmm...more of the latter than the former. I dreaded the yearly run as much as anything else. Physical exercise was something I hated so much that I went to extremes to prevent participating in any form of it.

Through the years, I became pretty good at faking my way through the mile run. I would complete three out of the four loops without anyone noticing. One year, however, some bastards tried to tell on me and I denied it throughouly. One of my fellow students backed me up: "He would never lie. He's an honest guy." Oh, but I did. And I got away with it.

Boo-yah. Politics could be in my future.

Another year, I became aware that the mile run was going to take place the next day. Being a genius, I sat on my parent's bed watching "Wild & Crazy Kids" and spent the hour beating the crap out of my ankle so I could claim that it was sprained. Smack. Whomp. Plop. Welp. Pizza?

*Sidenote: Have you seen Donnie Jeffcoat- host of "Wild & Crazy Kids"- recently? Look.

*End Sidenote and swoon.

Of course it worked. After an hour of beating, a nasty bruise formed and I simply knew I had gotten away with murder. I limped into gym class the next day, totally selling it and smirking like a total jackass. With every step, I emitted a groan of complete agony. "Oooh." "Ouch." "So much pain for such a little, tubby kid like me." My "pity me" stare was so good that the gym coach handed me a bag of ice.

Much to my chagrin, the gym coach decided it was volleyball day. Needless to say, I was pissed. Beyond belief. The one sport I was semi-good at was volleyball and as I watched the class have a gay old time, I cursed the damn remote control. My plans were foiled and I was left sitting on the side with the kid that picked his zits and ate them. What was I to do?

I immediately opened the bag of ice the gym teacher gave me and began eating its contents.

I was hungry.

I'm a teacher, get me out of here

Winter Break is upon us! Those are two of the most beautiful words one can hear. That and "Anderson Cooper."

Sorry, I need a moment:

Hold me.

Anygay, I had to lay down the law with my kiddos yesterday. "Look, break begins Wednesday.
You want out. I want out. Let's be happy and make the most of it." They nodded and smiled. There was a sense of kinship there. Yes, this will be an easy week, I started to believe.

And then they went apeshit.

It's a total cabin fever effect. If I had it my way, I would also be running around the room, throwing anything at anyone. Hell, it looks like fun.

But I have to be professional. In years past, I have seen children get in arguments over whose Santa hat was better and a fistfight over who got the last cupcake at a classroom holiday party (I settled that by taking it from them and eating it right then and there. It was delicious.). My nine year-olds don't get in such scuffles, but their energy and anticipation over the holidays is contagious. It came to a point where I was convinced Santa was going to bring me Rock Band, too. Something tells me I will be disappointed Christmas morn'.

Going back home can be a sobering experience. My family resides in Florida, where no snow is to be found as well as no Democrats. It's a total escape- one that I welcome. I don't have to raise my voice (unless I get into a political throw down with the pops) and can just sit idly around as I am fed until my stomach wants to explode.

I look forward to it this year because it comes at a time where I truly enjoy what I'm doing. In years past, I wasn't entirely happy with where I was. I was either doing a terrible job with my students or did not feel content with where my life was going. Now, I don't have those same feelings. It has been a good year thus far, and I'm going home more level-headed. As level-headed as one can be at my decrepit age.

So...I have six days of food, family, and friends ahead of me. I'll come back rested and ready for the little ones to once again make me laugh.

Student quote #2

12/21/2009

Mr. Vest: "Who is on the $1 bill?"
Student #1: "George Washington!"
Mr. Vest: "Who is on the $5 bill?
Student #2: "Abraham Lincoln!"
Mr. Vest: "Who is on the $100 bill?"
Student #1: "George Clooney!"

In due time, young chap. In due time.

You can't be annoying today. It's my birthday.

“Are you 50?!”

No, I’m not. I’m also not 45. Or 35. Or 20. Kids are obsessed with finding out your true age. No matter what age you tell them you are, they think you are old. I could be 16 and they would be shocked. Though, I remember being in 4th grade and thinking that the students in 8th were so very, very wise. Little did I know that they were just as immature as I was. If not more so. Hormones do that to people.

Kids give you a free pass on your birthday. They can’t be annoying. They can’t be mean to each other. They can’t be themselves, basically. They understand it’s an “important” day for you- though, 26 is very much a non-milestone- and will leave their idiosyncrasies and oddities aside. They are shockingly kind and giving, too. They bring cupcakes, sing you songs, and are the polar opposites of who they are for most of the year. Basically, they are pod people for a 24 hour stretch, and that is a-okay with me. One year, a student brought me a pair of sweet Italian loafers. It was a sweet gesture, even though the kid was one of the most annoying people I have ever encountered.

What I find a little amusing about all of this is that the students haven’t a clue of how teachers actually celebrate their birthdays. This morning, one of them asked, “Did you have a nice dinner with family and friends and eat cake?”

You have to say, “Oh yes. It was a very lovely birthday!” while patting them on the head and rustling their hair as Paula Cole’s “I Don’t Want to Wait” softly plays in the background.

But what actually happened is that you got wasted. Like, really wasted. And so did your friends. And your friend’s friends. You also had several pictures taken of you pretending to make out with a Christmas tree. You friends slapped you on the butt with empty boxes posing as gifts. You nearly vomited on the fresh snow Jack Frost brought to NYC this weekend. You danced suggestively with a singing telegram performer dressed as a giant hot dog your friends hired for you. You then got further intoxicated at a gay bar where someone asked you if you had any coke (“I do NOT, thank you very much!”). You also fell asleep on the R train back to Brooklyn because no cab would dare make the trek to an outer borough. “How did I end up in BAY RIDGE?!” you screamed at 4am.

How did you end up there, indeed.

So yes, children. It was a lovely birthday. Now please, take your seats, follow my instructions, and please, PLEASE be good to me. I’m old, you know.

Student quote #1

Circa February 2008:

Student #1: "I heard that when you go to hell, all you are allowed to do is play hockey."
Student #2: "Lord have mercy!"

Parent/ Teacher THROWDOWN

The teaching profession would be a hell of a lot easier without the involvement of parents. And students too, but that's wishful thinking, no?

The annual corralling of parents into your classroom for conferences can be a bit overwhelming at first. You never know if they are going to nod their heads in agreement with you or coming in with fists swinging and attitude spewing. It's a necessity of the job, though, and one you just have to suck it up and deal with.

I look back at the times my own parents attended nights such as these. I wonder what my teachers were thinking when they entered the room. Did they sigh in relief? "Oh, this kid's parents. This will be easy." Or did they roll their eyes and have their blood pressure increase? "Dear god. If I have to deal with this kid's BS for one. More. Minute...."

That's the issue with being a teacher- you are constantly thinking about how the ones you had growing up thought of you. Now, I know I was an obnoxious student: My hand was perpetually in the air even if I did not know the answer, I tattled on e-ver-y-one and I cried often.

I also faked sick at least once a week to go home early (not because I was sick, but because daytime television rocks). I'm sure my teachers were relieved to see me leave so they would not have to deal with me. In short- I was a baby and a suck-up.

I suppose it is because of my past actions that I usually have a class populated by kids that fit this mold. Karma's a bitch, man.

So...tonight my students' parents will arrive inquiring about their little ones and either praising my work or shuttin' me dowwwwwn. In any case, bring it. Either way, the evening will end with a plate full of nachos.

Just a little misunderstanding

Kids are funny. Especially when it's unintentional.
Actually, kids are only funny when it's unintentional.

I have a file on my computer that documents either amusing or unfortunate things my students have said. When I taught middle school, it was entitled, "Funny Sh*t My Kids Say," mainly because "sh*t" was a word that periodically came out of their mouths.

Now, with 4th graders (my current class), it's a little different. They don't say words like "sh*t"- they say "poo." They don't say, "Shut the f*ck up"- they say, "You are hurting my feelings, please stop." They don't say, "I'm gonna bust you UP"- they say, "Mommy? I mean- Mr. Veth?"
Occasionally, I'll add a post with just a simple quote from a child and a brief description of them so you get the context. Today, let's focus on one of my 4th graders from last year. Let's call him R.

R exists in his own world. And it's a world I would like to inhabit. When he came into my class, he rarely spoke and instead wanted to spend the day connecting markers end to end and pretend to be in a saber duel. (Awesome points: 1). He would also draw comic books where he was a superhero and I was his noble sidekick where every one ended with my character saying, "You done good, Captain R. You done good." (Awesome points: 5).

Several people informed me that they believed R had a very mild case of Aspergers. What a perfect fit! Why? Because I'm kind of sort of maybe convinced I, too, have some mild form of it. I don't know if it's the fact that I can spout off usefull movie trivia and the box-office gross of just about any thing released after 1980 (because knowing that is cool, dammit) or it was that damn Aspergers-centered movie "Adam" with the dreeeeeeeamy Hugh Dancy, but I felt like R and I were kindred spirits.

He was never really able to work in groups, so his desk was situated in front of mine so I could 1) keep an eye on him and 2) be around him because it made me feel that much cooler.

One day, I was busying myself with punching holes in papers that I would pass out later in the day. *Side note- if I could have a job where I simply staple and punch holes in papers all day I would be in HEAVEN.* I noticed that R was simply transfixed by what I was doing.

As a visual, this is the device I was using: Lovely, isn't it?

N E WAY....R was all about this device. Cue the following exchange:

R: "What are you doing?"
Vest: "I'm punching holes, R. What does it look like I am doing?"
R: "You're supposed to punch holes with that?!"
Vest: "Yes...."
R: "Man, I thought that was a foot massager."
Vest: (beat) "R...why would I have a foot massager on my desk?"
R: "I don't know. You never know when you are going to want a foot massage."
Vest: "R, it's just a three hole punch."
(taking off his shoe)
R: "Here. Let me show you how I can use it as a foot massager."
Vest: "No. Put your shoe back on."

(Awesome points: 25)

What's in a name, really?

Look, I find vests to be the peak of sophistication. It's not just the fact that they make me look like I am slim, read The Economist and carry a pocket watch; They are classy, a bit awkward and kind of tool-ish- much like myself.

I mean, would you LOOK at this thing?:

I'll take one, please. And the vest, too. Hey-o!

So here's the rundown: this is a simple little blog created to feel like I'm as cool as my friends that have started their own. I've wanted to do one for quite some time, but have never felt like I could be witty on a regular basis. Now, to explain the title:

Four years ago, I began the noble and ridiculous profession of teaching. On my very first day of school as a middle school teacher (we'll call it "El Dia del Shoot Me in the Face"), I decided that I needed to look the part because I (clearly) was not the part. I scanned my closet in our good 'ole Spanish Harlem abode and found the perfect piece to compliment by brown pants, blue shirt and tie and the look of absolute panic on my face: my vest.

It fit like a glove. A tight glove, rather- because I bought it a size too small to encourage me to put down the fifth slice of pizza. In any case, I started my first career post-college that day donning what I thought was the perfect outfit. Now, I don't remember much of that first day (or first few weeks, to be honest). People tend to block out traumatic events. What I do remember is the fact that my students called me by a different name for the first month because of this damned piece of clothing. Now, to be fair- my last name is very similar to "vest," but it still proved infuriating.

"Hey, Mr. Vest!"

"What's the homework, Mr. Vest?"

"Why are you hiding in the corner of your room so no one can see you crying, Mr. Vest? It's only Monday."

How clever of them.

This here blog will chronicle what its like to be a teacher in New York City- both in and out of the classroom. Expect stories centered on awkward exchanges with children and professionals, trying to balance work with being in my mid-20s in this incredible city, and probably including lists about what I ate that day. I'm not sure how frequent these updates will be, but I hope to GOD they are worth your time.

Here we go....