Ride for Your Lyfe

Being only a fifteen minute walk to campus, I decided it was a fiscally responsible thing to begin riding a bike to school. Boston is a biking city. Everywhere you look, you are mere inches away from being mowed down by some hipster who is late for their shift at an anti-establishment coffee shop.

So, obviously I wanted to be funneled into that category.

When I first moved back, I had enough in my savings to purchase a new bike. Unfortunately, the gods were against me and, the day before I was going to get my new ride, my current computer practically exploded in my strong, strong hands.

I was crushed. Positively crushed. Luckily, my father calmed my tears and incessant sobbing by telling me he had an extra bike he would send up to me. This is why I keep him around.

I had the bike sent to a nearby bike store for 1) it's convenient location and 2) the incredibly sexy, sexy, sexy staff. Seriously, I walked in to the shop and my jaw dropped at the manliness on display. So many double entendres whipped through my mind as they told me once the bike arrived, they give it a fine tune up.

I called later in the week and, much to my chagrin, a FEMALE answered. Hiding my disappointment, I asked if my bike had arrived.

Lady: "Well, what kind of bike is it?"

My inner thoughts: "Shit. I have no idea. Fake it, Mr. Vest. Fake it."

Mr. Vest: "It's a yellow one."

Lady. "A yellow one? Can you be more descriptive?"

Inner thoughts: "Make something up, you sound stooooopid."

Mr. Vest: "It's an old bike."

Lady: "Okay...perhaps it's a ten speed?"

Mr. Vest: "Yeah, sure."

Inner thoughts: "You don't know anything. Go somewhere and order some nachos."

Somehow, despite my obvious lack of knowledge in the biking sector, the bike was found and I happily skipped to the store.

Once there, a gentleman I'll call Randy helped me out with his masculine, strong, manliness. In a few minutes, I was out on the streets.

Falling on my ass.

Twice.

In one block.

In my new jeans.

Those people who say you never forget how to ride a bike can go fly a kite. It took me quite some time to balance myself on George (that's the bike's name). After a while, though, George and I practically became one. He and I traveled through the streets of Cambridge, laughing and singing. and being generally carefree.

He took me to school. To J. Crew. To the ice cream social. George was the perfect man. There were some kinks along the way, but I was beginning to enjoy being a Boston biker.

That is, until I was thrown off of George when a man decided to make a turn when he shouldn't have. As I fell, the people around me shouted, "Heavens!" (SERIOUSLY) and a plopped on the pavement.

I immediately got up and took one look at the man who could have deprived the world of Mr. Vest. He smiled and waved as if he and I were old school chums who once shared an awkward night together but things were now okay between us.

Rage filled me as I tore my helmet off, walked over to his car and shouted some words that should not be said around being who shout "Heavens!" In a nutshell, I advised him that he made the wrong decision and he should drive more carefully.

I shook it off, proudly picked up George and strutted away (mainly due to the limp caused by the fall but I looked good). The people around me asked if I was okay and I thanked them for their concern.

As I got home, blood on my knees and ego a bit bruised, I decided to put George to rest for a few days. He'd been through so much. Plus, I was worried that car guy would find me and hurt me.

So manly.

Though, I look over at him throughout the day and he appears to beckoning me to get on him again. He just looks so very, very sad. In due time, my chap. In due time.

Geeking Out

First off, being a student again is da bomb.

The first day of orientation, a current doctoral student gave a speech concerning how much we are going to be "geeking out" over class content during the next year. How right she was.

Take, for instance, a highlight from class this week. This particular course is about creating educational software to enhance learning. The professor is totally crush-worthy. Like...distractingly crush-worthy. Like...ohmygodjustkeeptalkingandlookingcuteinyourHawaiianshirtandscruffandmarryme crush-worthy.

In lab, he presented a prototype of what he has been working on and in this moment, I knew I belonged with these people. Why? Because he had a classroom of 30 students from all walks of life completely spazzing out over an equivalent fractions video game. Equivalent fractions. He started talking as the game was going on, but no one could focus because we not only wanted to play the game, but wanted to WIN. Competitive and dorky? Which one will I choose to marry?

Other examples of this "geeking out:"

1) At the HGSE BBQ, my entire cohort formed a circle on the dance floor (yes, A DANCE FLOOR). We were having a gay old time and then one of our professor's (let's call him Professor Puppet) showed up. Each and every person screamed with delight and jumped up and down because we were excited to see him. I'm sure someone even farted they were so pumped. Then, his children joined us in the circle and it was like, "Who can impress Professor Puppet the most?" So, we made sure to get them involved and let them know they were the coolest kids since Punky Brewster. It also helped that were completely adorable.

2) The competition to get a computer in the library was "Bad Girl's Club" fierce. Seriously, you have to be a freakin' hawk to get one or else you will end up chasing for one, knocking down another student and for the rest of the year being that guy who knocked down a person for a computer. I can't be that guy. Again.

I'm very eager for the semester get going, so much so that when I sat down to do my first reading for a class, I was giddy with delight. And there weren't even any pictures of Anderson Cooper included in the text! God, I love taking notes.

Ok, I need to go. "That's So Raven" is on.

Give Me Something to Doooooo

I have now been out of the classroom for four weeks. That's four weeks where I didn't get the chance to tell someone they couldn't go to the bathroom and for them to sit down and hush up. I haven't written an AIM on a white board, haven't scheduled a convenient bathroom break, and haven't counted down the minutes until dismissal.

So why am I so restless?! It is a rather strange feeling knowing that I am not prepping a classroom right now. Even though it took an ass amount of time, there was some pleasure in putting up decorations and putting desks in order. If only that could be my JOB...decorating classrooms for a living. I would only have to work for a month a year and would charge so much that Anderson and I could vacay in Moscow like I've always wanted. I like the hats.

I'm so starved for some organization in my life that, when I was told during an interview for an on-campus job that a lot of it would consist of filing, I barked, "I LOVE alphabetizing!"

I even corrected a child who was calling his sister a name. In "teacher life," the kid would have said, "Yes, Mr. Vest." But, being that this was a Pier 1 Imports, the kids shouted, "This is not my daddy! which was a cue for me to bolt.

One week until classes begin. I hope I can make it.

Um, no. Just no.

Remember Sex Ed?

Of course you do. See, I had the 'good fortune' of attending Catholic school from kindergarten to senior year of high school. We are all quite aware that Catholic school kids are simply hungry for any talk concerning sex, drugs and rock and/or roll.

Imagine our giddy delight when, in 5th grade, we were told that Sexual Education 101 would take place in our religion classes. Yes...religion classes. The Gospel of Ruth or Whatever the Hell would be detailing the birds and the bees. I was positively thrilled because I just had kind-of-sort-of discovered the female form (HA) by seeing the bubbies of Beverly D'Angelo in "National Lampoon's Vacation."

I wanted to know more. So much more.

We were given the option to participate, and we all quietly mocked those kids who weren't allowed to take part in the classes because their parents were way lame.

Prior to our classes, the other gentleman and I made predictions as to what would be covered. Questions ranged from "Would we see boobies?" to rumors that, in previous years, actual pornography would be shown. This allowed some more salacious classmates to claim they would stay up way late ("like 11:30!") to view Skinemax and gave us all of the sordid details.

The boys and girls were split up into separate classrooms and we eagerly awaited our introduction to the world of S-E-X. Images of boobies and hey-hey's and nay-nay's danced in our little, perverted heads as our teacher began her lecture.

But there were no boobies.

No pornography.

Not even the mention of "s-e-x."

Instead, we were treated to discussions of "saving ourselves for the right one," how we should never commit self-abuse (re: masturbate), and the saints thoughts and opinions of the sanctity or marriage.

Needless to say, the boys were pissed. I'm serious- we were outraged. That's why when the teacher opened the floor for questions, we took it upon ourselves to steer the conversation towards what we were interested in.

The teacher called on me and I asked what I thought was an innocent question about making love. Sweet, sweet love. I included descriptions of things I had seen on television and in R-rated movies that I snuck a peek at when the whole house was asleep. You know- stuff like "Red Shoe Diaries." Classy fare.

This led to the principal's office.

And a phone call home.

And a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooong and uncomfortable discussion with my father about way, way, way, way, way, way too much that I didn't need to know.

Gross.

I vowed after that day to wait until marriage (HA), find a good woman (DOUBLE HA), and never commit self-abuse (EXPLODING HA).

A lot can change in 16 years, I guess.

Sometimes You Should Just Keep Your Mouth Shut

When you step outside of the teacher role, it is often difficult to remind yourself that random children don't need your discipline.

Midway through my journey to Boston yesterday, the train stopped in New Haven. The train was calm, quiet with nary a murmur emanating from any pair of seats. This soon come to a crashing halt when a cadre of noisy ass children entered with their exasperated mother. I could not keep count, because I was trying to avert my eyes. In all honesty, other people's children kind of freak me out. I never know what to do with them or what to do when they act out. And for the love of God, don't ever ask me to hold a baby.

Yes, I was a classroom teacher for four years. Hush.

You know those moments when you just pray that an approaching disturbance in a public setting doesn't settle right next to you? IT ALWAYS DOES.

Of course their mother decided the perfect place to settle was next to the red-faced-from-crying-over-leaving-New York man trying to watch "Recount" on his computer.

Look, I don't think little children should be allowed to handle luggage. It's either larger than their bodies or they have no idea how to maneuver it. No, parents, it's not cute. It raises my blood pressure. The first child was having such a difficult time getting her Dora the Explorer rolling suitcase to move that she burst into a raging fit.

"Please don't let this child sit next to me," I begged with my eyes to the mother. She took notice and told her seven year old son to take a place next to me.

Bad idea, because the kid went ape shit.

"NO!" he screamed.
"Why not?" Harried Mommy says.
"What if he is a bad man?!"

What the fudge? How could I even come across as a 'bad man?' Was it my unshaven look? I mean, I've been told I looks creep after a few days of not shaving but come onnnnnn.

I tried to look less creepy by smiling at the both of them.

"See, honey? He's not a bad man he's smiling" and she turns away because one daughter is hitting the other on the forehead with a bottle.

The boy looks back and me and my smile fades...on purpose. I really didn't want this kid near me.

"He is NOT SMILING, MOM!"

Smile comes back and mother's gaze returns.

"Yes he is so SIT."

I speak up, "No worries, I'm a teacher" and smile back at the boy.

CO. NIP. TION. FIT.

The child screams. Just screams. People turn and face me like I had punched him in the face.

"I don't like teachers," he shouts.

"He had a difficult year with his 1st grade teacher," Momma says. Whoever his teacher was, I hope he or she is having a stiff drink at the moment.

I don't know why, but that really pissed me off. Maybe it was because he exemplified all of those kids that rubbed me the wrong way.

Without missing a beat, I say to him, "Well, you better get used to teachers. You will have them for the next 15 years."

Well, that was dumb of me. What started out as a scream became a high-pitched terror fit. The kid threw a Fischer Price person in my face. In my face. I know I deserved it, but holy hell....

Thankfully, the father found them somewhere else to sit soon after. They all got up and I tried not to look at them as they left. Harried Mommy apologized profusely but that freakin' kid looked like he wanted to give me the Vulcan Death Grip.

Lesson learned: Shut up, Mr. Vest.

Eat My Dust

The track meet occurred last Thursday and like any event at a school, it was full of hot messes and awkwardness. In a previous post, I mentioned that the track groups couldn't be more different. One was fast and loud, the other was slow and peppy. Both were kind of annoying, so at least there was some unity in the matter.

The groups came together right before the track meet and the world might as well have exploded. Oil and vinegar. Democrats and Republicans. Mr. Vest and spiders. A room of 20 opinionated children is one thing....but 50? Oy.

And having an event that involves their PARENTS?

Xanax.

Situations such as these can be stressful. Basically, teaching would be a hell of a lot easier if parents didn't become involved. Events where parents are present can put you on your toes because you are watched like a hawk. Now, this isn't all parents...but some of them are out of their damn minds.

One kid was given a ample opportunities to not act like a jerk. But, punching and spitting and whining were just too tempting for him and thus, his second race was taken away from him. Needless to say, Momma was not happy and made it known to me. Repeatedly.

Momma: "You need to let him run his second race because he's been training all summer for this."
Mr. Vest: (to myself) "All summer? It's been two-and-a-half weeks."
Momma: "So yeah. Put him in the second race."
Mr. Vest: "Well, he broke the rules and knew the consequences."
Momma: "No. He's going to race it."
Mr. Vest: "Actually, no."
Momma: "Nope. He's running it. It means a lot to him."
Mr. Vest: "If that were true, he would have taken my five warnings and not slap a kid with a "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" book."
Momma: (crickets)

Beyond this hiccup, the track meet went smoothly. Mainly due to the fact that no one ran in the opposite direction.

It was an entertaining event, complete with overexcited children, 1st to 3rd place ribbons, and a teacher race that ended awkwardly when one of the teachers took his shirt off.

All in all, a fitting event during the final week. The smiles coming from some of these track stars faces solidified to me how fun it can be to be a teacher. To be reminded of that at the end of the game brings some great closure to it all.

A List

Ok...the final day of school came and went. There was plenty to celebrate and yes, plenty to be cry about. A wild ride it was...and further reflections of this day will come on another date. For now, I present to you a list entitled....

Things Mr. Vest NEVER Has to Say Again:

• "Sit down!"
• "5...4...3...2..1."
• "SLANT."
  
• "I said sit down."
• "Who's talking?"
• "What do you mean someone spit on you?"
• "[Girl student's name], put your wand away and open up your independent reading book."
  
• "Why are you not sitting down?!"
• "No, I am not dating [any female teacher's name]."
• "No, I am not going to marry [any female teacher's name]."
  
• "If you keep this behavior up, I'm going to have to move your name down on the behavior rubric."
• "Who threw the pencil across the room?"
• "'Mines?' 'Mines?' I don't see any coal around here. It's pronounced 'mine.'"
  
• "Is that gum in your mouth? Put it on your nose."
  
• "Line up!"
• "Wake up!"
• "Hush up!"
• "Dear. God. Sit. Down."

Anything I missed?

Self-satisfied quote #1

I tend to make several references to films from the 80's and 90's with my kids and get upset when they don't know what I'm taking about. The anger comes from the fact that my comments are usually so spot-on that someone should notice and laugh. Most of the time, I'm the only one giggling. Yes, I giggle.

Cut to today: A student comes up to track practice with his blue shirt unbuttoned, white shirt showing underneath and moving in this odd and spastic way.

I move quickly, "Hey [student], this isn't 'Weekend at Bernie's' so fix the body and button up!"

Come on! "Weekend at Bernie's!" That brilliant film about the two dudes whose boss dies and they make it look like he was alive and wa wa wa.... Who quotes that these days besides Jonathan Silverman???? (snaps if you remember him)


He didn't get the joke and I was pissed....but also very smug because damn- that was clever.

Right?

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Run for your life, children!

So, I'm a track coach this summer. I know...former fat kid who used to cheat during the mile run is now forcing kids to run around a track in the Brooklyn summer heat.

It's pretty awesome. Mainly because I'm in charge.

We have two groups of track stars. The groups couldn't be any more different. The first batch is full of diva-like 3rd graders who gossip and complain about the heat. "IT'S JULY! In NEW YORK. Deal with it," they hear in return. Frankly, I'm not a huge fan of this group (despite the fact that it has some of my own students in it). I don't like complaining from kids because then it's not cool if I complain. I hate having to be a "grown up" sometimes.

A grown up who makes students turn in their Silly Bandz so he can wear them.

They are loud and obnoxious, but at least they are fast. One of the kiddos is so fast that she has quickly become a legend amongst the other children. They say, "[This student] is so fast she could beat Mr. Vest!"

"No she can NOT!"
"Then run against her!"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Because I have a masters degree."

That always get 'em to shut up. Truthfully, I would totally eat this girl's dust. But I'm just so manly that I would never put myself in the situation where I have to compete against a 9 year old. Who will beat me.

The second group is full of characters and are slow as shit. But they are good humored about it. One of them looks like a human version of Arthur the Aardvark and another might as well be running backwards.

It being 95 degrees most days, the kids have to put up with a lot of heat. Often, they don't dress accordingly. They have the chance to wear shorts and school t-shirts during the summer, but some kids still come with long sleeve shirts and pants.

One child, we'll call him Friedrich, decided that it would make the most sense to roll his pant legs up past his knees to stave off the heat. I took one look at him and audibly guffawed. He looked like the Lonely Goatherd.

"Hey, Friedrich...where is your edelweiss?"
"Huh?"
"Where is your nanny, Maria?"
"Maria? Who? What?"
"Don't you just want to burst into song?"
"This isn't music class, Mr. Vest. This is track."

Darn kids and their lack of knowledge of films from 1965...

This Thursday, they will all compete in a track meet. Here's hoping a few of them won't run the wrong way this year.

Here Goes Nothin'

My final week of teaching has arrived and with it, a mixture of sheer excitement and plenty of sadness. I was in the same spot two years ago, when I thought that after two relatively rough years in a middle school classroom I was out of the teaching profession completely. Though, I ended up back in the role of "Mr. Vest" months later at a school that was the complete opposite of what I had experienced in Harlem.

The memories that have come up within the past few weeks have created this pit in my stomach. Granted, I am happy to be making the next steps in my life and go for what is best for me. But...hell, the students from this past school year were the weirdest, funniest, and all-around greatest group of kids I could ever have imagined. I am leaving the classroom with an immense sense of joy and satisfaction at what was accomplished this year.

I know I write a lot about the awkward things that come up as a teacher...and the frustrations...and the oddities of it all. This profession ain't easy and I find it frustrating when people find out that I am leaving the classroom and say things like, "Wow! You made it four years! Good for you."

No, no, no.

Four years is nothing. Absolutely nothing as an educator. Let's not beat around the bush here, I am quitting. I think back to the teachers I had growing up, the ones that really inspired me. They were in their 20th, 25th or even 35th year of teaching around then....and some of them are still at it.

I came to an understanding about myself this year that, while I do posses a drive to be in the educational field, I needed to find where I truly fit within that sphere. I hope that my next year in Cambridge will give me that direction.

Until that comes to a head, I will savor these final days with my little lunatics and try to recount some of those memories with you here.

Wow...a post sans snark. That's not ordinary here.

For the sake of stickin' with the theme, let's post a picture of Andy Coopy:

Pit Sweat

Summer school is upon us and with that, the fear of pit stains. Yes, yes....too many posts are about bodily fluids and functions but they come with the territory.

It hit 102 degrees in Brooklyn today, which means that I didn't want to do diddly-squat. I would have been incredibly happy with a chilled Bloody Mary, a five hour Real Housewives marathon and a place in front of an A/C. Instead, I traipsed down the slope to our school drenched in sweat before it even hit 6:30am.

Joy.

I could have been thinking about the heat, or my excitement about taking a cold shower later...but I was more concerned with my wardrobe.

You see, I have a bit of a sweat problem. Rather, one part of my body has a sweat problem. An intense sweat problem. While my left arm pit sweats in a rather normal fashion, my right arm pit beats to its own drummer.

I mean, it's like offensive. It practically pours out like a fire hydrant. A fire hydrant that they have to have people fix because it's working too well. In short, it's freakin' gross.

My students always point this out to me, to the point that I teach many lessons with my arms close to my body like a T. Rex. The students giggle and point at times, which makes me shoot back with, "Just wait! In three years this will happen to you and you won't be able to stop it. EVER."

I have to make sure my wardrobe is just the right color in order for the pit stains be hidden. I'm in a constant search for the right deodorant. It shouldn't be this hard, you know. Alas, this is the curse I have been given. That, and the poor eyesight, misshaped skull and penchant for accidentally breaking other people's things.

Oh yeah, my pants split down the groin. Thank GOD I wasn't wearing anything remotely skimpy or else the day would have been a complete crap shoot.

Let's All Go to the Lobby

I decided to show a movie today in class.

I KNOW.

It's not really something you are supposed to do. In fact, it is often frowned upon. Wendy Kopp is probably planning a beheading at this moment. However, I sensed my overall attitude veering towards being a bit too nasty to my kids (and not in a clever bitchy way, but something more abrasive) and I wanted to give us all a bit of a break.

Back in my day (re: 1990-1998), movies were shown quite frequently. This was pre-No Child Left Behind, so people did not get as up in arms about wasting precious instruction time. Our viewings ranged from such classics as "Babe" to lesser-known-but-still-rockin' gems like "Duck Tales The Movie: Treasure of the Lost Lamp." God, that one was a classic.

Today, I chose "Jumanji" because it is semi-educational because it is based on a book.

When I was teaching in a public school, June was known as "Movie Month." Instruction essentially stopped at the end of May (and in some classes like-ahem-the Union rep's, APRIL) and the movies began. I didn't really join this ship until my second year. I had a class of only boys and decided to show them "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King." The extended edition. Why? Because it was four hours long.

At one point, Gandalf spends three minutes of screen time riding his horse up a mountain to the entrance of a castle. Without missing a beat, a student said, "Damn. That's one long ass driveway." How true.

This was the first time I have shown a movie in the past two years. Perhaps it is because I am about to leave the classroom and am so incredibly tired and drained from this school year. Or maybe it's because the kids need to sit back and enjoy each other's company without a worksheet in front of them.

Either way, the kids got a special treat and they were happy. And Mr. Vest was happy. And somewhere Anderson Cooper was happy. Because he was thinking about Mr. Vest.

Oh, Slap!

Silly Bandz are the f'in rage in schools at the moment. So much so that many schools are banning them...and I can totally see why.

It's because they are awesome. If you are not aware of what they are- I mean, if you aren't a teacher or have a child, it would be a tad creepy if you did know what they were- look below.
Basically, they are rubber bands in the shape of a whole mess of stuff...and the kids are cocaine-level obsessed with them (I mean, a rubber band in the shape of devil horns? ROCK ON.). They wear dozens at a time on their wrists, making all of them look a little left-of-center, if you follow me. The added bonus is that they are wicked cheap, meaning any kid can have a vast collection. With any fad, there is competition and you are bound to have kids get in arguments about whose bandz are the best and blah blah blah. Hence, schools banning them.

I keep confiscating them just so I can take them home and wear them in the privacy of my home. They also glow in the dark which means that I can stage my own rave in the comfort of my home.

I didn't really know why I was so taken by them...but then it hit me: Silly Bandz are the 2010 version of slap bracelets. You remember "slap bracelets," right? They were the bee knee's back in 1992 (and forever in my heart), but some idiot kid in a school- let's use my "go to" blame state of Montana- had to go hurt himself and suddenly having one in your possession was akin to having small pox or something. Or "cooties," which to a 9 year old is much, much worse.

Slap bracelets came and went...followed by Pogs (LOVE) and Tamogachi-whatever Pets (huh?) and Pokemon cards (never understood it). Silly Bandz will make way for something equally awesome for kids and headache-inducing for parents and teachers. But you know, at least we are resorting back to fashion (a la slap bracelets)...and that is something I can get behind.

A Gallery

It's June, so I let the kids take some minutes to doodle. Naturally, some of them drew pictures of yours truly.

Front: Mr. Vest: "Is anybody there?"


Back: "Lookin' good"


Why, thank you!


CLONES:



This kid drew my hair "swoop" pretty well.

Now, This is Just Getting Ridiculous

The sun is shining, the birds are singing and every single freakin' student in the city of New York has lost their mind.

On top of that, so has every teacher. You can feel is as you walk through the hallways...the emotions are just simmering beneath the surface before something- anything- happens that sets the whole building amok.

I have come to expect this every June. The final day of school, so far away in months past, is just an inch or so away. Students have long since realized that this is the time of the year to go ape shit over everything and anything. It's almost like they believe they have a free pass to go insane.

But teachers do, too...so I'm not necessarily complaining.

Case(s) in point:
*Spitting is on the rise, as well as farting.
*A student that would normally not harm a fly smacked a boy in the face for "lookin' at her funny."
*A kid "overdosed" on his asthma medicine, natch.
*One kid thought it would be a good idea to attempt a back flip from a chair. After her got off the floor and complained of back pain and a "broken liver," he realized that wasn't exactly a smart decision.

Even the usual threats I have used throughout the year are not having the same effect. Months ago, if I were to say, "Keep talking and you will lose P.E." they'd shut the hell up. Now, I try the same thing and their facial reactions are telling me to shut the hell up.

A coworker of mine but it best when she said that she wants to create a shirt with a simple message to all of the students in the school: "It's June. Stop it."

Amen.

God, I need a drink.

Let Me Be Blunt

I've discussed this before in a previous post, but it needs to be discussed once more after a recent event.

Yesterday, a coworker approached me and handed me what looked like a giant blunt. At first I was excited because hey, it's a blunt. It was a Pavlov moment. Sue me.

He informed me that he caught a student with said ganja and that student was one of mine. Of course. I tried to be shocked, but I'll have to admit that I wasn't entirely. If I had to pick any student of mine that would fashion a blunt out of paper, it would be this kid.

He's the stylish one who likes to wear colored bracelets and talk about fashion. A chip off the old block. Let's call him Bambi.

I approached the child and informed him that we needed to discuss an important matter. Now, this kid looks like a puppy when he knows he's in trouble. He has these giant, brown eyes and muffled speaking voice that is so cute that you can't even handle it. He stood with his hands behind his back and a look of absolute terror in his face.

"Do you know what I have in my possession?" I asked him.

Bambi remarked, "no," but drew it out in a way that it was almost like a question. I took out the contraband and held it upright in front of his eyes. His eyes widened in such a way that it nearly covered his face.

"What is this, Mr. Man?" I asked. "Mr. Man" is a phrase I use when I'm trying to convey being really pissed off. I think it often works. Truthfully, I just like saying 'Mr. Man.'

Bambi took a beat and said, "Pencil shavings."

"Pencil shavings? These are pencil shavings, you say? Then why are they wrapped up in such a fashion?"

Bambi went on to claim that he couldn't get up in his current class to throw out his pencil shavings (pronounced by him as "penciwl shayviths") and needed to put them inside something.

"So you decided to put them in the form of a marijuana cigarette?!" I intoned.

At this point, I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing, trying to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent tiny bursts of laughter out. It was freakishly hard.

Bambi stammered. "It's naht a maryjana cigawhet."

"Oh? Because it sure does look like one. Explain yourself!" (I seem to have forgotten at this point that I was talking to a nine year old and not a hooligan on Law & Order)

Bambi couldn't explain himself. And I couldn't stop laughing in his face. I tried to backtrack, because I wasn't laughing at him. It was more the idea that in my adult life, I am questioning a child who talks like a Rugrat about making a fake blunt with pencil shavings. Such is life.

Frankly, was I that angry about this situation? No, not at all. In fact, it was the high point of my day. I mean, come on, it's June. Is anything supposed to make sense at this point in the school year? Not really. So, I dropped it and then went around to many teachers and recounted the story.

It should be noted that the blunt's size was impressive. This kid has a future.

Ready for my close up

So, I'm mildly obsessed with Sia and am eagerly awaiting her new album. Last week, I discovered her video for "You've Changed" and have been bouncing to it ever since. Watch below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLPPlRDOZx0

This got me thinking about School Picture Day back when I was a little munchkin. I suppose the overall appeal of these particular days was that we (and children banished to school uniforms in a Catholic school) were able to put on our Sunday best. This was always a special treat, even up until high school. Oh, how I remember those days when girls at my high school tramped it up on the weekends because they just "couldn't take" wearing a plaid skirt all of the time.

This all got me thinking about my various adventures in school picture preparation. I took this shit real seriously. My clothes were always laid out the night before (ok, two nights before) and I woke up extra, extra early to ensure my hair was coiffed perfectly. Now, my hair has always been semi-decent...but back then it was the cat's meow. And this was BEFORE hair wax, people!

One year, I believe it was 3rd grade, I discovered a new look. We had the good fortune of having a pool in our backyard and I noticed that every time I got of the pool and had my hair slicked completely back, it would dry into this very stylish bouffant. Yes, I realize a nine year old's use of the word "bouffant" is a clear indicator of where they will be heading in terms of sexual orientation, but lets get our heads out of the gutter, mmkay?

I knew I wanted to have this style in my school picture, so I got up early on the big day, went to the pool, dipped my head in and quickly ran to the bathroom to dry it with a hand dryer. Oh baby, it looked good. I thought I looked like Tom Cruise (pre-"glib" days) or Kirk Fogg from "Legends of the Hidden Temple" or something equally debonair.

*Side note swoon for Kirk Fogg.

Kirk Fogg is the man, by the way.

*End side note and swoon*

I got to school, happily took my picture and awaited their arrival in a few weeks. The entire time I waited, I simply knew my picture looked the best and that no one could top my hair, shirt and tie combination. God, I was a superstar.

Weeks later, the photos arrived. I nearly tore them in half as I opened the package, totally excited about seeing them.

And I saw them. The hair looked fabulous and my smile was to die. My happiness quickly subsided though, as I then I saw it. Caked underneath my nose was an obvious booger. You needed to look really closely, but there it was. It was like the size of a freakin' nickel and I was instantly mortified.

I cursed myself for my vanity and I then I realized who was really at fault here- the photographer. Who lets a chubby kid with perfect hair take a picture with a booger underneath their nose and not say anything?! Who does that?! Clearly someone who didn't watch "Free to Be You and Me" growing up. The horses weren't running free in his land, that's for damn sure. (look up the reference, I'm too upset to at the moment)

I was angry. I was embarrassed. I was hungry.

I vowed from that day on to ensure that every picture taken of me for school would be divine. No one would get in my way. No one. Not even someone holding a taco.

Ok, maybe someone holding a taco.

The next year, it entered the photo session with extra care. No boogers, no marks on my face from the scented marker I probably was trying to eat earlier in the day, nothing. I was good to go.

The same photographer was there, and he said, "You ready, bucko?"

"Yes. But are you?"

"Um yes. That's my job."

"Is it?"

"Yes"

"IS IT?!"

At that, I had made him uncomfortable. And that felt good.

I see London

On Fridays, we are able to wear jeans at school instead of the required shirt-and-tie combination. It's pretty liberating, in case you are wondering. It touches upon those days back in elementary school where you could "dress down" and everyone would come in wearing some cool outfit. For me, it was always my tie-dyed Looney Tunes or Flintstones gear. I looked awesome.

So- I have these jeans. With a large tear in them. In an unfortunate place. Now, I'm not cheap by any means (just ask about my TV on DVD collection) but purchasing clothes is not always on the top of my list. I like to cycle through the same seven or eight outfits until they go completely out of style. It's easier and cheaper that way.

BUT, I have been fully aware that I need to buy new jeans. I just haven't come around to it (thank you very much TV on DVD....).

This lead to an exchange I had with a student of mine recently. It was a Friday and I had a group of students on the carpet to discuss an objective in math class. One student came to the carpet a little earlier than the rest and we began to have a conversation.

We were having a pleasant conversation about who the hell knows, and I noticed this student's face contorted in a way. His eyes began to wander and I was compelled to ask, "What is wrong with you?"

He stammered for a second and then put his right hand up to his mouth and leaned in as if to tell me a secret. "OH! I love secrets!" I thought to myself.

"Mr. Vest....you have a rip in your jeans. And I can see your undergarments."

I look down and sure enough, I am totally showing. What's worse is that I have on a cute pair of underwear that isn't the most masculine piece of clothing I have. This caused the student to tell me yet another "secret."

Student: "Mr. Vest...you wear yellow undergarments? Those are bright."
Mr. Vest: (humiliated) "SIT DOWN, [student]!"

First of all..."undergarments?" Are we in "Petticoat Junction?" Secondly, shoot me in the face I was so embarrassed. Thank the lord he didn't skip back to his cadre of friends and tell them what the saw.

I spent the rest of the day with my legs crossed so firmly that I won't be suprised if a doctor will tell me I'm incapabale of having children. You know, whenever I get that checked out....

Student Quote #21

For the past four months, I've sported either scruff or a short beard. Today, I came in freshly shaved....

Student: "Mr. Vest, you look different."
Mr. Vest: "I shaved."
Student: "I don't like it. Your face looks weird."
Mr. Vest: "Your face looks weird."
Student: "I don't think you can say that to a kid."
Mr. Vest: "I don't think you can say that to an adult."
Student: (beat) "Your face looks weird."

Later....

Another Student: "I like your face today."
Mr. Vest: "Really? I'm not digging it."
Another Student: "No, no. You should dig it. You look like a superhero."
Mr. Vest: "Which one?'
Another Student: "Well, little bit of Batman and little bit of Clark Kent."
Mr. Vest: "Oh? Why?"
Another Student: "One part tough, the other part smooth."
Mr. Vest: "I think you are my favorite student today."

Upping the Ante

Because I was a fat kid, the only place I could be competitive was through academics. You are aware of this if you are a loyal reader to this here blog. I needed to be the best at all times, and if I could, I would throw anyone under the bus that would get in my way.

That is, if I could even lift anyone to throw them. I wasn't sporting guns on my biceps. They were more like water pistols. Empty water pistols.

One of the more memorable competitions was in 4th grade, the first year we were given letter grades instead of "Very good" (happy, happy) and "Satisfactory" (shameful, just shameful). Our teacher, Ms. O was really into maps. Her enthusiasm spilled into our classroom, as we were constantly learning about different countries. It was here that my appreciation for other cultures and societies began to grow.

After every Social Studies test, she offered us a bonus sheet that was a map of the world. For an extra bonus point each, you could label as many countries and capitals as possible. I didn't think much of it the first time, but I spent the greater part of the test labeling countries, rivers, and mountains. I labeled a fair amount and turned the exam in, thinking nothing of it.

The next day, Ms. O notified the class that she had graded the exams and was going to read out any one's scores that were above 100. Several students scored in the 105-110 region, while two others were between 115-120. The rest of the class "ooh"-ed and "aww"-ed at these high scores.
Then, she got to my score. "Mr. Vest....139."

The rest of the class gasped. I'm not even kidding you- they did. Me? I sat there like a smug bastard. Oh course I got a 139.

Ms. O then decided to write my score on the lop right hand corner of the chalk board. "I'm going to keep that score up there until someone beats it." There was a quiet murmur in the class.

With that simple gesture, Ms. O had created a monster. An insanely competitive, map-labeling monster.

Yeah, I was clearly extremely popular.

What I didn't expect was for anyone to challenge me. Oh, how I was wrong...because in walks LS.
LS was just as crazy as me in relation to grades. I was also head-over-heels in love with her. In the way only a 4th grader can be. Like...I would pretend we were dating and when I would see her talking to another boy, I'd get jealous with rage. So much so that I would be totally passive aggressive with her.

"Oh, fine. I mean sure you can use my pencil, but I'm going to need it back. Along with all of the lead. I may check. For serious."

I also used stuffed animals to practice making out just in case she would realize we were meant to be together. Sadly, this never ended up happening. But that teddy bear got a lot of action.

ANYWAY....

My "139" stayed up there from October to March, when LS beat me to the punch with a 152. She remained at the top of the board until May. I simply knew that I had to have that final score. I just had to and, if not, all of my life's dreams and aspirations would go up in smoke.

So, I studied. I memorized. I ate pizza. All of these were essential to my success. Especially the pizza.

The final exam came and for the life of me, I can't remember what the content of it was. All that was important to me (and LS) was the map. Ms. O knew we were battling and egged us on (as good teachers do), letting the class know a "clash of the map titans" was ahead of us. God, we were nerds.

See, recess always came directly after Social Studies- but there would be no swinging or hop-scotch today. Oh, no. Today, there would be country capitals and trying to correctly spell Kazakhstan. The end of the class was approaching and we begged Ms. O to let the both of us stay in to continue. She obliged, probably thinking we were freaks.

Throughout the process, we gave each other the look of death. "You are going dowwwwwwn," LS threatened me from across the room. "Marry me," is what was going on in my head.

The next day at school, tensions ran high as the results were going to be announced at the end of the day. I could barely contain my stress, going as far as begging Ms. O to give me a hint as to who scored the highest. "In due time, my scholar," she said. What a peach.

The time had arrived. Ms. O brought her grade book to her podium and sighed. She told us the time had come and the record had been not only broken, but shattered. A quiet murmur began in the classroom. She began reading scores, beginning with two students that scored a 172 and 175. Whatever. That was child's play, for I knew I was a hell of a lot higher than that.

After reading off the scores, she left off both LS and me. LS and I exchanged glances, hers with scorn, mine with scorn-disguised-as-eternal love. She began with mine.

"Mr. Vest scored a 214."

The crowd went ape shit. "YES! YES! I am a map machine!" bellowed through my mouth and into the classroom. The cheering lasted a good half-minute, Ms. O allowing it because I was the king of the castle. LS put her head down, unsure of what to make of the moment. I felt sadness for her, as all of her hard work to beat me did not pay off in the end. It was okay, though, because we would be married soon and have a dog named Henry.

But, on no...Ms. O was not done. She put her hand up to calm the class down. "We have one more score."

Shit.

LS perked her head up and brightened immediately.

"LS scored 221."

Double-shit. I had lost. By a measly seven points. She managed to find seven more countries than me and I was devastated. The king was kicked out of the castle as fast as he had arrived. LS beamed and, while I was upset I was not the winner, it did make me happy to see LS excited and proud. Young love.

Ms. O notified the both of us that, because of the sheer ridiculousness of our score, she would keep both of them on the board until they were beaten.

For the rest of our time at our grade school, no one beat that score. To my knowledge, no one had ever beaten it until I left high school for college. I suppose I could take this one of two ways. On one hand, it's been absurd that anyone anywhere would get a test score of that magnitude. On the other hand, it's kind of awesome that a teacher would allow it to happen.

I'm not really sure what LS is up to these days, but I hope she's thought about this moment once or twice. It's kind of rare that one would get in a battle of wits over who would have the highest score in the 4th grade. But, that's just who we were. Or are, for that matter.

Student Quote #20

Student: "Mr. Vest, are you going to bite your fingernails?"
Mr. Vest: "No."
Student: "Can I bite them for you?"
Mr. Vest: "Heavens, no."
Student: "You're a busy man. Give me your hand. My teeth are sharp."
Mr. Vest: "I'm really uncomfortable right now."

Make a Wish

Remember Little J? He was that klepto kid from "Trinkets."

Little J has a semi-obsession with being viewed as "the weird kid." I truly think he goes out of his way to make people look him square in the eye and tell him, "You are making me feel really awkward right now." Like, calling me his "daddy" awkward.

His response to that tends to be a wry smile, a shrug of the shoulders and a "that's your viewpoint." He also enunciates way too well for a ten year old.

Anywho- cut to a few days ago he approaches me with a query.

J: "Uh, Mr. Vest? Can I call you my daddy?"
Mr. Vest: "No, for the ninth time this week you can not call me daddy."
J: "Mother?"
Mr. Vest: "That's even worse. No, do not refer to me as your mother."
J: "Can I give you any nickname?"
Mr. Vest: "That depends on it it is flattering or not."
J: "Jimmy Kimmel?"
Mr. Vest: "Absolutely not."
J: "My fairy godmother."
Mr. Vest: "Are you joking?"
Random Kid: "Yeah, he aint no fairy."
(awkward silence from me)
J: "Fine then, how about fairy godfather?"
Mr. Vest: "I'm thinking we should just drop the whole 'fairy' thing."

This makes Little J return to his seat and put on his thinking cap. Clearly, his little brain is working hard and after a few minutes he returns to me. He agrees that he shouldn't refer to me by any of those names, but asks if he can call my co-worker, let's call her Ms. Awesome, his 'own personal fairy godmother.' Knowing that Ms. Awesome and I talk about this kid constantly (and that he office is right near my classroom), I agree.

Mr. Vest: "In fact, go tell her right now."
J: "Righty-o Major Dad."

I ignore this nickname (and the fact that he has referenced a defunct late 80s/early 90s comedy series) and return to the rest of my, not-as-awkward children.

After a few minutes, Little J returns and Ms. Awesome walks by my classroom with a look of amusement/uncomfortableness. Later, she recounts their conversation:

J: "Ms. Awesome, Mr. Vest told me that I could call you my fairy godmother."
Ms. A: "Well, how nice. Of course I will be your fairy godmother."
J: "And now that you are my fairy godmother, I have a wish that I wish you to grant."
Ms. A: "Ok, ask away."
J: "May I sniff your shoe?"
(beat)
Ms. A: "I'm going to need you to leave my office now."

Kids are weird.

Why, THANK you!

Mr. Vest: "No one here is complimenting me on my fine attire today."

(for the record, I have a white and black-striped, fitted Ben Sherman shirt on and some ultra cute pants. Plus, the hair is not looking bad.)

Male student 1: "Mr. Vest, you look so buff and handsome!"
Male student 2: "And that facial hair? Very feng shui!"

The "Ohhhhhhh!" Factor

You know that moment.

When people are trading barbs and someone says something so off color and unexpected that it makes the crowd go, "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." Yeah, I've been on the negative end of that a few times. It's an incredible moment for the other person. They just schooled you, if you will.

This "Oh" factor tends to go by the wayside as you get older. Back in the day, I had a lot of "Oh" moments when people (re: assholes) schooled me on my weight.

Corpulent Mr. Vest: "Got read a book!"
Asshole: "Yeah? Well, go eat everything, piggy."
Crowd of A'holes: "OHHHHHHH!"

Nowadays, it's not really something you encounter. Maybe on the subway. But it's kind of gauche to try to get somebody with an "Oh" factor when you are 26.

This isn't to say that I still don't find these moments exhilarating. Perhaps that is what drew me to teaching because they tend to happen when you hang out with ten year olds for nine hours a day.

One of the pluses with teaching 4th grade is that some of them are discovering that they are pretty f'in funny. I think it's the age where the clever are separated from the wooden. Luckily, I have several clever little lambs in my room this year.

Even so, a few of them have led me to a few "Ohhhhhhh" moments:

Mr. Vest: "Go to another classroom and take your negative attitude with you."
Class: "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

One of the better moments occurred a few days ago. Two boys, lets call them Nick and Terry, were having a battle of wits. There was a discussion about why he wanted a girl student, "Andrea," to get a reward.

Mr. Vest: "Why do you want to reward Andrew so badly?"
Nick: "It's because he has a crush on her!"
Class: (a mild) "Ohhhhhh!"
Terry: "Yeah? Well you have a crush on Katrina!"
Class: (a louder) "Ohhhh!!!"
Katrina: "He better not!"
Class: (an even louder) "Ohhhhhhhhhh!"
Nick: "Well, you have a crush on EVERYBODY!"
Class: (earth shattering) "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Nick: "Even MR. VEST!"
Class: (earth exploding) "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Yeah, that was awesome.

Student Quote #19

They are finding equivalent fractions...
Student #1: "I was getting into a funky groove with this worksheet until I came upon this question."

Later....
Student #2: "You can't get this? Of my gosh!"
Student #1: "Don't 'oh my gosh' me! I'm allergic to 'oh my gosh.' (beat) That and pollen."

Student Quote #18

Student #1: "Mr. Vest, if you weren't a teacher, what would you do?
Mr. Vest: "I don't know. Maybe work in television?"
Student #1: "Like, doing what? Would you be one of those people that tells the weather? What's it called? Don't tell me."
Student #2: "A meteorologist."
Student #1: "I said don't tell me!"
Student #2: "You didn't tell me. You told Mr. Vest."
Student #1: "Whatever, back to you, Mr. Vest. Would you be a reporter? A sports dude? An anchor?"
Student #2: "Pssh....don't you know anchors only go in oceans? I mean, come on people...."
Student #1: "Mr. Vest, answer my question."
Mr. Vest: "I can't. I need a moment."

Student quote #17

A group (during math class) was just reprimanded for being mean to one of their members....

Student #1: "That is such a shame."
Student #2: "You don't even know what they are talking about."
Student #1: "Yes I do. I know what everyone is talking about."
Student #2: "No, you don't."
Student #1: "I know what we're talking about. Wait...what are we talking about?"

Trinkets

I remember in 3rd grade, I brought my Game Gear to school one day. You remember Game Gear, right? Essentially, it was Sega Genesis in the palms of your hand and had really crappy graphics. Then again, back then 8bit was the cat's meow, so I won't harp too much on that.

Anyway, I brought it to school with the sole intention of getting attention. See, we didn't have Show-and-Tell at my elementary school so we did not have many opportunities to show off. We took it upon ourselves to bring whatever we could to increase our social status. This one kid brought his state championship baseball trophy. Another brought his black belt in karate. But, being a child that participated in gymnastics and eating eight tacos in one sitting I didn't really have much to contribute.

Hence, the Game Gear. And let me tell you, I was hot shit for about three days. The boys begged to play with it during recess, ever so carefully shielding it from our teachers who would most definitely confiscate it. When the recess bell would ring, we would race to the jungle gym, hide behind the giant Tic-Tac-To game board (WTF) and eviscerate our mighty enemies in Mortal Kombat. God, we LIVED.

When my mother found out that I brought it to school, though, I was forbidden from playing with it for a month and was given a stern talking to about "responsibility" and "taking care of our personal items." My 26 year old self agrees wholeheartedly while my 8 year old self was severely pissed.

3rd grade Mr. Vest: "How in the world will I get the other boys to think I'm cool, mom?!"

Mom: "Do a cartwheel."

Touche.

This bring me to the present day: In all my years of teaching (and if you know we well, that's an eternity right?) I have never had a class that was more obsessed with bringing random stuff to school. I'll focus on two of them.

"Jay" is very tiny and enjoys chess. He also loves to lie and kick other children when I'm not looking. A doll, I tell you. Little Jay loves to construct his own cell phones out of paper clips, aluminum foil and Chex Mix. He does this so he can contact people in other "realms" (his word, not mine). Now, I shouldn't care that he does this, but I do. Because he tends to construct said cell phones while I'm giving a lesson and I'm such a captivating public speaker that it is silly he doesn't pay attention. In addition to cell phones, he carries nine books at a time that he stacks so high that they are bound to topple on his little, odd shaped head.

Yesterday, he brought his own personal pencil sharper that became magnetized to his desk. I didn't see him bring it in, but just like a rabbit out of a hat it simply appeared.

"I brought this here personal pencil sharper because it complements my desk."

"Complements your desk? You are nine years old."

"Your point being, sir?"

Then there is "Aaliyah." Aaliyah likes to bringing anything sparkly and fashionable because she needs to keep up with the changing fashion scene. She also greatly enjoys wearing corsages. In her hair. Especially in P.E.

Aaliyah went through this phase where she brought in magnets that formed different designs when put together. Like Little Jay, she tended to play with these items during my class so they would be taken away from her. What she didn't know was that while the kids were gone I too began playing with the magnets and immediately saw the appeal. You could make them into PENGUINS. OR A MOOSE.

Maybe it's because they are bored with me, or maybe it's because they are ADD but nothing will stop them from bringing little trinkets in to make it through the day.

Though, I understand where they are coming from....and it's things like this that make them unique and remind me how fortunate I am to have a classroom full of weirdos.

It complements me.

NACHOS (again)

Evidently, it pays to blog.

The uber-generous people at nachosny.com (check 'em out!) contacted me and I'm now going to Guactacular!

You can achieve anything as long as you believe in yourself. And nachos.

Student quote #16

Also, I have five students absent today....

Student: "The less kids, the more fun. The more kids, the horror. The pure, pure horror."

NACHOSSSSSSS

Before school, I was trying to purchase tickets to Guactacular (a huge celebration of guacamole in NYC) and much to my chagrin, I found that it was sold out. A student came early and saw my desperate attempts to get tickets to this festival.

When students started to arrive, another child came up to me and wanted to tell a story. The student from earlier butted in:

"Don't bother Mr. Vest, [Student] he's trying to get tickets to a nacho festival and he means business."

The know me too well.

Student Quote #15

Mr. Vest: "Okay, we did a push-up contest. Now, lets do a pull-up contest."
Student: "Mr. Vest, are you serious?"
Mr. Vest: "Totally. How many pull-ups can you do?"
Student: "Mr. Vest, you wear Pull-Ups? Like the diapers?"
Mr. Vest: "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."
Student: "I mean I know you don't have a lot of time to use the restroom during the day, but that is ridiculous."

Ready, Set, Push!

I love competition, especially when I know I am going to win. This started years ago when I discovered that when it came to athletics, I wasn't going to a superstar. Being overweight and whiny didn't help. However, I eventually came to love competition when it came in the forms of Scene-It, Trivia Pursuit and all things nerdy.

It just so happens that the only time I enjoy physical competition is when it is against children. I'm not one of those teachers that just lets children win. No, no, no. I enjoy the feeling of winning and I tend to not mind it when the people that I defeated don't have a driver's license. Or their voices haven't changed.

So, imagine how giddy I became when a child challenged me to a push-up contest. Keep in mind, this child is nine years old. Now, I'm okay in the upper-body strength department and can hold my own when I compare myself to the diva ladies at my New York Sports Club who were rejected from "The Real Housewives" casting department. Knowing this, I entered the competition with a certain air of confidence.

I knew I wasn't going to let this kid win. It would be a fight.

A bit of a background on my competitor- M is probably one of the greatest kids I have ever taught. He's sweet, incredibly good natured and just loves life. He tends to get caught up in naughtiness but it's okay because he's just a genuinely great kid. I was happy to take him on in the challenge.

The important part: Several years ago, his father passed away unexpectedly from a seizure. This was before I came to this school and everyone told me how hard it was for the little guy. I felt an instant connection with him because I too had lost a parent at a young age.

Today in class, we were reading "Freak the Mighty" and came to the end of the story where one of the main characters has a seizure. Several students did not know what one was and M raised his hand and proceeded to tell us that his dad died from one when he was asleep.

He began to get upset and I curbed the class conversation into some other topic, allowing other students to chime in on their thoughts on the current chapter. M put his hands on his forehead and stared at the book. I knew instinctively what he was thinking and just placed my hand on his shoulder in a "I know what you are feeling kind of way."

I wanted to cheer him up, so after this lesson I decided it was time for the competition. I gathered the students around the carpet and instructed them to keep their noise levels down and cheer us (namely, M) on. M was a bit nervous, but I held my hand out and said, "May the best man win!"

Class: "Yeah, NOT Mr. Vest!"

They clearly support me.

M had challenged me to 30 push-ups, which I knew I could do. But then he said, "I can do 40!"

Shit.

So, the push-ups began. We were about 20 in when I kept noticing that M was looking over at me, this incredibly happy smile on his face. I couldn't beat this kid! I needed to let him enjoy the moment and I began to feign tiredness.

"Oh man! I don't think I can do this anymore!"
"Yes you can, Mr. V!"
"Looks like M is going to beat me!"
"Yeah!!"

The funny thing is, M was totally not doing a correct push-up. He was just bending his waist down ever so often like he was being pulled up by a rubber band. But he was laughing. And smiling. And I saw a little bit of a nine-year old me in him.

After we both hit 35, I decided it was time to end it (and truth be told, I was freakin' tired) and pretended to collapsed.

The kids freaked out and M jumped up and down, his hands in the air like Rocky. He hive five-d his classmates and held out his hand to let me shake it.

"Good match Mr. V. Next time, pull ups?"

What a kid.

It's moments like this make me damn happy I am a teacher.

Portrait of a Teacher by a Young Lady

She even remembered to include my tattoos...and muttonchops, apparently.

The Spittin' Image

Earlier, I had an entry about farting...now, let's talk spit.

There seems to be this epidemic of spitting going on amongst the students of my grade recently. For reals. Spitting. I don't even know how this started or why it did, but it's here and I am dealing with it on almost a daily basis.

It began a few weeks ago, this spitting. A group of boys decided to be...well, boys and reak havoc on some kids on the school yard. What was interesting was that the group of boys that were involved are generally good kids. It was ended pretty quickly as I got faux mad at them and I thought nothing of it.

Until yesterday.

There's the kid, see...and we'll call him A Lot to Handle (ALTH). ALTH sucks his thumb, thinks he is god's gift to everything, and doesn't feel like doing any work. Ever. His mother also hates me with the strength of a thousand suns. I think it's because I let her know her kid is a pill.

So, ALTH has suddenly joined the Spit Train and it's making stops e-ve-r-y-where. Mainly on walls, posters, floors and children's necks and shirts. It's disgusting.

I took the kid down to our very patient dean and thought that the issue would be resolved within minutes.....Ninety minutes later she returns with him and looks exhausted. The kid shuffles in as if he's coming home from 'Nam and plops down in his seat. The thumb goes in his mouth and he sucks away.

You would think that after ninety minutes of lecturing about spitting and lying about spitting and generally letting the kid know that spitting is gah-ross, he'd stop.

Yeah...you're wrong.

An hour later, ALTH claimed five more victims in the span of minutes. It was like those raptors in "The Lost World" when they ate all of those dudes in a corn field.

I even watched him spit on a kid and when I confronted him he said, "I didn't spit on no one!"

"I saw it come out of your mouth," I retorted.

"I was just talking!"

"With spit?!"

"I'm really expressive when I talk!"

Gross.

Student Quote #14

Mr. Vest: "And where would you like to go to college?"
Student: "Yale. Because it will be easy."
Mr. Vest: "Oh? Why?"
Student: "Because all I'll have to do is yell."
Mr. Vest: "Excuse me?"
Student: "YELLLLLLLLLL!"
Mr. Vest: "I got it. Thank you."

Graffiti Bridge, sans Prince

I never really understood graffiti written in bathroom stalls. It always seemed to me like a cowardly move. Graffiti is meant to be written in a clear area, where people can marvel at your work and want to copy it onto t-shirts or something.

But in a bathroom stall? That's just nasty. What compels people to sit on a toilet (as they do their business) and write something disparaging about another person? The only other people that will see it are kind of busy...but I do agree that it gives people something to do at the time.

Still...it semi-stings when you find out one of your students has written something negative about you in a public setting. Today, a sweet kid of mine came up to me and notified me that "people wrote something about you in the boys bathroom."

"Oh and what was it?"
"Mommy told me to never say these words."

I picked up my phone (to take a picture of the evidence) and entered the crime scene. Now, I was expecting something either questioning my sexuality or about how I'm stupid or something.

All I saw was this simple phrase: "Fuck Mr. Vest."

That was all. And I didn't really mind it. Frankly, I was happy they were able to spell the word correctly. Still, I had to fein shock and I let the custodians know the issue.

The only other time I remember someone writing something lame about me in such a way was in college when the person I was dating at the time's ex wrote that I was a "stuck up snob" on his facebook page. I didn't really mind it, because 1) that was a repetitive statement, 2) the kid was crazy as fuuuuck and 3) it was kind of sort of a true statement.

My second year of teaching I experienced my first bit of positive graffiti. See, the high school in the building had a set of girls who had developed crushes on me. At first I was flattered, but then it got creepy. Like, "following me to the subway and singing songs about their love of me" creepy. One day, I came to school and written in black permanent marker was the phrase, "Mr. Vest is sexy."

I didn't mind that one, either.

So, if one was the attempt to insult Mr. Vest through graffiti it wouldn't really work. I'll either agree with the statement or be flattered by it.

If you want to insult me, just tell me my clothes are ill-fitting or something.

Or don't. I'm sensitive.

Is it summer yet?

Look- no one wants to be in school right now. People have their shorts on, they are drinking iced coffees by the gallon, and they are cah-learly sweating underneath their arms. Yes, it's springtime and everyone is distracted. You can't help but think spring break is a friggin' tease. You get just a slight taste of good 'ole Mr. Sun before you are suddenly whisked back into the confines of your classroom. Would I rather be lounging in Prospect Park, getting my tan on and stalking dogs that I want to steal from their owners? YES.

But, the children will be returning tomorrow. This is always a rather interesting time to be a teacher. It can go several ways:
1) You are kind of excited to see your students again- you miss their quirks and look forward to having new material to share with friends about insane in the membrane they are.
2) You hope to GOD some kids decided to transfer to other schools.
3) You just want to spend each and every day at a happy hour. Like, from 8am until closing.

For me, it's a combo of all of those things. I always remind myself that the students are just as distracted as I am. They want to be outside just as much as you. This is one of those rare times where you see eye to eye.

My first year of teaching, my energetic group (read: I hated them) came back and promptly told me that they didn't feel like working anymore. Now, this wasn't a radical change as they had not done much of any work that year, but even so....

Mr. Vest: "There are still eight weeks of school left. What do you think you are going to do everyday?"
Student #1: "Lounge around and not do sh*t."
Student #2: "Makeup. Lots and lots of makeup. You could be used as a model."
Student #3: "Make your life really difficult."

You had to appreciate their honesty.

With my current crop of kids, I won't expect such an attitude. They are wonderful and funny and blah blah blah- but it still won't be an easy few months. There will be days of frustration, exhaustion and the constant questioning of "WHY?!" But then the day is over...and you are at happy hour.

With nachos. Or mozzarella sticks.

Or, in a perfect world, both.

With Anderson Cooper.

Give Me a Hand Part 5- Curtains Up, Curtains Down

The rehearsals went relatively well, save for minor diva antics from this 5th grader I'll call Lady Godiva. We had to record our voices on a tape first, so we could focus on manipulating our marionettes during the show and home girl was giving everyone a hard time during the process.

"None of you are ENUNCIATING!" she bellowed as her ponytails swayed back and forth like pendulums. "This will sound terrible if you don't e-nun-ci-ate."

This was the type of kid that people allowed to be an asshole. I'm sure she was Student Body President at her high school. "Just let her act like she has authority and we'll just move on," Animal said as an aside to Polexia.

Polexia: "If she keeps talking, I'll enunciate her freakin' face."

LOVE.

Anywho- the recording process came out relatively well. There was the issue of me realizing that I sounded like a girl on tape. I didn't have the most masculine sounding voice, but for chrissake it never sounded that much like Michelle Tanner.

"Who is that girl speaking my lines?" I asked.

"It's you."

FAIL.

The evening of the performance (or, as I pronounced "perforMANCE" in my faux British-way), all of the families gathered in the performance arena of the Center for Puppetry Arts. Translation: A room with 50 fold able chairs. Classy.

The nerves of the dozen or so campers backstage was palpable. In some way, this was a landmark moment for a few of us. Throughout our unfortunately dorky lives, we had never been center stage and yet here we were, performing a shown to a packed room. Through puppets. At puppet camp.

I turned to Polexia and said, "I guess this is it! Hasn't this been fun?!"

She turned her face towards me with her dark eyeliner and "Jerry Garcia RIP" self-made t-shirt and patted me head. "It sure has squirt."

SQUIRT?! God, I loved her.

All in all, the show ran a total of 15 minutes and there was only one mistake. At one point, Lady Godiva's fairy puppet was supposed to flip through the air and land on a launch-pad (remember, we were in space). Unfortunately, the strings of her legs had somehow been tampered with and when the action was attempted, the legs came clear off.

Lady Godiva screamed. Her parents screamed. I laughed. Polexia showed me a pair of scissors in her pocket and smiled.

After the show, hugs were exchanged between the campers, Animal made a speech about the fun he had with us and how proud he was, and I was rarin' to go to Planet Hollywood. I remember being shuffled off rather quickly by my family so I didn't get to say a proper goodbye to Polexia which left me a little sad. That changed when we got to Planet Hollywood and I saw an actual suit worn by Val Kilmer in "Batman." Remember when he was kind of hot?

Months later, I returned to the Center for Puppetry Arts where a few of the campers came together for a festival. The museum's exhibits were all finished and we were some of the first people to walk through it. From across the room at a reception, I saw Polexia. My heart skipped a beat as I walked briskly towards her. I didn't want to RUSH as to seem desperate, but I'm sure she could tell I was excited to see her.

We exchanged pleasantries and updated each other on our lives. She was detailing the start of her junior year of high school and I was trying to find something exciting to say about 6th grade. All the while she kept her hand on my shoulder, and my little 11 year old heart was just about to melt.

"Where is your Jerry Garcia t-shirt?" I asked.

"It's time to move on, squirt," she said, "Jerry would of liked it that way."

"He would?"

"Do yourself a favor. When you get home, find some way to listen to 'Ripple.'"

"Is that a song?"

"No, squirt. It's a recipe. Of course it's a song."

"OK!"

With that, she patted me on the head once again and winked as she disappeared into the crowd. I never saw Polexia again, but I often to listen to that song and remember that while lots of nerds were at Puppet Camp, there was someone pretty rad.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I tell people about Puppet Camp, I'm often met with laughter or an "Are you serious?" attitude. What people don't realize is that I consider it one of the most defining weeks of my childhood. It was an opportunity to do what I loved- use my imagination and create something groups of people could enjoy. There were people around me that got to do this for a living and I decided that somehow, I would be involved in this type of creativity when I reached adulthood.

I realize that it isn't the coolest camp an 11 year old can go to, but hell, I had the time of my life.

Give Me a Hand- Part 4: The Concept

Since we last left Puppet World (God, if only that was a real place), I had met my fellow campers, fallen in love with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, and began to feel at one with my dorkiness. I was reveling in felt bliss and I simply did not want it to end.

Imagine my dork head wanting to explode when I found out we were to create our own play and not do an adaptation. "Finally, the chance to let my creative juices flow and show the WORLD how creative this 11 year old can be!" Little did I know that my ideas weren't going to be taken so seriously.

Putting ten or so nerds under the age of 14 in a room is a unique experience. Everyone thinks their ideas are the shiznit and no one will compromise. I imagine this is what it's like the writer's room for "The Simpsons"....back when it was good. Everyone wanted to be heard, and no one was biting my idea about a group of gnomes who want to teach the evil sisters of a brilliant 5th grader a lesson. After what seemed like hours upon hours of deliberation, tears and Doritos eating, the story came together.

Hence, the plot of our magnum opus at puppet camp- "Little Billy and the Spaceship Adventure."

Here we go: A rogue group of ragamuffins (consisting of a boy named Billy, a horse, two fairies and a giant octopus) board a spaceship because that makes complete sense. While on their way to Mars, the spaceship encounters engine trouble and it is up to Billy to lead everyone to safety. Little did he know that the octopus has diabolical plans (like eating them). That bastard.
*It should be noted that this is the summer of "Apollo 13" was released and we were taking lots of liberties.

Clever as all get out, huh? Indeed.

Naturally, I was creating Billy and naturally Polexia was creating the octopus. If she were anyone else, I would have been annoyed that she was trying to show us all up with such a character. "Eight legs?! I can't even make TWO," one camper said. It didn't matter, because I loved her and she loved me. Except I was convinced we'd get married and her feelings were that of the "this little kid's obsessed with me but no one will fill the hole left by the death of Jerry Garcia" variety. God, she was intense. God, I loved it.

With our script put together and the recording down, it was now time to create the puppets.

With paper mache. I sucked as paper mache. Like, really sucked. Like, when I tried to make a paper mache dolphin it ended up looking like cat vomit and rabbit ears. This was not my forte. But I persevered and within days, little Billy (with his drawn-on brown hair, blue jeans and long sleeve red shirt) was born. He was awesome, and I was awesome for creating him.

And Mr. Vest was happy. And Polexia was happy. And Animal was happy. And somewhere, Anderson Cooper was happy because he was Anderson Cooper.

Yes, with several practices ahead of us and the eventual performance night looming, I was ready to make my grand introduction to the puppet performance world. Was the camp ready? Was Atlanta ready? Was I ready?

Await Part 5.

Portrait of a Teacher by a Young Man

This is what happens when you request a student to draw a picture of you:

Ouch.

Give Me a Hand- Part 3

Back to the Puppet Camp....

Now, I am sure that the people I would spend the next week with at Puppet Camp would be just like me. They'd be a tad overweight, love discussing what happend on "Doug" the past weekend, and were convinced that at some point in the very near future they'd be famous.

Not as such.

I walked into the room and was well aware that I stuck out. I was the youngest by a year or two and many of the people were from the Atlanta area to begin with. When I told one girl I was from Jacksonville, her eyebrows raised and she asked, "Why did you come all of the way up here for this?"

INDEED. I was shocked and appaled. Clearly this girl doesn't know how awesome this experience would be or she wouldn't be surprised that a kid drove seven hours to be there. For a week. With puppets. God, what a Negative Nancy.

I quickly bonded with this kid Evan...mainly because he was fat, too. He had a bowl haircut and wore tshirts with the Looney Tunes characters in punk gear. The ying to my yang. Anywho- we sat in the corner together and traded stories about what television shows we wish we were on and what we ate that day. The latter took longer to discuss.

There was also this one girl, we'll call her Polexia (just 'cus) and she was waaaaay too old to be there. I think she was 16 and clearly this was her punishment for the summer. She was constantly rolling her eyes, wore dark mascara and loved the Grateful Dead. I was convinced that I was in love with her, too. This was before I realized that thinking about Brad Pitt a lot was an indicator of my sexual preference.

This was August 1995, and Jerry Garcia passed away during the camp week. Polexia was devastated and I was there to console her. Consoling for an 11 year old is something akin to patting someone on the back and stagnantly saying, "There. There."

I think she knew I cared.

So, this motely crew of puppeteers came together that fateful morning to be told that we had one week to write, record and create our very own marionettes in a show that would be performed that Friday. Huzzah! Our guide was this guy I'll refer to as Animal...because he looked just like that particular Muppet. He was probably in his early 30s, hadn't had sex yet and was very eager to make puppets. At the time I thought he was awesome, put in retrospect I was probably subconsiously thinking, "Shit, is this my future?"

Next time....what happens when you put 10 tweens in a room and ask them to create a show.

And the schooling will continue this fall at....

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

Boston, here I come (again)!

One more thing about today

I have this kid who has recently become obsessed with pencil shavings. Normally this would give one pause, but this kid is straight up wacko. I like the weirdos, but this kid often crosses the line and becomes creepy.

I once caught him staring at my during independent reading. When I asked him what was up, he said, "I'm just trying to picture you with a baby." I asked him why and he just went back to staring at me.

Like...his eyelids didn't blink.

The pencil shavings came up about a month ago and I was not really sure why he was obsessed with them. Whenever the sharpener would get full, he would bounce around me like a yelping dog, begging to keep the shavings. I said he could...mainly so he'd leave me alone. Week after week, he asked and I let him.

And now....I discovered why he so enjoyed the pencil shavings.

During class today, one of the students handed me what looked like a joint. My first instinct was to light up (thank you, college) but being a responsible teacher and all, I was positively agog.

"Where did you find this?!"
"In [student]'s desk."
"Say what?"
"In [student]'s desk. He takes pencil shavings and puts them inside."

And there you have it...pencil shavings have become the bastard child of ganja. I was at once horrified and surprised. I mean, that's kind of clever isn't it? The kid isn't smoking this stuff, but at least is aware of texture and appearance.

That doesn't look quite right

One of my students drew on eyebrows with a black marker. The thing is, he already had eyebrows to begin with. I think that's greedy.

Give Me a Hand: Part 2- The Arrival

Puppet camp works like this: You arrive, meet your fellow dorks, create characters and a script, make your marionettes, perform it and- in my case- eat a celebration dinner at Planet Hollywood Atlanta (don't judge, this was 1995. If it had been the Fashion Cafe then I deserved to be judged. I only ate there once.).

The Center for Puppetry Arts is located in Atlanta, Georgia. A city known for many names- ATL...Atlanta....I'm sure some others. Anywho- this is the setting for our adventure. In the weeks leading up to this camping excursion, I was tickled pink with excitement. I knew it in my heart of hearts that upon completion of this program, I would be asked to star in television series with a giant puppet (maybe a panda or a tiger or a giant piece of cheese) and we'd go on adventures and sing songs and eat ice cream. I was fat back in these days, so the ice cream was an important factor in just about anything I did.

Needless to say, some of my family members grew tired of hearing me boast about my eventual Daytime Emmy Award speech. But, what did they know? They weren't going to puppet camp.

Suckers.

Ok- so while I was going to be in paradise with felt and strings, my family was to spend the days relaxing at Stone Mountain State Park just outside of Atlanta. If you haven't been there, it's the kind of place where you can get Dippin' Dots. This means its awesome. It also has trees and mountains and shit.

The night we arrived, I simply could not sleep. I was all atwitter. I tossed and turned, just knowing that the next day I would meet people of my similar interests and mindsets. I would finally be with the weirdos.

As the family van arrived at the camp site, I nearly vomited from excitement (or too much Dippin Dots, I don't really remember). I entered the doors and the experience began.

Next time: A profile of my fellow campers and a counselor who was the spittin' image of Animal.

Woops

As I am reading a story called "Dandelion and Doodlebug:"

"So, Dandelion and Douchebag...oops...I mean....Doodlebug....oh god."

What's funny is that none of the kids reacted. Except the perverts.

Student quote #13

Student: "Mr. Vest, let's hang out this weekend."
Mr. Vest: "No."
Student: "Come on, man. Why?"
Mr. Vest: "First of all, you called me 'man.'"
Student: "Listen! We'd have a great time."
Mr. Vest: "What would we do?"
Student: "Lots of things. So many things. So, many, many things. Like, we would do old people things."
Mr. Vest: "Namely?"
Student: "You know...stuff old people do. Like eat oatmeal. We could sit around and talk about ties and stuff. And coffee. You love coffee, Mr. Vest. So, I think a lot of our conversation would be about that. We could talk about our hearts and whether or not we are having heart problems. Bird watching. Old people watch birds. Maybe rock climbing, if you are adventurous. Come on, we could be busy-buddies."
Mr. Vest: "You mean 'bosom buddies.'"
Student: (long beat) "Mr. Vest...I don't have bosoms. I'm a boy."
Mr. Vest: "It's a phrase."
Student: "I'll let it slide."
Mr. Vest: "So, bird watching and rock climbing? I don't think this old guy could handle that."
Student: "Yeah, I figured."

Give me a hand (Part 1)

I love puppets. Freakin' love 'em. I'm not even joshin' with you. Now, I'm not talking about creepy puppets, per se, like this:

(Note: Are the nipples necessary?)

No, no, no...more like this:

*Massive apologies to a reader I know of that is positively frightened by Fraggles.

Now, this hasn't won me any popularity contests. Frankly, some people find it questionable. Even weird. I say, "Away to you!"

I remember watching this sitcom a few years back where a character (I think it was Ricki Lake and the show was something like "We Didn't Have Anyone of Note to Cast and Ricki Lake Was Available") comes out of a beau's bedroom and comments, "Wow...I don't think I've ever seen that many marionettes before." The audience laughs but I was offended. Like...who doesn't have a marionette in their room? I have one. And he is a moose. And he is AWESOME.

That being said, my obsession in my youth began with "The Sound of Music" and Jim Henson and has never waned. How I longed to be a Lonely Goatherd and have talking and singing goats around me. I wasn't too jazzed about the blonde girl in braids, but you deal with what you're given. I would watch "The Jim Henson Hour" religiously and quote from all of his specials and movies. Hell, I have a Kermit tattoo on my back.

This lead my parents to a decision to send me to PUPPET CAMP in the summer of 1995. When I found out, I went apeshit. Puppet Camp? Where everyone who is awesome's dreams come true? My parents sent me off to what would amount to be of the most definitive weeks of my life. I'm not even playin' you.

Stay tuned, my fellow goatherds.