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.