CHAPTER 2

The first month is over and I'm still in a dither as to what my salary is. The HR person asks, "Is your Master's in Education." I don't go completely ballistic and get my glocks and go up in there and shoot up the whole school. Calmly, I call the Founder at home and explain that I really need some clarification about my salary. She insists that I need to write an email to the Principal, President of the school and the HR person. I do this and, at the end of the day, hand it to the HR person whose email I don't have. She comes out of her office in a tizzy, saying, "Ms. Trump, I took care of this today, come back!"

I've got to go to the restroom. I've had a rough day and I need to relieve myself. I do this and return to her office, where she tells me that my salary is, now, commensurate with my Master's degree, despite the fact that it is NOT in Education! Then, she explains the benefits package to me, which allows for prescription drugs that the principal told me I probably need to take -- a valium, now and then, will calm the nerves, numb you, she said.

So, I leave the school, on November 1, feeling a little better than when I left the day before, which was Halloween. The students asked me, "What are you going to be for Halloween?" I said, "Myself," which brought gales of laughter out of them. "Ha, ha, ha," I thought.

November 1, supposed All Saints Day was a really bad day for me because, by the end of the lunch period, I'd decided that I wasn't even going to TRY to teach anymore this day. I wasn't going to answer the kid in the video, above, whose thousand and one questions make me crazy, simply because he needs allllllllll the attention. (Is it Ritalin withdrawal?)

When a 7th grade girl comes into the class and stoops down next to my desk to tell me something, one male student thinks I didn't hear him say, "Someone needs to hit that!" I waited until after lunch to confront him for this and one other sexual remark he made in my class. Of course, he accuses me of falsely accusing him. I write him up and send him out of my class, all in a huff.

Then, the bustard son of the Dean of Students holds court in my classroom, asking the girls, "Do you think I still like Lajanda? Well, I don't." I knew there was something between those two, when I first came into the class to teach. [Update]

I'm thinking, he must be feeling his oats, after his father dissed me in the hallway, saying, "We need to have a meeting." This is after, I've filled out about 25 referral forms on students, which I hand him in lieu of our proposed meeting "with the principal." Six of them have been suspended and changed to other classes, and two of them I have not seen this week. One of them is Ms. I Give Head, who threatened my life, when I told her she was President of the Class. Her response was, "If I was President, Ms. T would be the first to die!" I wrote her up and put her out of my class. The security guard asked me to be more detailed on the referral form, so I was. Evidently, she's suspended or expelled. Also, she remarked, "My words mean something." I told her, "Yes, they do to someone who is afraid to die."

The kids call me Ms. Write-em-up! and, in one month, I've earned that name, believe that!

When I left the school, this afternoon, one boy says to me as I'm driving out of the gate, "Ms. T, get out of the car, outside the gate." I replied, "And what do you intend to do?" He says, "Just get out of the car." So, I do and he runs like a rabbit. A little punk.

CHAPTER 3

It's been a solid six weeks and there've been moments when I doubted my ability to cope or the necessity of my continuing in this primal occupation of teaching wayward 13 and 14 year olds. But, today, Friday, I had a real breakthrough. One young girl, who'd given me hell from day one, stood at my classroom door with the assignment in hand that I'd given students as an assignment over the Thanksgiving holiday. I put them in teams of three and four and she's the leader of her team.

Thinking that none of the 80 students understood the assignment, I resigned myself to the fact that none of the teams may make the assignment work. However, this girl said, "You have to help me."

I asked her what she needed to know. She asked a couple of questions and my answers seemed to clear up her confusion. I reassured her that this was only a means to the end of expanding her consciousness and that of her classmates. She walked away satisfied.

Last night, a friend assured me that one of my students was paying attention. By 2:35 p.m., today, I knew there was hope. By 8:00 p.m., I thought, "She's right. This is a breakthrough because, if the light goes on for one of them, it can go on for more of them."

Here's the assignment:

Plan a Music Festival and Documentary Video on how R&B and Gospel music and musicians have affected our culture, using examples from the different decades: 80’s, 90’s and 2000’s. Show how they have influenced aspects of our culture, such as history, social change, politics, and styles by comparing and contrasting two different biographical sources on three (3) R&B and three (3) Gospel musicians of your choice.

CHAPTER 4

This quarter, I decided that I get paid to come to school to judge comedy. I am no longer passionate about teaching the students about music theory and composition, as I'm clear that this population has neither the focus or the acumen to absorb and regurgitate musical notation. They awaken distracted and go through the day looking to be distracted. Music takes discipline, focus and practice. So, I teach them about music production: videos, CDS, events: festivals, films, etc. Maybe they will be able to garner a job behind-the-scenes as a camera operator, grip, sound or lighting technician, marketer or box office clerk.

I learned that one of the male students who looks to be about 28, is really just turned 13. What the fick are they putting in those chicken wings, these days? He laughs, talks and plays through my entire class and I'm thinking that he gets nothing I'm teaching. Then, when he's left the room, I find a piece of paper with his first name on it, with all the vocabulary words I'd written on the board, with the definitions. "Um," I think, "Who is he fooling, me or himself?" Well, we'll see, when he takes the next quiz.

Update: The bustard son of the Dean of Students quit the new girlfriend and went back to Lajanda, who accused me of not liking her. When I called her aside to ask why she thought I don't like her, she said because I am always separating her from "himself" and the new girlfriend. I told her that I only do that because I believe she has potential to learn, but that I truly believe they are distracting her from learning.

Now, the two of them sit at the same desk and sleep together, while I teach the rest of the students, whatever I can, between my shouting spurts of "Sit down" and "Be quiet." The girlfriend spends her time either sucking her thumb with her head on the desk or getting two female classmates to undo her weaved braids. It is all so pathetic.

Every now and then, they rear their sleepy heads to see what is going on in the class. I see the lights go on in their beady little eyes and think, "Maybe, there's some hope, in here, somewhere." Generation X is really in for a rude awakening. They have no clue about Marshall Law, the Prison Industrial Complex or ghetto genocide.

By the end of this week, I learned that the bustard isn't the son of the Dean at all. He's a fatherless child whom the Dean has seen fit to patriate. I went into the room that my class and I had been put out of so they could remove the soundproofing foam from the walls because no one got certification from the fire inspector before they put it up the year before. I was in there to grade some test papers and I overheard the Dean chastising the little bustard. I heard my name mentioned and didn't learn until the next day that it was because the teacher who'd been in that room earlier saw the little bustard buck me and told the Dean who, in turn, jumped to the opportunity to straighten this head-strong kid out.

The following day, Friday, he was up out of his seat in my class about five times. Finally, I pulled his back pack to place him back in his seat, but the chair was not there and he landed on the floor, not too hard, but on the floor, nonetheless. The chair was moved back to the bookcase and the student sitting in the chair next to the empty one, I assumed, had moved the chair. I knew I hadn't moved it, but this student told the little bustard that I'd moved it and proceeded to call me names, when I said that he did it. This developed into a fiasco, with the students all pointing at me, saying I'd moved the chair so that the little bustard could fall on the floor. I'm standing there realizing that they've pulled me into their dumb shit.

The little bustard and his girlfriend go and get another teacher. I simply tell her that if he'd been in his seat in the first place, none of this would have happened. And, I told her that he was angry with me because the Dean had beat the shit out of him the day before for something that he said he didn't do, but that he had done.

What my friend says is true. " With our apathy, we have sown the wind and now we are reaping the whirlwind in the form of children who don't even know what it is that they were born with the impulse to act out.  As so often happens in life, it is those who basically care the most, the teachers, who catch the brunt of this madness."

Gene's story of one teacher is scary. "One lady opted for early retirement, being so convinced that if she went back for another year of that she would surely be brought upon criminal charges for hurting some parent's child, and end up doing time."

Certainly, I don't plan to spend my sixties incarcerated for some ignorant bustard who is seeking attention by any means necessary. I am resolved that I get paid to go to school five days a week to judge comedy. If these kids don't plan to listen, I am not going to put my own life in jeopardy to make them learn. I will have my lessons planned, execute them with assignments, classwork, homework and tests and give grades according to the performance of the students. The recent incident is the last time I will impose my will on these students. I've called parents. I've reported incidents to the administration. I'm a music teacher. Not a prison guard.

Then, across the hall in another classroom, where the students have banged the door so hard on the wall so many times that there is a gaping whole in the wall, a female student lay crying. The male teacher is allowing the students to stand around the girl with bibles in hand, reading scripture. Meanwhile, she is complaining of chest pains that she was hospitalized for two weeks prior. I ask the students to step away from the girl. Some are milling around the classroom. Some are having their little battles in the back of the room. One obviously gay boy is talking to the girls mother on the phone. Another loud girl is arguing with him that she was the first to contact the mother.

I place my hand on the girl's neck to see if she has a fever. I keep my hand there and whisper to her that she must stop crying, close her mouth and breathe through her nose. This calms her until the paramedics get there. I tell her that there is too much drama amongst her classmates and that is what is upsetting her physically. She agrees.

I ask the teacher to take all the students to my room, which is empty. All of the students, except the gay boy and loud girl go. Finally, I have to walk over to the loud girl who is standing by the door, that creaks each time she moves. She is obstinate and disobedient, an utter pain in the ass. I ask the security lady to escort the girl into the other room. This is the only way she moves away from the classroom where the ailing girl is.

When I return to the side of the ailing girl, I ask the gay boy to go to the other room, too. He does. When the paramedics arrive, there are students in the hallway. The paramedics ask if we can have the students stay out of the hallway, while they remove the girl on the stretcher. Of course, the students, who should be coming to my class are all curious as to what is happening and they have to be herded like cattle into a room down the hall.

Just as we get the last student in the other room, the paramedics exit with the girl on the stretcher. The problem is that there are not enough adults to handle the population. What is truly needed are more security people in the hallways.

After classes, I'm giving a chorus lesson and one of the boys who was in the class where the girl took ill says, "You made us stop reading the bible. We don't like atheists." Now, I'm convinced that I don't work in a school at all. This is definitely an insane asylum with religious fanatics who are about to take over the ficking world!

CHAPTER 5

Two occurrences racked my nerves this week. First, the class of 12 dullards has been broken up and two or three students have been placed in each of the other four classes of 8th graders. I believe this is a bad move because, now, the dullards will disrupt the other four classes. I was right!

One of the dullards from the previous class decides to put his foot through the wall, just as we are leaving for lunch. Though I heard the loud noise, while I was standing at the door, I don't know about the hole, until we return 45 minutes later from lunch. The maintenance man shows me the whole and I realize this was what the loud noise was about. I make a judgment about which one of the boys did it, but the whole class covers up for him.

Next, Ms. I Give Head called me a dumb ass a second time and I wrote her up and called her mother. She left the class for a day or so and came back with "you funny lookin' ho". That did it for me. I retorted, "If there's a ho in this school. . ." and the whole class gathered around her with their humor.

One of the guidance counselors told me that Ms. I Give Head was in the computer lab creating an apology that was going to be "so nice." My response was, "really?"

Students believe that it's ok for them to treat teachers like shit and all will be forgiven the following day. They are willing to push you to the edge. One day, I even sang, "Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge. I'm tryin' not to lose my head. Ha ha ha ha ha ha."

I explained to one student that his exasperation as a result of my presence is only 1/80 of mine. It took a minute for him to understand what I meant, but he did get it. The light did go on and I witnessed it.

So, it's the winter holidays and I'm having the first paid vacation that I can remember in a very long time. Yes, being a musician is like being on vacation all the time because of the venues that you work at. But to get paid two weeks for not going to work seems like a fair trade for dealing with this generation of students who have no fear, no class, no manners, no respect, no intention of following rules, no desire to learn, no sense of fairness, no remembrance of reciprocity, no chance of graduating to the next grade, no intelligent life, no reason to be still, no regard for you as a teacher, no belief that they can be left back.

Has President Bush has won his battle? No child left behind.

CHAPTER 6

The two things that keep me going, a paycheck and benefits, including lots of paid vacation time, are things that I thought I would never really say I was at work for. However, after the Christmas holidays, I realize that it's either them or me. They refuse to settle down and learn.

Ms. I Give Head and two other little hussies, whom I shall refer to as Ms. I got drama  and Ms. I'M DA SHIT thought they could get away with smart talking me and cursing at me. Well, I proved them wrong.

First, the drama queen was sleeping in my room, which is nothing new. I'd already called her mother, who informed me that the police had been called three times because her daughter kept running away from home. I really didn't care why because I'd already been clued in that Moms is a couple of degrees off. But Moms sounded quite articulate to me, so I wasn't inquiring as to the why of her teenaged girl from Hell was running away. I just wanted Moms to know that the kid wasn't performing and was telling me to leave her the fick alone. Then, she said it to me, again, when I told her to wake up.

Well, dontcha know the security guard, Ms. H, was in the faculty restroom and overheard this. She burst into my classroom while zipping up her pants and told Ms. Drama to get up and leave the room. I wrote a referral the next morning and gave it to the Dean, with explicit instructions for Ms. I got drama, Ms. I'M DA SHIT and Ms. I Give Head to remain out of my room until further notice.

Ms. I'M DA SHIT is forever giving me grief. She was moved from the lowest class of 8th graders, when that class was broken up, to the second highest group and she's caused nothing but dismay and disruption with her ghetto self, ever since. This time, she's showing the boy next to her, her buddy, just how obnoxious she can talk to me. She uses no expletives but she's brutally crass and rude. I ask her if she thinks she's ghetto. She says, "yeah!" I inform her that I am too, and that she can't be any more ghetto that I can be. She rolls her eyes and raises her voice. Now, remember, these are 13-year-olds.

Meanwhile, I go to the outer door to find security to remove Ms. I'M DA SHIT and Ms. I Give Head starts roaming around the room. I ask her nicely to sit down and she ignores me. I say, "sit down you little hussy."

She rolls her eyes and says not to call her that. I say, "Well, that's what you are."

She says, "Your Mama."

Well, why did she say that! This child doesn't know that the only fight I can remember having in six decades was when I slapped a 10-year-old white girl who said something about my mother.

I say, "My mother is dead. Is your mother dead?"

"No," she snorts.

I say, "Well, don't talk about my dead mother."

She says, "Leave me the fick alone."

Now, I'm mad. She's out of my room, as well.

So, the next morning, the three of them are out of my class. Ms. Ghetto is sitting there, when I enter. I tell her she's out. She tells me the Dean says. . .

I say, "Well, I say, you're out."

She saunters out in a huff.

Good riddance to the three of them.

This is my day of retribution. I tell all four classes that I've let them play for three months and now it's time to get to work. They all think Music is play time. I know it's a serious discipline, requiring focus and determination.

Rather than simply sing songs, I've introduced them to several careers in the music industry, from composer to copyist, sound engineer to manufacturer and distributor, graphics designer to publicist. I show them how to produce, organize and publicize a music festival. I even teach them how to sell ads in a journal to make money to pay for everything having to do with the event. They take it all in, but when the project comes due, they are not prepared. So, I extend the due date to before Christmas holidays. They still are not prepared. When we return, two more teams have the project, but one team has neglected it altogether.

Now, I'm pissed. I've given them every opportunity to redeem themselves and they ignore me. For me, Music is a privilege. For them, it's some beats and vulgar lyrics that have no saving grace whatsoever. They are dull human beings with no direction and I'm really sick at this point.

Then, the dullard who put his foot through the wall that is now repaired, gets with Dullard #2 who has been a royal pain in the arse since day one and, while I'm getting paper towels from the staff bathroom, just outside the classroom door, one of them puts their foot through the wall, below the board. I go out the alternate door and see the principal in the hallway and ask her to come in, immediately. I show her the hole and tell her it is one of the two dullards who did it. She takes them out in the hall and calls several of the students who were sitting there watching them do this. All of them refuse to tell which one did the damage.

One says, "I just came in the room." Liar.

Another says, "I didn't see what happened." Liar.

Another says, "I was coming in the room with Ms. Trump." Liar.

They are all liars. But, hey, I'm back to my axiom. I'm there for the paycheck and the benefits. Period!

CHAPTER 7

Speaking of benefits, I was officially salaried as of November 1, but when I called to make a doctor's appointment after several days of feeling light-headed and one day of having a bloodshot eye that my students had to tell me about, I was told by the receptionist at the doctor's office that I had to give her my medical benefits card number. I was on lunch break and when I returned to school, I went straight to the HR office, where I was given a telephone number and website to refer to about my benefits with Humana.

When I got home from school, I went to the website and tried to log on, but was unable to. I called the number to learn that I was not in the system. This was December 20. I called back to the school and spoke with the HR person who called Humana and learned that, in fact, my information was not in the system and that she had to fax over my information, again. She said she'd do this right away. The next day was our last day before vacation and I wanted to get a doctor's appointment during our two-week vacation time. It took until 5:30 p.m. for the Humana rep to get me into the system, but it was too late for me to get the appointment at the doctor's office, so I had to call back the following Monday before noon, which I did. However, the receptionist told me that when she put my information into the Humana system either on the phone or online, nothing came up.

I called Humana, again, and was told by their rep that I was in the system and that she would call the doctor's office if I wanted her to. I gave her the number and held on. She came back stating that I everything was all right and I should hang up and call the doctor's office to make my appointment. When I did this, the receptionist told me that I had to call Humana back and request this particular doctor as my treating physician. I did this, and the Humana rep told me that this was not necessary because of the particular plan I was on through the school. I called the doctor's office back and told the receptionist this and she told me that she would get back to me by Wednesday or Thursday, which never happened.

On Friday, after Christmas, I left a message on the answering service that I was still waiting to hear from Lisa who said she'd contact me by Wednesday or Thursday. On Monday, I got a call from Lisa sarcastically telling me that she just didn't get around to calling me to make an appointment. I asked her did she have a time for me after school hours and she said "Yes, January 22 at 3:45 p.m. is the only time I have for an afternoon appointment." I asked if she had an earlier date. She said I could come in on January 9 at 2 p.m. I said I would take that appointment.

I had to take two hours off to make that appointment. When I made the request for leave, I was told I had to take half a day, which I did. So, now, I was losing personal time to go to the doctor because I wasn't in the Humana system for almost two months, after I was employed.

On a positive note, the doctor took my blood pressure twice and determined that I don't have high blood pressure. But. . .why the bloodshot eye?

Things that make you go hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

The next week I needed to go get my blood work done, first thing in the morning. This time, I took of the whole day because I also had to go get my fingerprints, for the second time because the school board didn't accept the first set I got, through a tutoring company. Something about, they don't cross check.

After the doctor's appointment, I go straight to the main office of the school board. I get to the desk and the receptionist asks me for my letter or form. I don't have a clue what she is talking about. Then, I recall my employment letter, sitting on my desk at home, that I should have gotten on November 1, but only received on December 20, when I inquired about my health benefits (ugh!).

I tell her that they will have to fax the form or letter over to her. She gives me a card with the fax number. I call the school to speak with the HR person. It's 9:45 a.m. The school receptionist tells me the Ms. HR is not answering. I ask is she expected in. She says she is not sure. I ask for the principal. She's not in. I ask for the office manager. The receptionist says, with laughter, "she just stepped out."

I tell her that I took off the day to go to the doctor and to get my fingerprints done and that I don't have the proper papers and I need the Ms. HR and I don't find any humor in any of it. She says, "hold on" and minutes later comes back on the line saying, "I have Ms. HR on the phone."

Ms. HR faxes the paper over. I sit there for another few moments waiting for the receptionist at the desk to get the fax. She talks to two or three other people and keeps writing and looking at her computer. Finally, I ask, "Did the fax come yet?"

She says, "Oh," and gets up to go get the fax. She comes back and calls me over to the desk, handing me a form to fill out. I read the fax that states that, according to one of the school board administrators, I do not have to pay the $70 fee, since I already paid for the fingerprints before, but "they just do not cross check," according to the fingerprinting clerk.

Of course, the school board receptionist has to exert her POWER by telling me that "we don't do this," meaning they don't do fingerprinting without the fee. I show her the notation on the fax. She says, "take a seat. We have to talk to [the administrator]."

So, I sit down and wait some more. I wait and wait. Finally, I go up and ask her if the administrator has been contacted. She says, "Oh, yes, you don't have to pay the fee. Go to the back room and sit down and someone will call you."

I go to the back room and sit in the tiny alcove with two other ladies. One of the ladies at the fingerprinting machine finally calls, "Next," and I'm up and getting my fingerprints.

She says, "your prints will be available to the school, tomorrow."

I ask, "what about my badge?"

She says, "the school will give you your badge."

I'm out of there!

I decide that between having my blood drawn and my fingers printed, I deserve a drive on the beach. Then, I go to the mall for a cup of coffee and some strudel. I walk around the mall, winding up at Sharper Images where I sit in two massage chairs and get my body worked on for almost an hour!

It's 1:30 p.m. when I go home, where my bubble sheets for grades are waiting to be filled in. This is when I realize that besides a paycheck and benefits, I do have the thrill of grading the students. I smile, do the deed, then have a nice glass of red wine! Life is good.

CHAPTER 8

Well, the ultimate happened today. It was an early release day. I learned that my 8th graders often didn't get lunch, except pizza, because there is sometimes not enough food left after the 6th and 7th graders eat their lunch. Also, if the 7th graders come back late from lunch, the 8th graders go to lunch late. I know by the time my lunchtime comes around, I'm famished. So, I know these kids are really hungry by the time it's time for them to go to lunch.

Things that make you go hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Also, grades went in today. I had to abide by the wishes of the administration that no student receives an "F" unless their parents are notified first. Well, I ain't about to contact any of the parents of any of the F students, so, I jostled their grades to give them a "D", instead. Well, when I got to work this morning, after getting all my grades logged on the bubble sheets, last night, all I had to do was edit my grade book to reflect the changes and print them out as back up. Wouldn't you know that the server was down and I couldn't get the damn print outs in time to send the edited grade book with the grades. Frustrating is not the word.

I tried, over and over, again to print the grade book, but it just wouldn't happen, so I used the printout I had and wrote on it, "there is an updated print out but the printer wouldn't work."

I was so exhausted by the time I went to lunch, I just heated up my food and took it to the cafeteria where all the teachers met for the next two hours for a staff workshop. I sat, eating my lunch, while the workshop presenter began his presentation. He started off joking about asking his wife is he up to giving the presentation. Then, he made the statement that she had asked him for a divorce and he would give her one but he just didn't want to make her happy. I was thinking, "what does this have to do with what we are here for?"

He was using a powerpoint presentation that showed percentages representing the type of population in schools: 85% universal were students who come to school to get an education; 10% target population who could improve with a little help from staff; and 5% intensive who are always the ones causing problems in the class and getting referred.

At one point, Teacher A said that our school's numbers were inverted, that 85% of our population is intensively disruptive. Teacher B said there wasn't a day that went by without students talk, talk, talking in class to the point of preventing him from giving a full lesson. He stated that a study showed that children between the ages of 10 and 15 almost die, if they cannot talk.

The presenter asked us who, in the school, creates the culture of the school. Teacher A said the students and the teachers. Immediately, he told her, scornfully, that she was absolutely wrong, that the teachers create the culture. I listened intently hoping to garner some information about why my students' behavior was so disruptive.

He did inform us that, though they may not display it, children in their early teens have an intense sense of fairness. After much discourse, I reminded him that "Life is not fair."

Teacher C, the only white teacher at our school said that teachers model for the students and, when a child is disruptive one day, she simply greets him or her the next morning, with a smile , hoping that their behavior will improve.

The Dean said that he made it a habit to visit the home of a disruptive student and that he'd even bought a bicycle for one of the students to win their trust. He said that he was part of a group that had saved several boys on the road to jail from going the wrong way. He said that teachers should go beyond the classroom in order to learn about their students and their lifestyle.

I'm thinking, I'm 60 years old. He's in his forties with one child. I have two, a son with two daughters and a daughter with two sons and a daughter. I have little energy to visit the homes of my students, at this late date. Also, I have no desire to meet the parents of such abusive and disrespectful children because I'm sure many of them are simply acting out behavior that they've witnessed, not all, but most.

I realize that the Dean is telling me, in a roundabout way, that I should forgive the three girls banned from my class for profane language and totally disrespectful behavior. I should smile at them and let them back in. I'm quiet for a few moments, then I raise my hand and say to the presenter, "children need to understand that a teacher is a privilege and that certain behavior is unacceptable."

The presenter says, "No, education is a right in America."
I say, "I just returned from China and South Africa and I'm sure that education is a privilege, a blessing."

He says, "No, the law requires children to get an education in this country."

I say, "Yes, I know that, but it is still a privilege to have someone qualified to teach you. You know that the people in this room could go out and get a job doing a lot of things, but they chose to be here. Teachers are underpaid, overworked and under-appreciated. Students should learn not to take teachers for granted."

He says, "I am one of those children. I didn't like school. I don't remember the names of all of my teachers, just a couple of them." He names the ones he remembers, one whom he did like and one who failed him. He says, "I was disruptive and the only difference between me and the students that you teach is that I cannot use the African American card."

Now, I'm up and asking, "Excuse me? Since when do you need to be black to be bad?"

Things that make you go hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Who is this guy?

He says, "All of these kids are mine."

I say, "All of what kids?"

He says, "All 55,000 middle school students in this county."

I say, "How are they yours?"

He says, "I'm in charge of all the middle schools."

I say, "And when is the last time you've been around these students?"

He says he was in the hallways, all day, watching their behavior. I have a flash of seeing two white men in the hall at class change. He repeats that he came from the classroom, as a teacher. He says "I am one of the kids you are dealing with, now. I didn't get it, as a child."

"So," I inquire, "how old were you when you did get it?"

"Twenty," he said.

I said, "Well, what about those of us who liked school, who did our schoolwork, who got our diplomas and degrees, and returned to teach these children and, now, we sit here listening to you tell us that we are doing something wrong?"

At that point, Teacher B got up and went over to the soda machine and Mr. I'm In Charge said, "I knew he didn't like me," confirming that he's not that sure of the game he's running on us.

That's when his compadre from "The Foundation" took over and gently massaged us into believing that they have the solution to teaching the "intensive students who disrupt the teaching process." He told us that we may think we are her to teach, but we are really here to "create a culture in which students can learn. We are here to model good behavior for the students."

He had sense enough to know that we weren't buying the load that Mr. I'm In Charge was laying out in the bulletless, unaligned PowerPoint presentation that he shone his little digital red light on, with its loony cartoons that made absolutely no sense at all.

As we were leaving the workshop, I was speaking to the man from "The Foundation" about being mentored by a retired teacher who listens to my rants about what's going on in my classroom. I told him that she was the one who told me that I didn't have to accept the rude behavior of the girls and boys I asked to leave my class, after they offended me, repeatedly. I showed him the Classroom Rules that she told me were online and that I had highlighted several of the rules, particularly #1 and #39, which are the same, intrinsically:

1. Disturbing the class or school by: being disrespectful or rude, refusing to obey any staff member, failing to follow classroom rules, running in the halls, throwing objects, possessing or igniting fireworks or smoke/stink bombs, fighting, gambling, or bringing distracting items to school including, but not limited to, skateboards, scooters, in-line skates/roller blades/heelies (sneakers with wheels), toys, playing cards, toy weapons, games, cigarette lighters, radios, audio recorders, headphones, laser pointers/pens and other laser devices.

39. Displaying disruptive behavior.

Well, Mr. I'm In Charge kept interrupting me, finally, warning the man from "The Foundation" that he was about to miss his plane. As we walked down the hall to the front lobby, we were intersected by the principal who was all warm and fuzzy with Mr. I'm In Charge, asking if everything went OK. His response was that there was a lot of interaction, which he normally doesn't allow, during his presentation. She said, "That's what this is all about, our staff getting to express themselves."

At first, I didn't realize that I may have stepped out of line, saying the things I did and posing the questions I asked of Mr. I'm In Charge. But, after all, the workshop was put in place to allow us to express ourselves and I certainly did that!

When I got to my car, I was talking to myself about  Mr. I'm In Charge and said, aloud, with the windows shut, "You may not have the 'African American card', but you sure do have the "bald, little dwarf card!"

When I got home, I was still talking to myself and had to call someone who understood. So, I called my mentor, the retired teacher. But, first I put in a call to one of the staff members at the workshop who didn't answer, so I left a message for her to call me.

I told my mentor that I was sure she was tired of hearing my ranting about this job. She assured me that she was not and that she wanted to hear what was occurring. When I told her about the afternoon's events, she could hardly believe her ears. Then, the other line rang and I asked her to hold on. It was my co-worker for whom I'd left a message, I switched over and said her name and I heard a deep voice say, "Hello, Bitch!"

I was flabbergasted! I switched back to my mentor and told her what had occurred. She was flabbergasted. We surmised that someone had my co-worker's phone and saw my name come up on the caller ID. Then, the call came in, again, from her number. I switched and heard childish voices in the background.

Had some student stolen my co-worker's phone?

Surely, this was not her.

My mentor assured me that I was being called a bitch by others in the school, indicating that I was doing something very right. She said that I've drawn these experiences to show myself that, after years of physical and verbal abusive behavior from my own family, including my children, husbands, mother and brother, I am not going to allow anyone to abuse me anymore.

I told her that this is nerve-rattling. She told me not to say anything, when I went back to school, to ignore the whole ordeal.

Things that really make you go hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.