The End of Something Good

School ended a month ago, and I will admit that it sure felt like it took too long to get to that point.  I'm still recovering in some ways; I was pulled in a lot of painful and trying directions both professionally and personally, and I wanted nothing more than to just call it quits on all of it.  One of my time constraints was being a debate coach.  This wasn't new, but with everything else going on this year it was just one more thing to do.  So at the end of the season, I called it quits.

The thing is, of all the things that claimed so much of my time this year, debate was also one of the most rewarding.  While after school practices and weekend competitions were painful and frustrating and stressful and rushed, there were also so many moments of joy and friendship and learning and success.  I have strengthened relationships with students and the other coaches I worked with.  I have become more aware of issues in the world.  I have become a better writing teacher because of it.  The three years I coached debate were full of self doubt, but by the end I had accomplished some things personally and helped students to grow.  While I won't miss the huge amounts of time needed to help a debate team be successful, I will miss getting to celebrate with the students when they succeed, and helping them to learn when they don't.  Debate was good for me.  And the ending of it is good, too.  It's just hard to let go to some of the things in between.

Debate begins with practice.  Lots and lots of practice.

Ahh, and the bus rides to tournaments.  Sometimes they were quiet.  Sometimes they were loud.  They were always an adventure, and as coaches we sometimes found out a few weeks later just how much of an adventure those rides were for some kids.

Our diet as debaters/coaches consists of a lot of fast food - quick lunch runs for kids in between rounds, or at the end of a tournament for kids who needed more substantial food than gummy worms (they never brought real food even though we told them to).

Warm-ups are an important part of getting ready to compete vocally and mentally.

After warm-ups, it's off to check the postings to know where you need to be, when you need to be there, who you are competing against, and if you made it to final rounds.

Some of my Public Forum debaters preparing for the start of a round.

And while kids are waiting to start competing or are in between rounds, there are all sorts of things going on: games, reviewing cases, socializing, and the ever popular napping.

And while the kids compete, the coaches from our region are in the tab room, keeping track of kids' scores and sometimes having to make tough decisions like tie breakers, tracking down students who haven't shown up to their rounds, and being centrally located in case of judging errors or student (ahem) crises.  As we have done this, we've also become friends.

Sometimes we just get downright silly.  I guess working with teenagers keeps us all a little bit younger.

So even though it's long days and long weekends and little compensation we kept doing it because of this:

And reactions like this:

And faces like this:

And this:

And this:

And this (1st in region):

And the fun we had, like this:

I'm glad I got to be a part of something as great as Cedar High School's Debate Team.  I was able to have conversations with 14 and 15 year olds that I can't have with people my own age.  I saw kids who had little to mediocre success in school in general rise to the occasion and transform their academic focus as their confidence grew and rippled to other corners of their lives.  I heard kids go from being really unpolished and timid or who always sounded like they were condescending when they argued to being very confident (even if it was just an act) and eloquently funny speakers.  And I got to hear other kids not on the debate team recognize kids in class who were on the team, or the jocks asking more about it when they kept hearing our successes being announced over the announcements on Monday mornings as they realized this was a legitimate competitive team.  I'm glad it's done, but I will miss it.

I have the best (former) students!

I've had a tough teaching year.  I could blame it on lots of things, some of which are my fault and some that are not.  I have a few class periods that I like and a few students that I absolutely adore, but let me just say that I am not sad to see a major chunk of these kids move on.  Who it is hard to see move on often times is students that I taught years ago, the ones that are graduating.  Because I teach 9th graders, I often have these students at their neediest and most brainless.  I somehow manage to keep my sanity while helping them gain theirs.  As they get older, I watch as they come into their own, finding success in their social, athletic, academic  and extracurricular lives.  Some of them continue to talk to me, but the majority move on and even stop saying hello in the hallways.  Part of me aches for the days when we had inside jokes as class periods, would laugh and tell stories, but I also understand the need for them to move on.  I think some of them don't realize how much I still care for them and their success, so they stop acknowledging me because they think that I don't care anymore.  I'm sure a lot in all actuality do not care.  But there are always the ones who don't forget, or after a year of the silent treatment work their way back into hello's and teasing.  Of this year's seniors, there were a lot of girls that I really got to know, girls that are smart and beautiful and talented and good and motivated.  Girls that will accomplish things in their lives, whether that be in their homes or in academics or careers.  About a year ago, one of those former students started to greet me each morning with "Team Hensel!"  I'm not sure why, but she stuck with it.  As students often do, they swear they will do something for me to remember them by - a gift or some such thing.  Most don't and I don't expect them to, so when Brittany said she was going to make a Team Hensel t-shirt for me, I smiled and said my obligatory but unconvinced "Cool!"  To my surprise, she actually did.  I wear it and smile.  I will keep it, along with the doodles and notes and series-finale "Lost" party supplies and thank-you cards and senior pictures that I've collected over the years, close to my heart, a heart full of the marks of hundreds of the best former students ever.

My Life in Numbers

180 days (6 months) - How long the high school debate season has been going on
 32 - Number of hours on a school bus traveling to and from debate tournaments
 1 - Number of days since the end of the high school debate tournament (Cedar High took 5th overall)
 1 - Number of days left of debate practice
 5 - Number of days before the end of 3rd quarter
 139 - Number of essays i need to grade before the end of 3rd quarter
 24 - Number of actual lessons I have to prepare for my regular English classes. Number of actual lessons I need to prepare for my honors class.
 13 - Number of class periods I will see each of my classes before the End of Level test
 27 - Number of school days before the End of Level test begins
 52 - Number of school days left before the end of the year.
 75 - Number of days before I get on a plane to Italy
 3 - Approximate number of seconds between thoughts somehow related to getting on a plane to and/or being in Italy

Scared

At the beginning of September, I handed my classroom over to a student teacher.  By his third official day of being in charge, I felt that he had a pretty good handle on things, considering that he didn't know the students  and, well, that it was only his third day and he seemed to have no problem jumping right in.  I had spent the first few days hovering; I had had two student teachers before and they needed a little bit (hrm) of help transitioning over.  This guy seemed like he had been around the schoolyard a few times before.  So I didn't feel too out of line for taking a bathroom break in the middle of class. I mean, I wasn't the one teaching and they were left with a competent adult who was, so why not.  Right?

I had literally sat down on the porcelain throne when the dreaded words were announced over the intercom:  "Teachers, may we please have your attention.  At this time, we are going in to lock-down   Please follow all procedures."  My heart sank for many reasons:
1) I had walked away from my classroom and had never talked with my student teacher about lock-down procedures - it's not on the list of priorities in Cedar City, Utah, especially within the first few days.  Would he know to close the door?  I usually keep my door handle locked for just this sort of occasion, but was there a chance that I hadn't done it this morning?
2)  My office door was open.  There is direct access from my office to my classroom.  I'm SURE that my student teacher didn't know that that door was open, and it can't be seen even if he did step into the hallway because the door is recessed and he probably wouldn't see it.  Even if he did everything right, my students were still vulnerable, as were the other three classrooms that share the quad area that my office links to.
3)  If he did close the door and it was indeed locked, I would be stuck in the hallway.  We are instructed to not open the door under ANY circumstances - even for a student - once we have gone into lock-down mode to ensure the safety of all those in the classroom in case there is someone else trying to get in that we on the inside are not aware of.  Whether or not my student teacher knew this, I knew that I could be stuck on the outside if someone else closed my office door.  There is also an outside-access door not 50 feet from my classroom.  I am an open target in more than one way.

These were my thoughts as I ran - literally - from the faculty bathroom to my class, trying to zip my pants and buckle my belt as I went.  My office door was open as I had left it, so I was able to get into my classroom - which was luckily closed and locked - and check on the kids and visiting teacher.  All students were accounted for and no one had entered my office for any subversive activity.  Eventually, we were informed that there was a suspicious package in the parking lot, the bomb squad had been called out and it turned out to be nothing.  Cedar High faculty and administration learned a lot that day, and has since made adjustments to the current policy, which I am grateful for.  While many in the community, and I guess even within our own walls, poked fun at the bomb squad having to detonate a...wait for it!...homemade duct-taped maraca, and all of the hullabaloo that surrounded the day, in hindsight it is so much better to learn from an embarrassingly false alarm than from a real crisis.

The event had all but faded into a funny memory - c'mon, I was running down the hall and trying to do my pants at my place of employment on my student teachers third day of his assignment - until last week.  I found out at lunch from another teacher about the school shooting in Connecticut.   I read the first of many news articles about it while my third period (just after lunch) class was taking a quiz.  I balled as I informed them about what happened and then told them what to do in case there was ever a shooter at our school;  I felt that I had to because we had never talked about it before and you just never know...it's my job to protect...

The thing is, until I knew that that lock-down incident months before had been over nothing, I was really really scared.  That was real.  Those thoughts as I made my way to my kids were real.  Those worried faces looking to me for answers that I didn't have were real.  My heart about ready to burst as I had to open the door and stick my hand in the hallway to check if the door was really locked, not knowing who might be out there and if I was risking the lives of myself and my students to do so was real.  The collective holding of breath in momentary fear when a custodian unlocked the door and walked in before we had been given the all-clear was real (he was checking on us, but still...).
The fear is still always in the back there though, nagging.  The school has started locking all but two doors into the building as a result of the Connecticut tragedy, THANK GOODNESS, but until that started a day or two ago, it has been...interesting.  Whenever someone knocks on my classroom door, I wonder who is on the other side for more than one reason.  And today when I had a confrontation with a student about a plagiarized essay, a student who was escorted out of class by the vice principal and our school police officer three weeks ago for a visit to DT no less, I started to wonder if his criminal activity included violence or revenge. And what about the kid who won't make eye contact?  Or the one I saw tormenting a dog across the street from school during lunchtime one day?  Or one that I've passed every day in the hallway and didn't know and didn't know to be worried about?  When I tearfully talked with my classes about where to hide in the event of an armed intruder, was there a chance that I told the armed intruder where to find us?  When I read back over this, my paranoia seems, well, paranoid.  But this is the reality of the society I live in, at least for now, and for some reason, this time it isn't someone else who experiences these things.  It's me too - the locations of recent shootings are all to personal for me: I work in a school, my sister lives outside of Portland, I know someone with emotional struggles who owns a gun, I was sitting in a movie theater watching The Dark Knight Rises this summer, I grew up in Wisconsin...



It is hard to escape the worry and the dread.  Luckily, tomorrow is the last day of school for a few more weeks as we prepare for the sacred and special celebration of the birth of the Savior.  I will have a few blessed weeks to rest.  I will hug the little children I am lucky to have in my life a lot tighter, kiss them even more than normal, and pray that the goodness of and in mankind can find a way to make us feel safe, wherever it is that we work, learn, play, and pray.    

Thoughts on Teaching Poetry, Asperger's, and Horses

A month from today, I will be enjoying my first day of freedom after completing my 8th year of teaching.  Currently, we are studying poetry.  Interestingly enough, this is the one thing that has stayed the same in my curriculum since year one.  Novels come and go, writing assignments have been added or dropped, grammar falls victim to other time and content constraints, but I have always made time to teach poetry and always at the end of the year.  This is mostly selfish, in large part because I think it is fun but also is easy and enjoyable to grade, so I like to end the school year on a positive note for me.  This year we have had some great discussions about individual pieces of poetry, and it reminds me how much fun teaching can be.

Not only do I read and study poetry with my students, but we also write poetry during this time.  What's interesting about this is the students who end up writing the most amazing stuff are often the students who write little else (or nothing else) for me all year long; sometimes they are knuckleheaded boys (aren't all 15 year old boys knuckleheads?) who write amazing images, show their sense of humor, capture moments most clearly without the melodrama of emotion that permeates so much of the writing of 15 year old girls; the students who struggle with just about everything, but wear their pride on their faces when they finish a poetry assignment.  It's hard as a teacher not to get high off of that.

But a new wrench was thrown into the cogwheels this year with the dissolvement  of my school's special ed classes.  I have had a number of students join my classes who normally wouldn't, including a few with Asperger's syndrome.  One of the things that many of these students struggle with is things that aren't literal: metaphors and similes; interpretation of emotional expression in reading and writing; expression of emotion in their own writing.  In short, my entire 4th quarter's curriculum.  

What am I to do?  I don't want to just excuse all of these writing opportunities just because it is difficult, do I?  But am I asking the impossible if I don't?  Am I encouraging a "can't do" attitude or punishing a student because they learn differently?  What is the proper balance among including, accommodating, and stretching these highly functioning yet special needs students?  This is the question I still haven't answered two weeks into this unit.

On Thursday, after having a successful discussion about the poem "My Papa's Waltz", I assigned my students to write a poem about a childhood memory.  Some started writing immediately after the directions, others jumped into socializing, and there sat Allison* staring at me with furrowed eyebrows.  After a few students proudly presented to me some of their works-in-progress, I made my way over to her to do some damage control.  How was I going to work through this with her?  Earlier in the year, her mother had told me Allison couldn't do an assignment involving figurative language because of her Asperger's, followed by telling me she didn't want me to just excuse her from it.  After my initial bewilderment at the contradicting statements, I made some adjustments to the assignment and Allison completed it successfully, so I knew that it was possible for her to work with poetic language to some extent, but I have no idea how to adjust the actual writing of poetry that we are doing now (I am so clueless about this side of teaching!).  Allison said she didn't have any memories about her childhood, but I had one trick up my sleeve (here's my plug for getting to know students individually) - I know that she rides horses as part of her therapy.  So I suggested she write about the first time she rode a horse.  Right away she smiled and started listing names and words that weren't coherent thoughts to me, so I had to do some prodding. Simply listing word does not a poem make; adding sensory details does help though.  What about smells?  What sounds do you remember?  Feelings?  Colors?  Though she argued with me that she can't smell and her mother wouldn't like her to smell leather and hay because her brother is allergic and her mother is sensitive to strong smells (hey, her mind works in an interesting way) I started to put together the phrases she had listed to show her that what she did remember could be turned into a poem -  black horse with a faded star, wanting the horse to go "faster, faster,"  English style saddle - and she never lost her smile, even while arguing with me.  And I started to remember the feelings I had from my earliest memories of being on and around horses so that I could get her to tell me what she remembered.  I was grateful for all the times I had posted equestrian calendar pictures up on my bedroom wall, begged my parents to pull over to the side of an obliging field for an impromptu petting session, nuzzled my nose into a dusty neck, felt the wiry whiskers on a velvety nose, breathed in the hay and leather.  She may not be a poet, and she may not even write about that or anything and I'll have to excuse her from the assignments after all, but I'm grateful for my childhood love because 25 years later I would be sitting next to a girl who loves horses just as much as I do, and maybe more, but doesn't necessarily have the words.  But I will somehow help her find them, because I do.

*student's name has been changed

Another School Year Ends

And what a year it was! I get nostalgic at the end of every school year - thinking about all that the graduating seniors have ahead of them (and being a bit jealous), having to say goodbye to some that I wish you could keep around forever, even feeling a pang of sadness that some of my favorites of the year will be in other parts of the building and I won't see them often if at all. High school is this weird social experiment where a bunch of students of all interests, maturity levels, and abilities are thrown into a classroom together for what sometimes seems to be too long to humanly endure each other, but that same length of time that could push a person over sanity's edge is the same length of time to really start caring about these kids. But that dynamic that develops in the classroom changes when I don't see them every day, when I don't have to sit in the same room with them all and hope for the best on the worst of days. Another group will come along to fill in the empty space, but I am forever changed by the ones that were there before. Here's to another fun year filled with great experiences and students!

Helping a former student ask a girl to homecoming ("I'd 'P' my pants if you would go to the dance with me.")

Danna, Ann and I watching while our students play outdoor games.

All year I've had a website that I devotedly updated with each day's assignments, activities, what needed to be turned in, and downloadable assignments. I quickly discovered after adding a visit counter to my site that I was the only one looking at it when I was updating it! When my students would have excuses as to why they didn't know about an assignment because they were absent, I would ask them if they were checking the website. The always said no. (I asked them a lot.) I would remind them to be checking the site. They still didn't

On the very last day of school, a few students from my A-2 class came in and told me to pull up the website. STRANGE! When I got there, I just started giggling. A few of them got together and spent their night going to my website so that the visitor counter read 999. When I pulled it up, I was visitor 1000. I gotta love 'em for...something!

A few students in my B-3 class and I would discuss...ok, complain about the final season of LOST. This was their gift to me on the last day of school.

These two were my shadows most of the year. I'll miss them, but I have a feeling I'm not rid of them just yet.

I don't know if this is a joke or a compliment, but either way it's hilarious!

I've commented many a time about how my students razz me for being a GB Packer fan. My B-4 class was my naughtiest this year, so when I walked in a few minutes late one day and they were dead silent and all staring at me, I knew something was up. Oh, how I know my students!

A few students (from B-4, nonetheless) stole a dry erase marker and wrote encouraging and silly notes all over my car windows. I didn't notice this one until I was almost home. And how right they are.

Claudia's Flower

There is a tulip named after my beloved twin sister. When buying the bulbs to plant the garden at the high school (see this post), I came across them and had to buy a bag as a homage to someone who has listened and suggested to many a teaching story/complaint/cry of desperation. My first actual day of teaching was only accomplished because of her. My sanity after a frustrating day is often because of her. So now, for the next few years at least, Claudia will be stretching toward the sun at the heart of the school each spring. I love you Claudia!

The Fruits of Our Labors

Back in October and November, the service club and Cedar High, of which I am advisor, embarked on a big project. There is a courtyard in the middle of the school, but in the six years since I have been teaching, it has been used usually once by the faculty in the spring when we have an end-of-the-year cookout and potluck lunch. It's been this great space but completely under-utilized and, frankly, really sad looking. So I had the idea for the Athena club to spruce it up a bit.

About five years ago (so people say), one of the clubs planted tulip bulbs out there. I would guess that it was much longer than that because only a few tulips would come up haphazardly around the courtyard, filled in by a lot of weeds and grass. One of the problems for any planting projects is that there is no direct water source; all water needs to come from within the building and can be rather messy. Anything that is planted has a tendency to get cooked by the hot sun, so having a lot of summer flowers isn't practical, hence the spring bulbs. Another issue is the soil quality. There is none. The dirt is hard as rock out there, and after digging around, there are all sorts of 'treasures' such as broken brick, ceramic, bolts... A third problem I encountered when I let the teachers know of the project (in part to beg for funds and help from other clubs) was with the reception I got from a few others at the school. Those who had planted the previous batch of bulbs out there were a little...defensive? Telling me it would be a shame to destroy the ones out there; there were about 500 bulbs currently; that I needed to dig everything up so as not to waste what others had done. I was kind of frustrated. How was I going to dig all of them up when I didn't even know where they were? How was I going to dig at all since the ground was so hard? And with all of the weeds, who was going to tell me what was a real plant and what was garbage? And did these people not remember how few flowers were coming up each spring? Most of what was out there was probably baked dead anyway, not to mention that, according to my sources from various Google searches, bulbs have about a 5 year life before needed to be refreshed. Needless to say, I had absolutely no gardening experience, had bitten off a lot more than I knew I could swallow, and was easily being discouraged by the less-than-helpful comments of some of my coworkers.

But begin we did. We started with a drenching of the dirt and weeding what we could - there was one humongous thistle that gave us a run for our money!! About 15 girls showed up for this. After that we tilled - Ok, I did. In flip flops. Dumb move, but now I know for any future tilling projects what the appropriate footwear is. We were out there for a while, but it helped me assess how much more work we had to do and that topsoil was needed.

A few weeks later came the bulb planting. I wanted the "Secret Garden," so I purchases about 700 daffodils, crocuses, and tulips. But 700 did not seem like nearly enough once we started setting them out. And I didn't buy nearly enough topsoil to feel good about it. And only 7 girls showed up. Seven! Out of three clubs that were invited, including National Honor Society (only 1 showed up from that). And then half of them had to leave early for other things. Two other teachers and I stayed until about 6:30 one night after school finishing up. I was even more disheartened.

And then came the waiting. And hoping. And more waiting. Winter. Thaw. More winter and thaw. And then...

Spring!




Teachers and office staff are emailing me and stopping me in the halls to say thanks. They are eating lunch out there. Another teacher contributed lawn furniture, a bird bath, iron decorations, and bird feeders. It's not the secret garden. There are packed areas and really sparse ones. But it is ours. Success sure is        
                                          sweet smelling!

The times, they are a-changing.

I was saddened today by the reality of the world we live in. My classes have just recently finished To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee's classic coming-of-age story. For the last few years, I haven't shown the Academy Award winning movie in its entirety because I've had a hard time getting the students to actually watch it. They spend more time complaining about how much they "hate old movies" and gasping, "Oh, you mean it's in black and white?" that I haven't bothered (with how often they beg to see movies in class, and how I haven't shown one all year, you'd think they'd just be excited regardless of what it was!). I could only manage to show the trial scene of Tom Robinson and keep their attention.

Well, with some of my classes, I decided I would show the whole thing because of scheduling issues elsewhere. After the initial complaining, the kids actually started to get into it. I was very pleased. As the movie starts to wrap up, there is a pivotal scene right at the end of the movie (and book) where the neighborhood "phantom" Arther "Boo" Radley, who nobody has scene in over 15 years and has a suburban full of rumors in tow, saves children Scout and Jem from the murderous attack of the villain of the story. Scout, the main character and narrator, is finally face to face with the person who has filled her young head with so many wild imaginings, only to learn that Boo is not at all the scary and twisted character she and so many others imagined, and in fact has saved her and her brother's lives. She spends a few moments alone with him, they stare quietly and with concern at Jem, and she even encourages him to "pet" her unconscious older brother on the head while he is still asleep; she can tell that that is what he wants to do.

The problem? Enter the interpretations of students growing up in our modern world. A world where leaving a child alone with a strange man is dangerous. A world where a man who follows children, as Boo Radley did, is a pedophile. A world where a strange man staring at and petting on the head a child is not to be trusted. A world where a father who leaves his kids alone with a person who is rumored to peek in windows at night and lurks in shadows is irresponsible because of the dangers and what-if's that are rampant. And in this present that exists, my students snickered, gasped, and gaped at the wholly innocent and touching scene that closes the movie.

I hope and pray that To Kill A Mockingbird, arguably one of the best known and loved of American novels, stays relevant but more so that we never get to the point where kindness and tenderness are so unrecognizable that they disappear forever.

Why I Do It

Today I was reminded why I became a teacher. I saw a defeated student transform into a smiling victor as I sat and helped him make corrections to a pretty iffy persuasive essay - an essay that he had written and turned in himself and on time. I had my doubts if he even would because he's an at-risk student, complete with the list of stereotypes that go along with his situation, so even though I've spent a lot of time working with this kid for the past few months, I am used to students like him bailing out on me. He didn't let me down. He did the original assignment even though I'm pretty sure he knew it wouldn't be very good when he did it to begin with. I was pretty tough on his paper, evident by all of the red corrections and comments that even the strongest of heart would find daunting. The students were given an all-or-nothing 100 point assignment to correct their mistakes. I figured that he would probably take one look at those red marks and decide then and there that he would never be able to complete what was asked, or at best that he would do a half hearted job two weeks after it was due and after I would bug him about it for days. Instead, he asked for help when we went to the lab today instead of waiting for me to come to him (often naggingly) like he has in the past. The bell signaling the end of the day rang and he stayed 40 minutes behind and we finished it together. I am so proud of him. So very very proud. He may not pass any other quarter. He may not write another essay for me or anyone else ever again, but today he did not fall through the cracks. Today, he was a writer.

My profession may not be for everyone, but it sure is for me. Today was a good day.

The Remedy

I was mad at my students today. And yesterday. And the day before. And before that too. We are working on an essay. I teach it step by step. I show them examples of what I expect. I give them forms to fill in that make it very clear. I give them class time to work on it after I model the proper outcomes. And they don't do it. And then on the day they should be typing, they are starting at step one of 6. Class period after class period after class period. And then they all need help at the same time doing those steps I taught them about a week or two before. But are they patient? NO. Do they roll their eyes when I help another student before them? YES. Do they walk up and just start asking me their questions while I am sitting next to another student, mid sentence, trying to answer another's questions? YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT.

This happens every time I teach writing. I am usually OK the first few class periods, but by 4th period on the second day (B day) I am DONE. It doesn't help that 4th period on B day (essentially 8th period for those not familiar with a block schedule) is my naughtiest class. Naughtiest = lowest average grades of all my classes. Naughtiest = rambunctious, disorganized, unprepared, most immature of all my classes.

But just when I think I will explode with frustration, Heavenly Father has somehow blessed me with the ability to make myself laugh unexpectedly. He uses my own words against me. And laughter, as most of us have come to know, is the best medicine. Let me paint a picture for you:

It is Tuesday. 2:20 pm. Cedar High School Writing Lab. There are about 20 minutes left of the school day. Three boys - Dillan, AJ and Kirby - are still working on their outlines though they should be typing. They are not allowed to type until all of their pre-writing is done. AJ has barely gotten past picking his topic after being gone for a week. Of course I have chided them more than once as they continue to waste time. In fact, I chided the whole class before we even got to the computer lab in an effort to prepare them for my wrath at this point in the day. So I am livid when I see them essentially playing keep-away with a stapler. My mouth opens. I am about to smite them to the ground with my quick and biting remarks. And then I see it. While AJ prepares his usual "it's his fault" excuse, his partner in crime Kirby will not make eye contact. This is just the fodder I need for my verbal lashing. "Really?" I say - after all, I have already been nagging them for the last hour. "You're not doing anything wrong? You were just GIVING Dillan the stapler?" (Insert here a weak assortment of excuses from three nervous 14 year olds)
"You know how I know that that is not the case? Kirby won't even look at me. He knows all the fires of Hades are beaming out of my eyeballs right now, burning him to the core of his soul."

And that's when it happened. I start to crack a smile. At the words. And then all of the 'oohs' and that followed my storming gate to the boys on the other side of the room turn to chuckles. And then, as I realize I'm in trouble and breaking my formidable facade, I have to say that I am only laughing because otherwise I would be crying. But mostly I know I've pretty much lost any hope of being the bad guy. I still "banish" Kirby and AJ to the "netherworld" of the classroom and nurses office to finish their already-late assignments in isolation, but I instantly feel better somehow. And the next kids I help don't get such harsh responses from me. And the kids after that come to give me high fives because they figured out for themselves what they were supposed to do next when I wouldn't tell them what to write when they got stuck (because they didn't do it a week ago when it was assigned and I was angry). Where those words came from I don't know - fires of Hades? core of soul? - or at least, I don't know for sure. But if you're like me and believe in tender mercies, the kind that keep you from damaging someone else's day or the ones that keep you from quitting your job when sometimes it stinks but it's really your calling in life, then hopefully you believe in a Father in Heaven who isn't too great to know that sometimes the best remedy for a bad day is the laughing kind.