“Have you ever heard of a mosh pit?”
No joke, a 16-year-old asked me that question to preface his story about how he injured his arm over the weekend, to explain why it would be so…difficult… to write the essay for the benchmark exam.
I rather feel like teaching is a mosh pit sometimes. It seemed like a good idea going at the beginning, but afterward I feel sore and dirty and discombobulated. The boy seemed surprised that mosh pits have been around for decades. It’s so cute when they think that their generation thought of something first.
One of my students got a life lesson in how Facebook is not really public. One of the freshman teachers sets up a class Facebook page for her students, and many forget they are still “friends” with a freshman core class. They post things they shouldn’t, she conveniently spots them, and then acts as whistle-blower by taking a screen shot and forwarding it to the involved party. They have yet to figure out how people can access their information.
Earlier this year I busted a bunch of guys for making obscene gestures in a picture in my classroom and posting it during class. This last Friday when I had a sub, one of my larger football players “got stuck” in a desk (not exactly sure how that happened) and his bud decided to take a picture and post it to Facebook during class…when one of their mothers commented about how he should be learning, he responded, “We were taking a test!” as if that excused the lack of learning.
I was livid to discover they did this, especially when I’m not there. I am very lax about cell phones, much more so than I should be (and way more than I will be next year…sorry freshmen). It’s frustrating when they abuse the privileges I so amply allow them. I printed off the screenshot and had it in hand when they arrived today, along with blue cards and their tests to go finish in ISS. No class fessed up as to why the desk he was sitting in has a broken back…
Seventh period had received a bad sub note – they were so loud the teacher next door had to poke her head in to see if everything was alright. I sat on my stool and read the note to them and asked if anyone – raise your hand please – has an explanation for what happened on Friday. They all did: naturally it was the sub’s fault, she rushed us, et cetera. Sophomores are even worse story-tellers than my pre-K Sunday School kids. At least their stories involve mythical creatures.