Subbing is not for the faint of heart.

Yesterday I was subbing in this middle school. Apparently, many teachers were out on some sort of conference, and the kids were going berserk. There was an announcement early in the day stating that any kid getting kicked out of class would be suspended for the rest of the week. The previous day I had subbed in the same classroom, and I only attempted to kick one kid out. He walked out of the classroom, and a monitor never came to escort him anywhere. The monitor showed up 24 hours after the fact, looking for him. When I said that he never showed up to class that day, the monitor said something about that student threatening to beat someone up. Maybe I'm glad he didn't show.

At the very end of the day, I kept an eye on the clock. When I sub art classes, I like to give 5 minutes for cleanup. There was 6 minutes to go. A janitor peeked in and said "it's chair time, isn't it?" because she wanted the student to put their stools up before they left. I tried to say 'no, no, not for another minute' but it was too late, the kids already put their stools up, and refused to keep working, because, after all, they'd already cleaned up. A minute may not seem like a big deal to you, but a full sixty seconds of trying to make sure students aren't sneaking out into the hallway, beating each other up, or doing any other terrible thing that I see them get into when they're not otherwise occupied is rather stressful. The janitor recognized her mistake and apologized profusely. After the bell rang, she came in and apologized some more. "Yea...people do this to me a lot," I told her flatly. Several days prior, a T.A. called clean up 3-4 minutes earlier than I had intended. When I explained that I was waiting for a certain time, and that I was going to let the students leave at the time specified on the teacher's plans, she had said, yea yea it takes them a long time to clean up. Then she excused herself and slid out the door as the entire class stared at me expectantly for a full 4 minutes. Jerk.

So this janitor must be trying to make up for the grief she caused me, because she starts complimenting my classroom management. I would take this as just an attempt to make up, but then she told me that 5 of the subs there that day had (threatened? requested?) wanted to leave soon after they'd arrived. (There had been almost 20 subs there that day).

"It sounds like they don't have any cajones," I reply.

And it does seem that they're lacking in that department. Seriously? If you can't handle the heat, get out of the middle school.

Someone tell me why I don't have a real job yet?

Three Line S

You know the ones, the thing you drew when you knew you were so cool. You know you wrote: $chool $ucks but replace the dollar signs with those angular doodles.

Ignorance.

Sometimes someone says or does something that is so wrong that I just loose my mind.

Like, today, for instance.

In a certain middle school in Schenectady where kids are generally OK.

I begin my sub-routine, take attendance, explain the task at hand, let them have at it. In this particular school it is important to take attendance as quickly as possible because they send the monitors in to pick it up in the beginning of the period. I have finished this part and I am explaining the packet to the class. One girl, sitting near the door, is reading a book. Not the end of the world, so I let her go. However, she is reading out loud. Some kids have to. I just talk over her, she isn't talking very loud....but she is the only student talking. Toward the end of my explanation I notice that she isn't reading anymore, she is talking to another student. I begin to pass out packets. I walk up to her and say: "shhh, shhh shhh shhhhhhhh."

Instead of taking my gentle hint, she burts out: "DON'T TELL ME TO BE QUIET LIKE THAT! I HATE WHEN PEOPLE TELL ME TO QUIET DOWN LIKE THAT! DON'T DISRESPECT ME! I HATE WHEN TEACHERS DISRESPECT ME!"

"I wouldn't have to ask you to be quiet in ANY way if you just WERE being quiet," I offer, softly.

She continues to belligerently yell, and I warn her that if she doesn't settle down, I'm going to give her lunch detention.

I don't make empty threats. This was a punishment the teacher told me I could give, if a student does not comply after a warning. However, she wasn't having it.

"YOU CAN'T GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION! I HATE ALL THESE SUBS COME IN HERE THINK THEY CAN GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION!"

I begin to explain that I can indeed give her lunch detention, that I will leave a note for her teacher who will assign it. I am no longer being quiet and gentle.

A little later in the class this girl and someone else were discussing something I knew something about. I offered a thought.

"WHO ASKED YOU? NOBODY ASKED YOU SO DON'T TALK!" instructed the baby/future dictator.

Now I'm really heated. "Subs can talk whenever they please, they do not need your permission to do so..." Not that she heard me, because apparently we are now in a yelling match.

Side note: I do not like yelling matches. They are lame. I don't like to loose my cool either, but sometimes I also don't like that my desire to be a teacher negates my ability to inflict bodily harm upon some students.

When I get really mad and frustrated, I turn bright red and sometimes cry. The emotion has to come out somewhere.

Thankfully, I didn't cry, but I did turn bright red. And this student is yelling that I am embarrassed.

"Embarrassed?!?" I gawk, "More like FURIOUS! YOU ARE THE MOST RUDE AND DISRESPECTFUL PERSON I HAVE EVER MET! I feel bad for the other boys and girls in here who have to deal with this, as they've actually been pleasant and respectful!"

"Furry-us? Furry-us? Rrriight. You'se embarrassed. Furry-us. Ha."

"THE WORD IS FURIOUS! FYYYURIOUS!" I yelled, scrambling to call the office.

The phone was busy.

She'll get lunch detention, alright. I just wish I was there to see it.

Um, and if you happen to be seeking employment in a field that isn't hindered by your violence against minors (tattoo artistry, graphic design?) , please do me this favor:

Slap a seventh grader. Preferably a female. Preferably one in Schenectady, after she sasses you. It shouldn't be hard to have her sass you. Just politely ask her to stop doing something.

Less than awesome.

Yesterday I arrived at a certain Middle School in Schenectady to substitute for a certain Special Ed teacher. I follow sub protocol: arrive, sign in, wait to be told room number, arrive at said room, look for sub plans.

So this room is in the basement. It is a single digit. I enter the classroom, and there are already 2 students present. Each is sitting at a table (for some reason, behaviorally challenged students always seem to get large working surfaces). Neither is talking, but one has headphones on, and I can hear his music from the other side of the room.

There is a paraprofessional (read: aide) in the room. He is wearing cargo shorts, a striped polo shirt, and skater sneakers. He is watching Lil' Wayne videos on YouTube.

"I'm here for such-and-such a teacher," I tell him.

"You're in the right place," he tells me, hardly looking up from the computer.

I look around for some sub plans, a blue and yellow folder, a typed or written piece of paper that says "plans" on it, anything.

Nothing.

There are stacks of papers on one of the front desk-tables. There aren't any instructions included with these.

"Did she leave me any plans?" I inquire.

"No, she forgot to write 'em." It is as if I am bothering this guy.

At this point I am just standing there, pissed. Usually, if I am the only adult in the room, I will take this time to put my things somewhere and familiarize myself with the plans. If there are other adults in the room, they will usually give me a rundown on how the day will go, tell me where I can keep my things, etc.

But he is still watching music videos on YouTube. Lil' Wayne, The Used, and other great musicians in the whiney-rock category.

I am staring at a bulletin board across the room, at remnants of wood-grain contact paper clearly left from a half-hearted attempt to remove said paper by tearing. I am gritting my teeth.

After what must have been five minutes, I turn to him and ask as sweetly as I can muster: "Is she going to be e-mailing her plans?"

"No, we'll manage" he assures(?) me, unconcerned.

"Well then can you at least give me an idea of what the day is like?"

"Sure, First period is math, second period someone comes in for science, third is home ec, fourth english, fifth is their lunch, sixth is health, seventh is sort of a free period, eighth is history and ninth is gym."

Never was I told when my breaks were, what my responsibilities were, any classroom rules, consequences, what I should or shouldn't do.

So I sat down at the table with all the stacks of paper on it. I rotated a chair so I could be facing the students, and I took out my book.

A second para-professional arrives. She takes a seat at a table in the back of the room. A third student arrives.

Unlike the students already in the room, this student is a bit chatty. He talks about his track meet to them, scolds the noisy-headphone boy for having his music too loud. I decide I like this boy. I think about this quick decision in my head, dwell upon it for a moment.

This boy opens up his backpack and pulls out what appears to be a bagel with cream cheese.

"Smells like sweaty balls!" he exclaims.

With an expression both disgusted and concerned, I ask him if he is referring to his breakfast.

"No! Ew! What?"

"Oh, if it was, I was just going to say, don't eat that!"

"Why, you know what sweaty balls taste like?"




Awesome.

By the way, the punishment for that gem of a comment was this:

both paras said his name in a disapproving manner.

Never sub for such-and-such a Special Ed teacher at a certain Middle School in Schenectady.