Every once in a while I dream that I’m no longer a carefree, lesson plan-free, paper grading-free retired gal but am back in school teaching teenagers how to quit butchering the English language. Last night was one of those nightmarish occasions. This time I was getting on to a boy for making “boogers” with his eraser. These just weren’t just a few little boogers, either. No, this was a mess of massive proportion--the floor was covered with eraser boogers, so I sent the culprit and one of his buddies to the janitor’s room to get a broom and dustpan and do clean-up duty.While the two fellows were gone, I noticed an unfamiliar face sitting at the front of the room.
“Ah, I see we have a new student today,” I say, trying to switch my mood and be friendly.
“I’ve been here for five weeks,” the girl says, sourly, as though she really means to convey, “Where have you been all this time, bitch?”
I scan the room, see more unfamiliar faces, and realize the class has grown as much as the eraser boogers on the floor. Where did all these kids come from? I check my grade book. New names I’ve never heard of--but there they are. They are multiplying like rabbits. Standing room only. What am I going to do? I can’t teach this many students. Heck, I can’t even control Booger Boy!
I think it’s time to turn this roll call into a wake up call and get back to retirement.
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