H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T's

I am convinced that teacher's lead shorter lives. It isn't that the years of our life expectancy are abbreviated by the stressfull factors of our field (though that is a certain possibility), so much as it is that the years we enjoy happen to be themselves abbreviated, truncated, . . . shorter.

Abbreviation, truncation, shorter version of the above ramble: Time flies when you're a teacher.

Perhaps it is more accurate to describe the life of a teacher as fast.Like the bullet from Angelina Jolie's gun in Wanted or Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, teachers, if they are to successfully accomplish their mission, must move at a rate of speed disproportionate to the world around them.

A real-life example: One day, I was (speed) walking down the hall during my conference period, on my way to wade through the small wheel-barrow load of paper that had accumulated in my box over the last several minutes. Up ahead, a student, bathroom pass in hand, was making his way towards me en route to the boys room. As the distance between us closed, he suddenly jerked around as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. After surmising that the hallway was completely devoid of life save himself and me, the speed-walker yet to pass him, he shot his glance back my way.

"What the heck was that?" popped the perplexed pupil.

"What do you mean?" I said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think maybe I have!" quipped the leary lad." I felt this breeze across my face, and something brushed against my arm. But when I turned around, there was no one there! Am I going crazy?"

"Relax," I consoled. "Chances are you just walked in range of an air vent when the AC switched on or . . ."

He cut in. "I don't think so! I heard a voice and could smell . . . , " He gave a shudder. ". . . coffee breath!"

His shocked countenance gave way to increasingly fearful notions as he recounted the incident.

"You heard a voice? What was it saying?"

His eyes looked off to the side and his hands wringed thoughtfully at his chest as he attempted to reconstruct what had happened in such a finite moment in time.

"It said something over and over, something about Christmas. Oh yeah, I remember! It said, "Two weeks until Christmas; two-weeks until Christmas . . ." I think it kept repeating, but I can't be sure. It all happened so fast!"

"Ah, I see." I placed my hand on his shoulder, helping him get a handle on the moment. "That was definitely not the AC and it was certainly no ghost. Most likely, you came in close contact with a H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T." You're lucky to be alive!"

"A what!?" he asked, bewildered.

"A Hyper-Sonic-Super-Stressed-Stoked-on-Caffeine-Ready-for-Vacation-Middle-School-Teacher. The school's full of 'em. In short, they are teachers who have been forced to develop super-human capabilities in order to keep up with the demands of public education. Most of the time, they are moving so fast, the only clue to their presence is a passing, mumbling, coffee-scented blast of air. That's why it's always a good idea to steer clear of the center of the hallway."

"Oooooh, " he chimed, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head. "That's why my teacher's always telling me to walk on the right side! Well, what about you? You're not moving at hyper-sonic speeds. You're just speed-walking."

"Oh, well, that's because I'm new. I won't get my hyper-sonic license until next year."

Rope-Burns, Harness-Wedgies, and a Heck of a Fun Day!

This year has had more than a healthy smattering of highlights; however, this last week took the cake. I had the unforgettable pleasure of chaperoning half of OakRun's sixth-grade class to TBarM: an adventurous kid's outdoor wonderland tucked away out highway 46 in the Texas hill country. This place has more than a few special places in my childhood memories and it was a blast seeing my students enjoy physical exertion beyond what is required to move the thumbsticks on an XBox control.

TBarM has much to offer the adventurous who don't mind moderate altitudes and stomach-dropping free-falls: highly elevated ropes courses, ridiculously huge cable swings (fittingly dubbed the Screamer and Bushwacker), a precipitous platform atop a telephone pole (the Leap of Faith), a zip line as long as a football field, and acres upon acres of give-me-a-break-from-that-classroom-please!

Of course, the highlight for the kids had to be seeing Mr. Davis' 6'5" lankiness flailing through the air. From the Bushwacker  to the Leap of Faith, I took every opportunity to revisit my childhood by doing things that would make walking normal a notable challenge in the days to come. One student was so eager to see me attempt the Leap of Faith that she offered me a dollar in change if I would grant her this one wish. Of course, I consented and within minutes, I was accompanied by a band of students down the trail to the dreaded Leap of Faith.

At first, it didn't look like much: a retired telephone pole equipped with iron pegs driven into it's sides to serve as one's only method for climbing to the top. There, 50-ish feet up in the gusty hill country air sat a pitiful excuse for a platform: a 2 sq. ft. plank of wood that gave very little confidence to the one entrusting his life to it. Eight feet out from the precarious pole, swaying in the breeze, hung a trapeze bar 50 feet directly above . . . rock-hard ground. The objective was obvious: 1) Climb. 2) Situate yourself atop the swaying and aged telephone pole. 3) Pray that the girl on the ground holding the other end of the rope attached to your diaper-esque harness is heavier than she looks and had training somewhere other than the girlscouts. 4) Thank God that there are many worse ways to die. 5) Gain courage from the students chanting your name far below (or were they secretly wanting to see their pre-algebra teacher spattered all over the rocky terrain below?) 6) Clench buttocks. 7) Jump as far as your wobbly, nervous knees will permit and, dear God please, grab the trapeze bar.

Would you believe it? I made it. And I conquered every other obstacle the students dared me to attempt. Man, it was a blast; man, it hurt . . . a lot. Didn't know I could hurt there!

Still, after all of this, it was what I learned about my students that made the day invaluable. Qualities of their character and personalities that are otherwise camouflaged in the classroom became blazingly apparent when faced with the challenges of the great outdoors. I saw rough-n-tough football quarterbacks freeze up in terror five feet off the ground while shy, timid 11-year-old girls scaled 40-foot climbing ropes like Spiderman only to leap thoughtlessly from platforms high enough to make me, a grown man, lose my sense of balance. I could only gaze in wonder and amazement at the transformations.

You never truly know your students until you see them in their element and then, SKI-DOOSH!, all of your categories get blown to steamy bits. And you thought you knew so much . . .

Smile Like a Politician, Paddle Like a Yorkie-Poo

 Personality will get you a long way in this world. A contagious smile, charismatic demeanor, and smooth articulation are, I am convinced, the threshold to success. Skill and ability come second. If you convince people that you are someone they would very much like the company of, you're in. However, once you're in, should your skills be sub par, you had better be a quick learner. People can like you from a distance.

This is no different in education than in business or politics. The cold, hard truth about education is that, like marriage, nothing prepares you other than throwing caution to the wind and taking the leap. You just "gotta do it." Anyone who takes this approach to swimming will get a comparable glimpse of what a first year teacher experiences: near-death by drowning. Learn to swim with the dolphins or sleep with the fishies. I haven't learned the grace of the breast-stroke yet, but my dog-paddle is second-to-none. I just smile like Newt Gingrich and try to keep my head above water.

So, for all those future-beginning teachers out there, my advice is this: Swallow your fear and dive in deep. Learning to be an educator is like adapting to a new culture and language: total submersion is the fastest way to go from looking like a dumb tourist to becoming "one of them." Then again, shoot for something better than just becoming "one of them." Schools are full of teachers that have established a culture of cynical lethargy and a language of grumbling subtly disguised as righteous indignation for the plight of the educator. You would be better off creating your own Rosetta Stone and founding a new culture in education: one that challenges the old to return to vitality and creativity in the classroom.

Ahhh . . . the positivism and energy of the new guy. Hold on to your gusto. Everyday, we get better at this. Until you learn to swim like a Phelps, smile like a politician (act like you know what you're doing), and paddle like a Yorkie-Poo.


To be continued . . .

Honor Where Honor is Due

It is not my intention to establish a trend of negative gripe-sessions. My best efforts are often directed at putting distance between myself and those who demand more than their share of "cheese with whine." There will always be a wrench in the gears, a hitch in the crawl, or a greenie missing from the Tinker-Toy set of life. In the words of those whose grit and resolve were fashioned in the merciless tides of nautical exploration, "You can't control the winds, but you can adjust your sails."

Since August, I can honestly say that my sails have been left luffing in the shifting winds of a new career rather than full and tight, positioned, adjusted, and properly reefed before the howling gusts. To be plain, it has not been what I expected and I have often wanted to shout down the corridors of the educational infrastructure with all the force I could muster: "Just leave me alone and let me teach my students!"

But I won't. I refuse to do just that because of a refreshing realization that broke itself upon my thinly-spread comprehension this past month: They have, in point of fact, given me my unspoken wish. They have left me alone.

By "they" I am referring to those whom I work for and work with: from the district department heads, to the administrators of my school, my mentor teacher and my fellow-teachers, and to the parents of my students, every one who has contributed to the monumentous tide of endless to-do's has neither reprimanded, scolded, badgered, or even so much as hinted at the countless mis-steps, mistakes, loose-ends, and inconsistencies that I, as a new teacher, have committed (with the exception of the sharp phone calls to my classroom from the PEIMS Clerk who has about had it with my botched attendance efforts. I can't blame her, really. She should get a cushy holiday bonus just for the extra work I've given her).

Much to the contrary, since the week of professional development, I have been treated as if I hung the moon, invented the multi-purpose Xerox machine (a teacher's indispensible ally), and discovered coffee (a teacher's indispensible addiction). I am stopped in the halls by colleagues whose names I can't even remember (for which I sincerely apologize - thank God for name badges) to extend congratulations for all the great things they have heard about me. My administrators publish observations that paint a Harry Wong-esque picture of my interactions with students and clap me on the back as if I am an authority in the field. While horror stories are swapped in the teachers lounge about volatile encounters with lunatic parents, I have had only "thank-you's," "great-job's" and "I'm-so-glad-you're-my-child's-math-teacher's" cascading into my email from grateful, encouraging mothers and fathers.

Now, I am not so naive enough as to believe that my faux paux's have managed to slip by unnoticed; in point of fact, they have been all-too-obvious. Still, the people I work for and with have proven patient, supportive, encouraging, and, most importantly, forgiving. The past 3 months would have swallowed me whole were it not for their confidence in me inspite of my more-rookie-than-Wong teaching abilities. It is to them I am indebted, and them I honor. Thank you.

Mountain-Dwellers: An Observation of Over-Worked Teachers

It is nearing the end of October and I am still standing. Better than standing, I am healthy, having already undergone the initiation rites for obtaining immunity against the onslaught of the minions of organisms that plague a middle school facility. Furthermore, I have developed the audacity to do in my new career what I failed to do in my last career: to stop when the day and week is over and go home to my family, free from an obsession with things undone. Invariably, however, this creates a tension: the accumulation of to-do's pouring in from seemingly countless sources tends to pile up into an exhaustive mountain of peripheral urgencies that can only be managed by, well, ceaseless work. This I have found to be true in the world of business and, now, in education.

Of all the types of teachers I have observed in my first year, one stands out in sharp relief: this type I will call "Mountain Dwellers." These educators possess a driving tenacity, even after years (some 30 + years!) in the field, and have found that the best way to cope with the flood of meetings, surveys, bloggings, trainings, paper-pushings, etc. (and still reserve a brain cell or two for what actually takes place in the classroom) is to simply take up semi-permanent residence within the mountain itself.

From the perspective of non-mountain dwellers, it seems thier cars are  permanent structures in the school's parking lot, never having moved from their original spots, everlasting monuments to the souls haunting the halls of the school. In truth, these devotee's of the Great Mount do in fact visit their personal homes; however, it is only after all would-be witnesses have retired to the company of their families that they darken the exits of the school. Even at home, they continue working until the sun has long dipped below the horizon, completing what could not be completed in the mountain because of the meetings that monopolized their legally-alotted planning time. After nabbing a few hours of much-needed, however, stress-compromised sleep, they awake a few hours later to return to the mountain and do it all over again, and again, ad nauseum.

Amazing! I hope that in 20-30 years I will have developed the same tireless stamina and devoted aquiescence to my position so as to never require a moment of respite in which to look back and feel a sense of completion or accomplishment from time to time. Hopefully, my family will not miss me.

Stay with me. There will be a positive twist to my sarcastic, yet profoundly sincere rantings. Nonetheless, my hope is for myself and the countless other new teachers out there to stop an reconsider why they entered the profession. As for myself, I'm in it for my family and for my students. Everything else is peripheral. In my stalwart opinion, if any accumulation of to-do's flooding down the pike begins to detract from the ability of the teacher to create and deliver spirited, inspiring lessons in the classroom and compromises one's reasonable time and devotion to family, it must be left undone. Let your family and your students come first . . . always. Let everyone and everything else ride in the back of your already-packed bus.

The New Guy

I'm not sure which is more difficult: being unemployed and in search of a new career in this flimsy economy, or, after finally nailing down a job, attempting to coalesce gracefully with the unfamiliar ecosystem of a new line of work. Don't get me wrong - all the challenges of a new career are much more preferrable to me than unemployment. I would much rather be newly-employed and green than unemployed and, well . . . without green.

Hmm, that was almost funny.

It is easy to spot the new guy. Not only is he infallibly upbeat and disgustingly positivistic about everything, he wrecklessly jumps at the chance to volunteer for anything and everything that is asked of him with nary a thought of himself (or his dignity) or if he actually has the time or energy to do it. He arrives at work long before the rest of the sensible world has even had their first cup of legal stimulant and is the last to clock out (while his veteran colleagues make for the door at 4:00 PM like Iranians flock a long-awaited open border). When it comes to the details of his work, he is meticulously thorough and, regarding his schedule, he is over-committed. His responsibilities are, at this neophyte stage, impossible to complete without him lugging them home evenings and weekends. Therefore, by the end of the first few weeks on the job, he is, for lack of a better description, completely and incomparably (in his experience) pooped!

The newly-employed teacher needs a mai-tai, a hammock, some aesthetically-placed palms and coconuts, and a uekele playing in the distance.

For the first time in a decade, I'm the new guy. Without a shadow of a doubt, I love my new vocation, but I would be lying through my teeth if I said I am enjoying the initiation process. I'm ready to be good at this, to know the ropes blind-folded and backwards, and to orchestrate the minions of minutia that populate my day with the flare and grace of a master conductor before a symphony.

But I'm not there yet. Not yet. For now I feel more like a giraffe on ice skates than a master conductor: awkward and clumsy with no grace to speak of. But when I feel like throwing in the towel, I just remember how good I was after 10 years in my old line of work, and remind myself that life is a lot like wrestling a gorilla. You don't quit when you get tired; you quit when the gorilla gets tired.

First Days, Locker-Goblins, and Heroic Mommies

Two weeks on the job and, I swear, I've only blinked once. Seriously, I feel like I was suddenly sucked through a vortex, shot on a satellite course to circumvent Alpha Centauri, only to land meteorite-style in my own front yard on Labor Day weekend, thinking to myself, "Okay . . . what just happened?"

And what did just happen? I remember Professional Development week with archival clarity: casual, leisurely pace; quiet, clean working atmosphere; large, spacious facility; and plenty, plenty of time to work in solitude and silence; and, oh yes, a smile on the face of every well-rested colleague. Yes, a heaping pile of work to do; however, a heaping pile of time in which to git 'er dun.

And, then: Monday, August 23rd . . . 8:30 AM. The bell rings!

Do you remember that part in the first Lord of the Rings when the Wizard, Hobbits, and the rest were trodging their way through the dark caverns of Moria? The "fool of a Took," curiously examining the armored remains of a slain dwarf, accidently sends the carcass banging and clanging down the shaft of an old well. The racket pierces the silence, the fellowship's only protection from the minions of orc's that inhabit every nook and cranny of dark, old Moria. After a fierce battle against an onslaught of alarmed orc's, our heroes escape through a newly-formed hole in the rock and into a vast, majestically pillared cavern. They are closely pursued by the hideous army of goblin-esque villains who come to surround them by taking to the ceilings and walls like a mad flood of ants swarming a dead rat. Pinned in, the fellowship of the ring is hopelessly trapped with no forseeable way of escape.

Now, I'm not saying, of course, that the tidal wave of six graders rounding the corner of the six grade wing are comparable to a swarm of Tolkein's fantasaical, snarling, drooling monsters; however, I am inferring that the mad stampede of countless mini-people frantically grappling to be the first to their locker is a bit unnerving . . . especially when they're coming right at you . . . with no indication of stopping. We were instructed to monitor the incoming students and offer necessary aid to those with "locker difficulties, " and to maintain order. I stood there wielding a yardstick as Arthur did Excalibur.

My defenses gradually lowered, however, as it dawned on me that these creatures were more like Hobbits than orc's and were, in point of fact, more terrified than I was. I remember sixth grade: it's horrifying to suddenly find yourself being hurled from the world in which you were of the eldest and, thus, venerated by the younger grades only to come flailing through the double-doors of a new world, one in which you are now the youngest and smallest. Towering over you lurks enormous, monstrous creatures with deep voices and facial hair (7th and 8th graders). Welcome, once more, to the bottom of the food chain.

I came back to myself and thought, "Pull it together, Davis. These kiddos need you. Get in there!" Sheathing my 36-inch Excaliber, I marched boldly into the chaos. Immediatley, I spied a young maiden, wrestling helplessly with a defiant combination lock, refusing to grant the fair lady passage to her locker. "Never fear, youg miss," said I. Galiantly, I procured her digits and, with a swift right, left (past the first number), and another right, the locker door swung open! Next, a young lad, whose back pack had, by some dark devilry, spontaneously combusted in the middle of the hall, caught my eye. Swiftly, I gathered his scattered effects, and delivered them safely to his grateful hands.

The battle raged for days it seemed, and yet, the first tardy bell of the year had yet to sound. Time was of the essence and yet there were so many to be saved. Spying a young man who, upon surrendering hope of ever opening his locker, resorted to beating it . . . with his forehead, I began to wade my way toward him through the adolescent torrent of panic. But I would not reach him.

In that violent, tumultuous scene, I felt, from somewhere behind me, the slightest of tugs upon my back, center beltloop. Sensing evil afoot, I turned slowly, cautiously. I came about only to see the teary eyes and paled face of a young boy, his hands wringing the shirt at his stomach. Strangely, he had dropped his backpack and binder to the ground and there stood, his eyes gazing up at me through a haze of . . . intestinal discomfort. I knew that look anywhere. His stomach, stricken with the nerves of the first day, proved incapable of holding down what so desperately wanted to come up: mommy's oatmeal and toast with . . . are those raisins!?

It happened so fast. Jackie Chan could not have executed quicker, more artistically-choreographed foot-work, and, yet, it was to no avail. Indeed, those were raisins, and, indeed, they were on my new dress shoes. I froze in horror.I felt the dark sense of defeat creeping upon me, for I knew then and there that I had met my match. No one . . . NO ONE . . . had warned me about nor equipped me for this! I was finished.

But, hope springs eternal and every self-respecting epic worth its salt reveals a dramatic twist when all seems lost! This new teacher needed rescuing, not just from the barf on his shoes but from the chaos of the situation. Imagine it! A puddle of puke in the middle of a junior high hall, filled with a mob of stampeding kids oblivious to everything except getting to class on time! I needed help! I needed . . . a mommy!

She came out of nowhere, it seemed, but most likely from defending her own offspring from the first-day-foes of locker-goblins and hairy 8th graders. Donning the athletic garb of one who will finally have the opportunity to go to the Y for a decent workout, she sliced through the crowd and, . . . true, story . . . straddled that vile puddle of liquid breakfast. With a valiant sweep of both arms, she channeled that raging river of students around her in a way that would've made Charleton Heston beam with pride, saving the entire 6th-grade wing from a certain coating of sneaker-tracked oatmeal. Shooting me an assuring glance that it was all under control, I ushered the puking perpetrator (poor little guy) to the school nurse, put in a call for a custodian to please come to room 618 with a mop, and, most importantly, rushed to the Teachers' Lounge for a much-needed, last-second, stiff draught of black Folgers.

Holy Man-Eating Monday, Batman! It's only day one!