A Side Story

So it has been muggy lately, gross muggy. It needs to rain. So I check the weather reports every morning, because that's what the cool kids do. Today's hourly weather report said that it was going to rain at 11 am. I was excited and spread the news to other teachers. One teacher told her first period class this news and this was the conversation with a Mormon student in her class:

Teacher: Ms. Walker said it was going to rain at 11.

Student: How does Ms. Walker know it is going to rain at 11? How would she know that?

Teacher: Because she is Mormon, just like you.

Student: Oh, ok.

It's good to know common beliefs make me a valid source on weather knowledge.

PS- It did not rain at 11.

Baseball? Sure, why not?

So those of you who know me, which is all five of you who read this blog, know that I do not do the sport thing. In high school I hung out with the stoners who walked slowly from one fence to another just so I wouldn't have to run. The only time I've ever hit a ball with a bat was in the MTC, and that was only with a lot of encouraging from the Elders, and possibly a desire to be hit with a ball so I could go home. So when my roommate asked if I wanted to go to a Diamondbacks game I said, sure, why not?

My roommate plays the organ, a talent which got us our awesome tickets. It has been her lifelong dream to play the organ at a Diamondbacks game (ok, maybe not lifelong, but it is an awesome goal) so her mom made some calls and got in touch with Bobby, the super cool organ player. He hooked us up with tickets and we were on our way.

Awesome Seats, Hot Baseball Players

I really wanted a pretzel with cheese, so during the 2nd inning (see how I have learned words!) when we all went to find food I located a lovely salted carb with cheesy fat to dip it in. It was $3.50 for the pretzel, and $1.50 for the cheese, the cheese was a total rip-off, but who wants to eat a soft pretzel without cheese? I picked the medium drink because it was $5, so the total would be $10 and I wouldn't have to deal with pesky change. We all headed back to our seats with our respective food and settled in for the game.

In the bottom of the 3rd a foul ball was hit our way. I did not stand up, because what the heck am I going to do? Try to catch a ball?!? The thought is laughable, on many levels. Plus it was sailing clean over our heads anyway to the upper tier. What I didn't see was that it didn't quite make the upper level, instead it hit the railing, made an about turn and headed directly in our direction. It was at this moment that I wanted to take the last sip of my drink, so I leaned forward, and the ball made it's landing. It hit my back and rolled down to my butt. I was trying to think of a clever way to say that, but in reality there is none. My butt caught the ball. Someone dove in to steal it, mildly violating me in the process, but I figured at this point, it belonged to me. I leaned back and hit him until he gave up. I am now the proud owner of a baseball:

We also got to wear a World Series ring that belonged to the organist and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" with the giant bobble-head guys, which was filmed for tv.

World Series Ring

The moral of all of this is to always buy the medium drink. If I had bought the small, I would have saved $1, but I also would have been out of lemonade by the bottom of the 3rd and would not have had any left to reach for when a foul ball was heading my way. I would have been reclined in my seat and that rouge ball would have hit me right on the head, rolled behind me and some sticky jam hands kid would have picked it up. Then I would have been in the hospital with doctors saying things like "minimal brain activity" instead of teaching today. Or maybe they would let me teach with minimal brain activity, who knows? The students have it, why can't I? 

Things I Get Blamed For

Growing up I was a good kid, a freakishly good kid. I didn't break rules, get dirty and I hated to see my parents get mad. Some would say that I was a bit of a tattle-tale. I may have been known to go to my mom and say, "Mom, I don't want Ryan to get in trouble, so don't yell at him, but he did just punch me in the arm." Ryan maintains that I did this so I could have a clear conscience about ratting him out. But I clearly remember not wanting my mom to yell at him because I hated to see the conflict, but I also knew that bad things should be reported to the proper authorities. Ryan and I had a touch and go relationship until I worked out my tattling issues in my early 20's. I was innocent, I mean come on, look at this:

Seriously, could that kid do anything bad? Apparently as an adult I do not have the same reputation.

Someone has been pranking the men's staff bathroom in our building. The state test in AZ is called the AIMS test, and someone may have put a baggie of fruit loops by their toilet with a little note that said "this is the real aims test boys!" I heard a rumor that a picture of George Castansa wearing nothing but boxers and lounging on a chaise was hung on the wall. A rather large frog was placed by their door that has a motion sensor so it ribbits rather loudly when they open their door. All in good fun. Apparently as an adult, people assume that when trouble is afoot, I am clearly part of it. Yesterday a student came into my classroom with a handful of soggy fruit loops, with a message "Mr. K. said he passed." GROSS! The gauntlet has been thrown. I may or may not have been a part of the original prank, but I'm in it now.

Teachers frequently get blamed for the bad behavior of their students. I am proud to report that today, during an observation, my students were good, like Stepford good, for freshmen anyway. They raised their hands, they worked together, they completed the assignments without even whining. It was alarming. It was one of those moments where everything comes together in a perfect storm of awesomeness. Luckily my 4th period is always there to bring a healthy dose of reality. Last week a kid asked me where they speak Pig Latin. I told him it was a made up language. Apparently another teacher is screwing with him, because he asked me again today. I told him Piggonia. He spent 5 minutes looking for it on my map.

The Beginning

We are not a ghetto school. This is something that gets said a lot around campus. Now, I didn't think that the school was too ghetto until I started hearing this. It seems to me that if a school isn't actually ghetto you wouldn't need to keep saying it over an over again, on the loudspeakers, in the middle of my English class.

Gangs and gang related things are not allowed on campus, makes sense. But yesterday I went all kinds of gansta'. I am white, not just pale, but very white, sometimes I do something that forces the students to point out how white I am. They will say, "Ms.... you are soooooo white!" Doing the running man while teaching, listening to "Juno" music as they call it, and saying that Hot Cheetos are, in fact, disgusting and way to spicy for me, are all things that have led them to the announcement of my whiteness. But they say it in a loving way, which is nice. They accept it because I am the nice white lady who will feed them PB&J sandwiches when they forget their lunch, and repeatedly tell them with upmost patience that double negatives are only ok in Spanish. 

Yesterday all my classes had to take a hearing test. I am sure there is an easier way to do this, but we are not a ghetto school, so we have not figured it out yet. Our plan is to take the entire class to the nurses office and wait our turn to get our hearing tested. The nurse can only have about 8 kids in there at a time, so the rest of us sit in a little hallway by the front office and wait. Now I don't know how many of you have tried to keep thirty 15 year-olds quiet in a confined space with nothing to do, but it is no easy task. I told them to whisper, to read a book, to listen to their music, but that all only lasts about 15 minutes. Their attention span isn't that long. Also, I am not sure how I learned to whisper, it seems like I have just always know how to, but apparently the next generation didn't get the memo. First period was ok, they always are, mostly because they are still asleep. But all bets were off by 7th. My 7th period class were getting rilled up, they were losing focus. So I started telling them about the awesome trends of my generation. Then they mocked me. They mocked us. So I did what any self-respecting teacher does. I mocked them back. I rolled up a pant leg, buttoned only the top button of my cardigan (cause that's super fly) grabbed a kid's hat and struck a pose. One of the vocab words this week was "askew" I told them that ganstas' like things askew, their hats, their faces and their walk (or swagga' as it's known to them). So they taught me to walk like a g, and I taught them how to whisper. They taught me to jerk, and I taught them the running man. We were probably too loud, we probably bothered the front desk ladies, but dang it, those kids are never going to forget what askew means. 

That's what teaching in a "not a ghetto" school is like. I love it.