Every teacher who spent as many years in front of a chalkboard as your scribe has a wealth a stories to tell; some triumphal, some tinged with sadness, and some downright laughable. What follows is a smattering of the last. Joy has a way of embracing laughter, and even if it can't always be that way, joy is what life should be about.
"Dune Buggy", whose real-life name bears the same initials, was the designated pistol of the classroom. It's a given that every teacher is provided at least one; that's the administrator's solemn duty. D.B. was a street-smart kid, knew how to play the angles, yet likeable, in his own mischievous way. This son of a preacher man saved most of his talent as a rabble-rouser for basketball practice.
During one such session, he couldn't resist baiting a lesser-talented kid, even though he himself was on the scrub-roster. The "baitee" would blow a layup from here to eternity, and there D.B. would be, to ape and laugh at the poor kid. His coach, namely moi, warned him not once, but twice to leave the victim of his scorn alone. Twice he ignored. Following his third "performance", he was banished from the court, and told to shower-down, and head for home.
Shortly after D.B. departed the premesis, yours truly visited the locker room, only to discover that all the floors were dry; not a trace of water anywhere. It didn't take a forensic scientist to determine that the guilty party had violated a cardinal coaching rule, to wit: you practice, you play, you must then shower!
The next day, before the start of class, I pulled the boy-buffoon aside, and inquired of him, "David, did you take a shower after practice last night?" Without a waver or a blink, he looked unhasitatingly at me and said, "Yes, coach." Hmmm. "Then why was it that when I came in the locker room a few minutes after you left that I didn't see water anywhere, not even wet footprints?" His reply was the most incredible of defenses: "I didn't wash my feet". The kid, who dared to go walking on water one better, then spent a few noon hours on the gym bleachers; pondering certain physical improbabilities.
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"Back to school" was something that was greeted with mixed feelings. There was the excitement and anticipation of a fresh start, a new batch of students, and the eternal promise of a year that could be the one to top all years previous. But, for most male teachers at the elementary level, there is a definite downside. It has to do with classroom decor. Most guys in the profession look like total klutzes next to their female counterparts, especially when it comes to matters of bulletin board-design. The square feet of cork , demanding to be dressed up, seems like miles of daunting and taunting for those of us who are....shall we say....artistically challenged.
One year, I made the decision to "reduce the field of play", by purchasing some posters; huge posters, that were big enough to cover closet doors. There were photo-stills of sports celebrities in action that I knew would appeal to the athletes in the room. Also purchased was a nice woodsy, environmentally-themed poster. But the coups de grace was the portrait of a classic, maternal type; similar to Whistler's Mother, captioned with what I perceived to be words to the wise: "Express Thyself". How could one miss with that?!
Two days before school was to begin, a former student happend by to say "Hi", and have a look about the room. As he was finishing his grand tour, he paused, and studied the matronly figure in the rocker. "Coach, are you sure you want this poster?" In a Clackamas County heartbeat came the response: "Of course, I do! It has just the right message for a caption, don't you think?!" Billy shuffled in his shoes, and replied, "Well, I'm just not all that sure you really want that poster." Shortly following, we parted company, and I resumed work on the finishing touches that would welcome all my kids to Mighty Room 5.
The following day was the final prep day before summer vacation's last big weekend, and its last hurrah. Traditionally that is the day when the building principal passes in review of all the classrooms for a round of inspection. Teachers aren't required to salute or stand at attention, but we'd jolly-well better be ready!
"Dean" gave everything in my room the thorough once-over, before he, too, stopped and looked critically at the rocking madonna. "This poster has to come down, Hal". "Why, Dean?" was all that came to mind while being caught totally off-guard. "It is just a picture of a lady seated in a chair with what is a very appropriate (most important term in "educationese") caption encouraging expression. "Take another look at the woman's hands", the principal directed.
There, the lady pensively sat; hands resting on her lap, one atop the other. The top-most hand was nestled open-faced, with the middle finger...... fully extended..... and.... pointing skyward. In no more time than it took to say the verbal equivalent of "OMG", the offending poster was dispatched; never again to see the light of day.
Came Tuesday and the first day of school, and along with all the other observances, the school secretary hand-delivered the morning bulletin. At the bottom of the page was the following declaration by the principal: "From now on, all posters must pass an inspection by the poster inspection committee before being displayed in any classroom. I am that committee." The notice generated laughs, as intended, but the edge to it was only too obvious to at least one of the faculty.
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The following day was the final prep day before summer vacation's last big weekend, and its last hurrah. Traditionally that is the day when the building principal passes in review of all the classrooms for a round of inspection. Teachers aren't required to salute or stand at attention, but we'd jolly-well better be ready!
"Dean" gave everything in my room the thorough once-over, before he, too, stopped and looked critically at the rocking madonna. "This poster has to come down, Hal". "Why, Dean?" was all that came to mind while being caught totally off-guard. "It is just a picture of a lady seated in a chair with what is a very appropriate (most important term in "educationese") caption encouraging expression. "Take another look at the woman's hands", the principal directed.
There, the lady pensively sat; hands resting on her lap, one atop the other. The top-most hand was nestled open-faced, with the middle finger...... fully extended..... and.... pointing skyward. In no more time than it took to say the verbal equivalent of "OMG", the offending poster was dispatched; never again to see the light of day.
Came Tuesday and the first day of school, and along with all the other observances, the school secretary hand-delivered the morning bulletin. At the bottom of the page was the following declaration by the principal: "From now on, all posters must pass an inspection by the poster inspection committee before being displayed in any classroom. I am that committee." The notice generated laughs, as intended, but the edge to it was only too obvious to at least one of the faculty.
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The first day of April is not a day teachers generally look forward to, and with good reason. It is the day for mentors to play the victim of playful pranks, perpetrated by those who have absorbed seven months of savvy. Savvy that goes into figuring out the behavioral patterns of the guy (or gal) behind that big desk in the front of the classroom.
Yours truly has been the recipient of salt and pepper-spiked molasses cookies, and whoopee cushions*; skillfully hidden on my '48 model swivel chair. Though when it comes to out-foxing the teacher, kids tend to forget that we were once students ourselves.
7:30 of an April 1st marked my arrival at school; as was my custom. "Teach" wanted to get there early enough to prepare, have a cup of coffee with the colleagues, and catch up on any building gossip that was circulating. This was THE fatal flaw in my students', "The Mighty Room 5 Rhinos", planning for my April Fool's come-uppance. While they could peg when I would leave the building, they hadn't figured out when I'd make my return. No student, in his right mind, ever willingly comes to school at the un-Godly hour their teacher did.
Waiting for my 4:00 pm exit on the thirty-first of March, they must have hovered around in stealth for the critical moment. Then, they pulled their ploy.
What yours truly beheld upon his return to Room 5 on that first day of April was a setting, totally absent any furnishing: student desks, teacher's desk, overhead projector and cart, paperback book rack, couch and carpet; the whole enchilada was gone. I could almost hear my gasp, echoing in the void.
Footsteps were quickly retraced to the entrance, then to an empty classroom at the end of our wing. There, the stash was discovered, every last piece the kids had "relocated" after I had left the afternoon before. The lead custodian at our school feigned ignorance of the caper, but obligingly helped me return all the goods to their rightful place; just as they were when the boss left the building the afternoon before.
As my Rhinos filed into the classroom, the look of disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable. It was like someone had just told them that they would all have to repeat 6th grade the following year. Even at that age, girls can pretty well mask their feelings, and boys of any age are as easy to read as giant billboards, but all of the kiddies were absolutely stunned.
Of course, their mention of any skullduggery afoot would have been an admission of collusion, at best. One and all remained mute. After the pledge to the flag, the whole herd sat down in their desks, more or less meek as mice. They were denied their April Fool's joke, and the laughing satisfaction of "a good one, well-played" on Mr. R.
But to carry off an academy award winning performance of my own, I had to press on with the agenda of the day as if nothing...absolutely nothing had happened that was out of the ordinary. Not a hint of a "ha-ha", nor a smidgeon of a smirk could betray the "blissful ignorance" of my behavior. Arugably, it was the best acting job in my entire teaching career.
It wasn't until I had driven off the parking lot at the end of the day that I luxuriated in the last laugh, a window-rattling guffaw. From that spring day until the close of school for the summer, not a word was spoken by anyone about that April Fool's fiasco. The kids got their "just desserts", and I had mine.
(*Ed note to our readership from distant lands: This prankish device functions like a bellows, producing a sound generally associated with the W.C.)
As my Rhinos filed into the classroom, the look of disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable. It was like someone had just told them that they would all have to repeat 6th grade the following year. Even at that age, girls can pretty well mask their feelings, and boys of any age are as easy to read as giant billboards, but all of the kiddies were absolutely stunned.
Of course, their mention of any skullduggery afoot would have been an admission of collusion, at best. One and all remained mute. After the pledge to the flag, the whole herd sat down in their desks, more or less meek as mice. They were denied their April Fool's joke, and the laughing satisfaction of "a good one, well-played" on Mr. R.
But to carry off an academy award winning performance of my own, I had to press on with the agenda of the day as if nothing...absolutely nothing had happened that was out of the ordinary. Not a hint of a "ha-ha", nor a smidgeon of a smirk could betray the "blissful ignorance" of my behavior. Arugably, it was the best acting job in my entire teaching career.
It wasn't until I had driven off the parking lot at the end of the day that I luxuriated in the last laugh, a window-rattling guffaw. From that spring day until the close of school for the summer, not a word was spoken by anyone about that April Fool's fiasco. The kids got their "just desserts", and I had mine.
