Mar 05, 2015

 
Every year there is at least one kid that should not be in my class. Not because s/he has a 5th grade reading level. Au contraire, because s/he SHOULD be in AP Euro but for whatever reason (usually path of least resistance, doesn’t want to work that hard) they wind up in my class. These are the kids that make teaching both a joy and a pain. They always ask the great questions that would lead to an in-depth examination IF most of the class was at their level but, alas, you can’t delve too deeply into an explanation for them because everyone else would be completely lost. They usually finish all their work in the first 30 minutes of class so I either bring them some of my old college textbooks and have them do independent exploration or they come hang at my desk and make running, derisive, commentary on their “peer” group.

I have one such student this year. Let’s call him “Bradley.” Poor Bradley, through a nasty trick of scheduling, is in my Box O’Hair block. He actually chooses to come to one of my awesome blocks, when he normally has study hall, for the actual learning part of class. Then he comes to his regular scheduled Box O’Hair block and I give him additional history work (he asked) from some of my college textbooks. In the awesome block, he asks questions, leads discussions, generally adds to the tone and tenor of the class. But he is also usually the first one done and comes to sit by my desk and lets his sarcastic side shine.

Yesterday, after a lecture, we watched a six-minute animated short called Letters from the Western Front, an award-winning piece I adore for its ability to convey the life of a soldier during World War I in such a short span.  At the end of the short I had the kids do a couple of analytical questions at the bottom of their notes and hand their notes in. In this awesome block I also have a student who is EXTREMELY high anxiety with clinical OCD. She has several coping mechanisms, is in therapy and on medication but every now and again she spools out of control. In the rising chaos of the last five of class, she comes to me agitated saying she had lost today’s notes and could I please come help her look through her stuff to find them. Given that the last five minutes is usually a bit crazed (helping kids with questions, getting set up for the next class, being distracted by 1001 things) I completely forgot I had had them hand in their notes so I went over and started helping her go through EVERYTHING looking for the notes because having even one page missing and unaccounted for in her binder would be a trigger for one of her episodes. All the while, Bradley is sitting by my desk laughing.

After almost full 5 minutes of going through EVERYTHING, I can’t find the notes and the female student asks if I can print her a hard copy of today’s lecture so she can copy the notes again. As I walk back to my desk to complete the request, Bradley busts out laughing. I ask “What’s so funny?” He replies “You know you took up today’s notes, right?” The fog clears and I have that patented “I could have had a V-8” moment. I remind the female child I have her notes, don’t panic. Then I look at Bradley and say “You watched all 5 minutes of that. When did you realize I was on a fool’s mission?” He replies “From the start. I just wanted to see how long it took you to realize that senile dementia has set in.”

And that, dear reader, is the beauty of teaching: one moment you’re unraveling the horrors of trench warfare, the next you’re unraveling your own brain in a wild goose chase orchestrated by a 16-year-old with a front-row seat to your impending senility. Bradley’s quip? Pure pain. But watching him grin like he’d just conquered the Western Front? Absolute joy. Teaching is a battlefield, folks—and every day, I just hope to make it out with my dignity intact. So far, it’s not looking good.

As I look back over my teaching career, I can’t help but marvel at the sheer resilience of my neck muscles—zero cases of whiplash despite the abrupt, violent shifts in classroom events. One moment, everything’s running like a well-oiled machine. The next, that machine is on fire, and someone’s roasting marshmallows over the wreckage. And just when I think I’ve identified the student who will be my calm in the chaos, they decide it’s the perfect day to hand me a blowtorch. Is it any wonder that “boring” in my everyday life now feels like a luxury I’ve earned?

And yes, Bradley, I can still hear you laughing.

1. Teachers, have you ever had a “Bradley” in your classroom? What did they teach you—besides patience?

2. If you were Bradley, would you have told the teacher sooner—or let them keep searching for the notes?

3. What’s the funniest or most unexpected thing you’ve experienced in a classroom, as a teacher or student?