I think I’m funny.
If I turn down a request to go to the bathroom, I also add, “But thanks for asking.” When a student asks to see the nurse, I say, “Are you dead?” If it’s time to go to lunch and I’m reading aloud to the class, I’ll work dismissal into a sentence from the book: “‘I have a job for you if you want’ lunch.”
(Yesterday a boy said, “I was scanning, trying to find out when you would do that, but you surprised me.”)
Maybe it’s clear why I enjoy seventh grade so much, other than the fact that I’ve never taught anything different: eight years of being around people with like maturity levels has freed me to be my quirky self.
Take this week.
One “authors’ organizational pattern” that I have to teach is “generalization.” I don’t really know what that means, so I made up an explanation for my students:
“How old are you?” I ask the person at the top of the name-card pile. In one class this week it was R–, a serene horse lover whose academic work ethic is rivaled only by her also-too-excellent friends.
“Uh, twelve,” she said.
“And what is your favorite vegetable?”
“Vegetable?” she blushed and smiled into her notebook. “Uh, I … don’t have one.”
“Did you say brussel sprouts?”
While she protested, I drew her in stick figure on the board, then “age 12” and then “Loves B.S.”
Chatter erupted.
In the name of further exciting the world about such organizational patterns, I told my students yesterday that it was National Cause and Effect Day. “It’s always the first Thursday after President’s Day,” I said, “and not many people know about it because I made it up.”
“It’s also National Streaking Day,” someone [incorrectly] piped up.
“Thank you, L–,” I said, and continued: “Now, to begin talking about this type of authors’ organizational pattern, we’re going to look at a few comic, umm, strips.”
I had to wait a bit to continue.
A bit later, between classes, I conducted my normal beat into the boys’ bathroom across the hallway, where, as usual, the usual suspects were hanging out and otherwise causing usual annoyances; this time a urinal was again continuously flushing to overflow.
I corralled all five of the boys in attendance before me.
“Who did that?” I asked in a very serious tone. “None of you, right? Not J–, not C–, not you, either, right? Well guess what, guys: I’m tired of this bathroom crap. Now go away.”
Not one cracked a smile; they scurried off.