Fighting words

All righty. Teaching is one of those professions where you're never bored. Where just about every day you can say, huh, that's never happened before. Where you end up saying things like "all righty."

In eight (or nine) years with the Chicago schools, I've broken up my share of fights. I've taught a few thugs, a few gangbangers, a few kids that probably didn't like me all that much. Despite that, I've never felt threatened. I've never felt like anything could happen in my own little secure classroom.

A few years back, I had this little joke that I successfully pulled off a couple of times. When a student was really upset with me, really starting to show his anger, I'd challenge him to a fight. "Come on, tough guy," I'd say. "You want to fight? Just you and me?" If he acted like he did, I'd say, "OK, let's take it outside." He'd get up, and I'd walk with him to the door. I'd open it for him and stand aside to let him out first. Then, I'd slam the door and he'd be locked outside. The whole class would laugh, even the hapless guy out in the hallway. I'm not sure if any of them really would have fought me or if they were just playing along, but a joke like that could really ease the tension.

Anyway. Whatever. Today my peace was shattered. There was a fight in my classroom. Between two girls. At the start of fifth, after the tardy bell rang, one of the girls walked in. The other came in behind her, shouting something about "now that I'm not pregnant anymore, I'll beat your ass." I raced over and split them up before any punches were thrown or hair was grabbed. The loud, not-pregnant-anymore one sort of tried pushing me out of the way. Some friends ran into my room and pulled the other one out to the safety of the halls.

My class sat in stunned silence.

I stood in silence. Stunned. Pissed off.

I eventually wrote up the one that stayed behind, asked a security guard to get her to the discipline office. But ... in the confusion of going to the bookroom to get books, she took off, too.

So I gave the class my little anti-violence speech that always ends with: "And if you're ever in a fight, and I try to break it up, and you touch me, I'll have you arrested. THAT ... is assault." Very dramatic stuff.

After class, it was my lunch. I took a peek on the computer to see where the two girls would be. Both of them at lunch also. That could mean only one thing. I jogged down to the cafeteria. Too late. They had already fought at their lockers, and both were scratched up and breathing hard when I caught up to them--one in the discipline office and the other in the health center.

At a time like that, I don't yell at the kids. I don't criticize or lay blame or threaten. I calmly talk to them. And I do my best to make them cry. To make them feel as lousy as I feel.

I got 'em both.

The not-pregnant-anymore girl was easy. I asked her why whatever the other supposedly said to her was such a big deal. And when she said she had better things to care about, I said, "Like your baby."

"Yeah," she said. "I could've dropped out of school. But I didn't. I'm here because I want to make something of myself. I want my daughter to one day be proud of me."

I stared into her eyes. "And do you think she'd be proud of you right now?"

As the tears started flowing, I went on the attack: "Like you said, you've got more important things to worry about. For you, the number one priority should be your baby. And what if you got hurt? Then what? Then who'd take care of her?"

Yeah, I'm brutally mean in my own sweet way.

The other one was tougher to break. She was acting tough. I asked her why she was in my honors class, and she said she didn't know, she never wanted to be there. That she wasn't even any good at English. I asked if she planned to go to college, and she said, no, that she doesn't "have papers."

"So what are you going to do when you get out of here?"

"I don't know, get a job."

"And what kind of job are you going to get if you can't read or write well?"

"I don't know."

"So, you're hoping to meet a guy and just start a family, right?"

She smiled.

"Let me ask you this: When did you come over to the U.S.?"

"When I was 4."

"And, OK, correct me if I'm wrong, because I really don't know anything about you or your family, but your mom and dad probably came here so that you'd have a better life, right?"

"Yeah."

"Have you ever even been to Mexico since you've been here?"

"No."

"Well, guess what, people are poor. And they don't have much. And your parents are here so that you don't have to live like that. And is this what you're doing?"

She started pretending to cover her face with the ice-pack.

"What kind of life are you going to have? The same as your parents? I bet they don't make all that much money, I bet they struggle. Is that what you want to do? And then you want children, and how do you expect them to live? Do you expect them to have a better life? Why not go for that better life yourself?"

I went on for a while. This is how I spent my lunch. But once I get on a roll, once I see the tears, I can't stop myself. I'm such a jerk. But I told her how, if you think about the world and how many poor people there are, those of us living in this country have hit the jackpot. Because we have possibilities. I acknowledged that many people in many poor countries are happy, but now that she's here and knows what's possible, that kind of happiness is impossible. And I told her that I wanted her to succeed, that I wanted every student in my class to succeed, and that I couldn't and wouldn't put up with people fighting because someone said something to someone else.

Both girls cried. In the end both apologized.

"All righty," I told each of them. "But I want you to know that I am mad. You broke my streak. I used to think my room was a safe place."

The one

Spent a part of my weekend fretting about one student. For three days last week, ever since he showed up, he was a virtual tornado of destructive, negative energy. Every teacher knows about that one kid that can ruin an entire class. This one blindsided me, and I wasn't sure how to handle the situation.

Should I assert my authority and come down swiftly and powerfully? Should I try to reason with him? Is he capable of reason? Should I threaten to quit if he's not removed from my classroom, and, preferably, the school?

I stayed late on Friday, trying to gather info on him. Let's see: He's in my English III class, so this must be at least his third year. In that time, he has compiled a 0.05 grade point average; in fact, he has passed only one class. Was I going to let him take down an entire class with him?

Saturday evening, driving to dinner, I saw him walking down the street. Blood pressure shot up. Here he was, invading my weekend! For a fraction of a second, I wondered if I'd be punished or rewarded if I accidentally lost control of my car and rode up on the sidewalk. Can one student truly be so evil as to inspire evil thoughts? Yes.

Got into work early this morning. Picked up a stack of blank referral forms. You want war? I thought. Fine, I will write you up every single day until you are suspended for a day, five days, the rest of the semester.

Filled up a referral form with all the infractions I could think of: Persistent tardiness. Use of profanity. Defying school personnel. Constant disruptions. Inspiring thoughts of vehicular homicide on the weekend.

"Say one thing out of line today and you're going down," I said. Out loud. Yes, I was now talking to myself. I should add that to the referral form.

Of course, as anyone who has ever taught could probably tell you, this kid showed up on time today. He sat quietly. He did his work. He politely asked for clarification. At the end of class, when the bell rang, and I still had no reason to turn in the referral form, I had no choice but to approach him as he walked towards the door.

"Hey, hang on a second," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Good job in class today."

He looked at me, probably expecting a sucker-punch.

I continued: "Let's have a good week, OK?"

He left. And I was left wondering: Is there hope? For a good week? A good year? Is he worth the effort? Can he be saved? Is he the one?

Football weekend lowlights

Dragged a friend to my school's Saturday afternoon football game. Perfect weather: about 65 degrees and sunny. And that was the only perfect thing about it.

Later, over beers, my friend told me just how depressed he was the rest of the day after the game. "See?" I said. "Now maybe you understand what I have to deal with each and every day at work."

Here are some of the highlights from the game:

• Completed passes by our team: 2
• Penalties: 10+
• Injured players: 2
• Hard hits: Tons

And the lowlights:

• Number of parents at the game: 3
• Teachers: 2 (counting me)
• Alumni: 2
• Cheerleaders: 0
• Administrators: 1 (the principal hung out with the team on the sidelines)

My friend now thinks he understands the key to improving city schools: "Parental involvement." Get people to support their children, and you'll get better results, he thinks.

"You don't get it," I said. "That's the problem. It's Saturday, and parents don't come out to the game. And if so few people support their kids on the team, imagine how few support their children academically."

In the end, our team lost, 8-6, but then again, if our team wins or loses, and no one's there to see it, does it really matter?

Motivational signs

Seventh period Friday, my last class of the week. Didn't really feel like being in the classroom, so I decided to do some hall walking. I've got a student teacher that period, so I asked her if she'd be OK if I left. My plan was to snag all the kids coming into class late and force them to walk around with me.

Three fell into my trap. As they walked up to the door, three minutes after the bell, I stopped them. "Nope, too late, you're coming with me." Two of the guys have been late every day this week. The third is the quarterback on our football team, and he protested. "No, come on, I want to learn," he said. "This is my first time late."

"Sorry, man, you picked the wrong day to be late," I said, and off we went. We slowly walked away from the classroom. Got a chance to mingle with the real hall walkers. It's only the second week of school, but we've already got kids not going to class, just wandering around, trying to stay away from security guards.

I wasn't content with just walking around with these guys, so I pulled out some fliers I was supposed to hang on hallway walls. They're little motivational signs that say interesting things like "You can make today better than yesterday" and not-so-interesting things like "Be respectful. Walk" or "Why are you shouting? They're right next to you." I always hated the signs, thought they made the school look cheap. And scolding. But then I accidentally signed up to be on the committee that posts them.

"Here, guys, hang these up," I said.

"What? These stupid things?"

"Get going."

Two guys got rolls of tape, and the third had to hang them up.

"You know that no one reads these things. They're so stupid."

"I'm not the one hanging them up. You guys are, so don't call them stupid."

"You know they're just gonna rip these down."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Them. They just walk down the hall, have nothing to do, so they rip stuff down."

"Yeah," I said. "How does that make you feel? Here you are working so hard, and someone's going to come along and rip it all down."

We noticed one sign that's been up since the start of the school year that no one has touched. It lists all division teachers and their rooms. One of my guys pointed out: "No one's gonna rip that down, it's got the bell schedule on it."

We laughed.

The guy hanging up our signs all of a sudden started posting them high up on the wall. "No one's gonna rip down my signs," he said.

Teachers walked by, laughed. "Is this your idea of detention?" one asked.

The principal walked by, then hung out for 10 minutes. I think my teaching style amuses him. He chatted with the guys, lightheartedly making fun of them.

"So, have you completed a pass this season?" he asked the quarterback. "Interceptions don't count."

"Yeah, had a touchdown last week."

We all laughed.

A teacher poked her head out her door. She saw me. And the principal. Went back in. Five minutes later, she poked her head out again and whispered to me, "Trying to teach here ..."

We moved further down the hall.

"I have a question for you," one of the guys said. "If Bin Laden attacked us, and he's from Saudi Arabia, why are we attacking Iraq?"

And so it went, 46 minutes of talking about politics and war, the football team, mean teachers, how quickly the school year's going already, how it took me two hours to prepare the lesson they're missing, a plan to get to class on time on Monday, and then the bell rang.

"Here," I told the quarterback, "one more."

"Oh man, I'm putting it right here," he said and quickly slapped it up on the wall as students started filling up the hallway. "I'm not gonna let anyone see me putting these up."

Take me out to the ballgame

You know you're in trouble when the athletic director is happy to see you.

"Why, hello!" she said with a giant smile this morning outside the main office. "So the answer is yes, right?"

Darn it! I had been avoiding her since the end of August. That's when she asked if I wanted to coach the boys softball team. I had assisted last year, but swore I wouldn't do it again, swore I'd definitely never be the head coach. Well, the head coach left, and no one was claiming the job.

I thought I had successfully avoided the responsibility, but then the principal cornered me in the office last night.

"So, what about the softball team?" he asked.

"No, please don't make me do it. Please, I'll do anything, wash your car, anything, just don't make me coach again."

"Oh come on," he said. "You know you love it. And besides, the season has already started. You guys are supposed to be playing today, right now."

I told him I'd think about it. And in fact, I did think about it. I thought of a million excuses why I couldn't, why I wouldn't do it. But then I ran into the AD today.

"We've got new uniforms, new equipment, even new balls ready to go," she said.

"Even new balls?" I asked. "You mean I won't have to run to the sporting goods store before games just to buy the game ball?"

"I knew you'd do it. Come on to my office, I'll give you the forms."

One of last year's players is in my fourth period. "You gonna play?" I asked him. "Our first game's next Wednesday."

"Hell yeah," he said. "Who we playing?"

So, the next month will be spent in a frustrating cycle of begging guys to practice, begging guys to get their physicals, begging guys to take the day off work so they can show up for a game, begging them to do their homework so they stay academically eligible, begging them not to leave a mess after games, begging, begging. Yes, begging. Kids don't beg to be on the team. You have to promise them extra credit.

And all you get in return are memories.

I remember my third year coaching, we somehow put together a good team. We lost the first couple of games, then did OK enough to reach the playoffs. Something amazing happened. The players all started listening to us, the two coaches. We came up with a strategy for the first playoff game, and the players pulled it off. We were playing a much bigger and stronger team, but we frustrated them, scratched out just enough runs and made just enough amazing defensive plays to win that game. Our next two playoff games were easier, even though the teams were better.

We finally got knocked out by the previous year's champs, the team that had beaten us earlier in the season by the score of 30-0 or something like that. We lost the playoff game by 2. They had to make an amazing comeback to beat us. How we lost was the most aggravating thing. Our second baseman, the only guy on the team that screwed around during practice and never took us seriously, committed two errors in the last inning to let the tying and winning runs score. I was furious. And I was bummed. I actually was sad, because we had been doing so well, and it ended with a couple of errors. If we had won that game, only one team stood in our way before the city championship. (Chicago, I think, is the only city that even has 16-inch softball as a high school sport, so winning that would've made us national champs. Hell, world champs.)

What made me quit that time was the players' reaction. Ten minutes after the loss, they were goofing around, acting like fools, as if nothing had happened. I tried to make a speech about how happy and sad I was, but they weren't paying attention. So I said, "You know, the only reason you guys made it this far in the playoffs was because you listened to your coaches. And the only reason we're not playing next week is because some of you didn't want to listen."

"Yeah, whatever," one kid said. "We don't need you as much as you think."

The next season, almost all of the starters returned. But with two new coaches. They didn't even make it to the playoffs.

...

Wait, what is this? My Chicago Teacher Man post, or my speech to the guys that come out for the team tomorrow? Oh well. I'll try not to care. I'll try not to be the only one out there that really, really hates losing. I mean, it's supposed to be fun, isn't it? Winning isn't everything, right?

And even if we get killed, maybe I'll come away with a few good memories. Like this one: Our very first year with a team, the coach and I collected enough guys to show up for the first game. We had never practiced, so on the way to the game we just asked players where they wanted to play.

Our leadoff hitter actually got a hold of the first pitch, sending a line drive into the outfield. "Run!" we screamed. And so he ran.

With his bat.

Straight to second base.

For a second, I thought he was going after the opposing pitcher. But then I realized he thought he was playing cricket. Players run like that in cricket, I guess.

Needless to say, he was out.

I'm hoping that doesn't happen next week. But then again, I'm hoping something entertaining does happen. Because, sucker that I am, I just couldn't say no to the all-of-a-sudden happy athletic director.

Add it up

Today was my first grumpy day of the school year.

Arrived at work to find new rosters in my mailbox. "We're adding 10-15 students to both your second and fourth period classes!" the rosters taunted.

Great. I now have 167 students, divided by five classes, averaging out to 33 students per class. I was bummed. I put so much effort into setting a tone and getting students on track in the first week that any addition or subtraction is unwelcome. Classes were running smoothly. Too smoothly. Damn.

I've got a student teacher working with me for half the day, and she got to hear me bitching about all this. She tried to put a positive spin on the situation. "Now you can do those ice-breaker activities the other teachers were talking about at that meeting yesterday," she said.

OK, I thought. I can look on the positive side of things. But first let me see who rolls in through that door. I didn't get to meet the new kids in second period, because they got their programs after that class in division. Then, fourth period. It started OK. Three or four new students walked in, quietly took seats, and didn't even have to be told to start on the bellringer. I took a deep breath, hoping it was all going to be OK. Then, a pounding on the door, and eight or nine very loud, very obnoxious guys made their entrance.

"No!" I screamed. "Get back in the hallway!" I looked back at my class. "Be back in a flash."

I walked out of the room to confront my newest challenge. "You guys are late," I said, sternly. One started talking, and I interrupted. "Fine, I understand. You just found out today. You got lost. Fine. You can come in. Quietly. We're working in there."

They plopped down all over the place. Weren't about to do anything. So I had to give my don't-mess-with-me speech.

"As everyone can see, we have some new students. Fine. Everyone is welcome in this classroom. Just keep this in mind: You guys are juniors. Some are seniors. You should all know
by now what it takes to do well in school. Look around you. Seventy-five percent of the people in this room, hopefully more, are here to learn, have goals to go to college or get a good job after high school. And no matter what it is you want to do, my job is to make sure everyone improves their reading, writing, speaking, and thinking skills. Everyone. Got it?"

I realized these guys were coming from one particular classroom, from a teacher that I'll call Mr. Oh-No. I don't have the vocabulary or ability to describe just how shitty of a teacher this man is. Students do nothing in his room, unless if you count throwing things at him, telling him to "shut the fuck up," ignoring him, coming in at whatever time they want, and still getting an A. Some students actually love that kind of teacher. So I had to add:

"You know my name. Please do not ever confuse it with Mr. Oh-No, or anyone else. We learn in here. If that's what you want, you've come to the right place."

I looked over at my student teacher. "You mind grabbing all the new students and catching them up on expectations and what they need in class tomorrow? Everyone else and I will review yesterday's quiz."

The class split up. I'm lucky because I actually have a classroom large enough to accommodate 40 students. But I don't even want to get into how our contract caps our class size at 28.

I looked at my kids. "OK, let's look at those quizzes."

"Mr. P, I loved the way this class was. Why did they have to add all these guys?" one girl asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"You jinxed us," another girl said. "Just yesterday you said how happy you were that this class was nice and small."

I looked at everyone. They looked miserable. "How do you think I feel?" I said, looking just as miserable. "I don't want to deal with this stuff either. I mean, I hope things don't change, because I loved this class just the way it was, too. You've all been awesome so far."

We reviewed, and I overheard my student teacher getting good and stern with the new kids. Whip 'em into shape, I silently hoped.

That done, I passed around some books. "We're going to read a play together as a class today," I said. "And then in the next few days, you are all going to get into groups and perform one of the other plays. So this is practice, OK?"

I didn't have enough copies. So, some desks were moved for sharing. We all turned to the first play, "A Slander" by Anton Chekhov. "OK, who wants to be the main character?"

One of the new kids raised his hand. The ringleader. The loudest one of them all. Great, I thought, he just wants to screw around. "This character has the most reading. You cool with that?" I asked. He said he was.

We assigned the other parts, and another boy took the role of the main character's wife. This can be a huge disaster, I thought. But then something happened. They started reading. And they did a great job. No, a fantastic job. The lead character read loudly and clearly, he was cracking up, as was everyone else, and kids were calling out "oh no" and "that idiot" and things like that at the right parts. When the wife's turn came, the boy read it with a hilarious old lady voice, and everyone absolutely loved it. I thought there would be cheering when they finished. There wasn't, but everyone was laughing and talking about the main character, about how he's the one that slandered himself.

I revealed five questions they had to answer about the play, and no one complained; everyone started writing. Then the bell rang, and I heard one of my original kids from the class say, "This is my only class that doesn't drag."

They left, and my next big class came to take up the seats. I was tired. A girl walked in and said, "You're sweating." Yeah, I thought, I just dodged a bullet. Tomorrow I get to see if we can perform similar magic with all the new kids in second period.

Sept. 11 conversations

Sometimes I think I don't say the right things.

After second period, one of my first period students comes into the classroom, saying that he forgot something. It's a plastic bag with something in it.

"Looks like it's still there," I say. "I didn't touch the thing."

"Might be dangerous, huh?" he asks.

"Sure," I say.

"Especially because today's Sept. 11," he says.

"Sure," I say. "Might be a bomb or something."

"Especially because I'm Muslim," he says.

"D'oh!" I walked into that one.

So, we don't really do too much to honor Sept. 11, although I notice on the official CPS calendar that today is called "Patriot Day." During division (now known as homeroom), a student reads a prepared statement about the day over the intercom, and then the school rings the bell several times, remembering those who died. My division students (homeroom students) stand respectfully during the bell-ringing and moment of silence. I'm at my computer, trying to enter attendance on our new system.

A girl comes over and asks if I have tissue or paper towels. She has tears streaming down her face.

"You OK?"

"I know that I didn't know anyone in New York," she says, "but I was just remembering that day, and how I didn't know where my mom was, and I was just so scared."

"Do you ... do you want to sit down and talk about it?"

"No, I'll be fine." Then she tells me about some people she knew that did die.

"Listen, do you want me to go get your counselor so that you can talk to someone who knows what he's doing?"

"No, that's OK."

"Do you want to go get a drink of water?"

"No, I'm fine."

"How about some candy? Here, I got these at a Korean grocery store."

"Yeah!" she says, smiling.

She stops by again after school. "You feeling better?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk?"

"No, but can I have another one of those candies?"

We chat a little about how the candy gets stuck to your teeth if you try to chew it. You've got to let it melt. She's smiling. She's OK. On her way out, she walks over to me, leans over, and gives me a quick, little hug. "Thanks!" she says. "Thanks!" I say right back.

Everyone could probably use a hug today.

A story about yesternight

My niece is becoming something of a celebrity among students. I wrote a few days back about how students see her picture and get all gooey-eyed. But then I made the mistake of actually telling a story about her in class. Now kids I don't even teach are coming into my classroom and talking about her.

When I started teaching, I made this solemn statement and vow: I hate teachers that spend class time talking about their own children and/or pets. I will never become one of those teachers.

Well, as in most things in life, never say never. I don't have any children, so I can't talk about them. I do have a cat, and I have mentioned her from time to time. But here's what used to bother me: I could make a tiny little mention about my cat, and then months later students would still be asking, "So, how's your cat?" But I think I've figured this out: Having a child, or a niece, or even a cat, makes the teacher a little more human to these students. And they are desperately looking for some kind of human connection.

Anyway, as most English teachers, I have a Word Wall up in my room. It's a place where we can hang newly learned vocabulary. To introduce my Word Wall and to get them to do some creative thinking, I told this story:

"I was talking to my niece recently. She's about three and a half. And if you have any young kids around you, you know that little kids just love to talk. But they sometimes don't know the right word, so what do they do? They tell you the story anyway."

As I'm talking, I can see most kids listening, smiling, making some comment, like: "Yeah, I've got a little brother. He just won't shut up." Things like that.

I continue: "Well, my niece was telling me about some movie, I think it was Cars."

Half the students are now chattering about Cars, about how they've seen it and think it's great.

"I asked her when she saw it, and she said, 'I saw it yesternight.'" I pause. "Now, is that a real word? If I open up ... this dictionary, will I find yesternight?"

We discover as a class that "yesternight" is not in our dictionaries, even though we can find it online, but it's not in common usage, so we can't say it's a real word, but we conclude that we don't care, because it makes sense, we understand what she meant, and in fact, we like it because it's specific. "She didn't see the movie in the day, when the sun was out," one student sums it up nicely. "She saw it at night. So, it wasn't yesterday, it was yesternight!"

This leads to a discussion about how little children are often smarter than teenagers; well, maybe not smarter, but definitely less afraid of making mistakes.

"When you're older, you're afraid of what people are going to think when you make a mistake," one tough-looking dude says, and I wonder if this guy is really afraid of what anyone else says about him.

"Well," I say. "Today, I want you to make mistakes. Retreat back to your childhood, and make something up. No one will laugh." The assignment is to create five new words in English, words that aren't in the dictionary but that make sense anyway. The best ones will go on the Word Wall.

After school, I'm hanging out with a student I taught last year, and he's telling me how much he loves A Clockwork Orange, and I'm wondering if it was really a good idea to tell high school juniors about that movie. One of my homeroom students comes in with two friends. I did not tell my "yesternight" story to my homeroom students, so she doesn't know about my niece, but her friends want to see my Word Wall anyway.

"There it is," one of the girls says, "yesternight!"

"Oh, I know," the other one says. "Your niece was talking about a movie, and you asked her when she saw it, and she said, 'yesternight.' See? And I'm not even one of your students!"

"I'm impressed," I say.

"I'm going to be in your class next year," she says.

"Yeah," I say, thinking, wow, some stories travel fast. "And I'm going to have to come up with new stories about my niece."

Oh crap

"So I hear you scared the crap out of one of your students."

I've walked over to a colleague's classroom to find out if the gossip is true. She looks startled. "What?"

"I heard you literally scared the crap out of someone last week," I say. She looks at me confused, so I ask, "Didn't some kid crap his pants in your classroom last week?" These are the kinds of things one hears. I try not to believe anything I hear, especially if a teenager tells me something juicy. But this one got me to leave the safety of my classroom, to brave the hallways, just to find out the truth.

"Oh my God," she says, and tells me the story. I thought it would be a funny one. But as soon as I figure out who the boy was, I immediately feel bad. This is an 18-year-old, very low functioning boy that I taught last year. Well, tried to teach. Something is seriously wrong with him, though I'm not sure what. Most kids steer clear of him, but I guess after the accident last week, right in the middle of seventh period, they've been merciless.

I don't know how I would've handled the situation. I've had kids pass out, have fits, bleed, run out of the room crying. But this? Just another thing that you can never be prepared for.

In their own private canoes

It's 1 a.m., and I just woke up from a dream about my students. First time this has happened this school year. Probably not the last. And this I deserve. Yesterday, I was talking to a first-year teacher, and she said that she gets these all-night dreams about her new job.

"Ah, first-week-of-school stress," I said.

"Yeah, don't you hate when that happens? You wake up tired, like you haven't slept at all."

"Nah, I love those kinds of dreams. They sometimes help me figure things out," I said. "But it doesn't happen to me anymore. No stress."

So, let's see if I remember what happened in this dream, which I'm gonna say has nothing at all to do with stress:

I'm out canoeing with one of my classes. It's a beautiful afternoon. At one point, I want them to gather together for a couple of minutes, just so I can tell them about their grades after the first week in my class. I'm proud because I thought of a new evil plan: I'm going to pretend I'm really mad at a few students. I'll call their names and declare that they are troublemakers. "These seven kids," I'm planning to say, "currently have an average higher than 100 percent in my class. And I want to know, what's wrong with you seven? Are you trying to ruin my reputation as a tough teacher?" In truth, there already are a couple of students failing after the first week, but I want to focus on the ones doing well. I want to acknowledge their hard work early on (too often we teachers focus on the ones not doing the work and just assume the hard workers will continue with no recognition). But I also want everyone to see that an A+ is possible.

The plan is to continue: "What's your secret to getting good grades? Are you paying me or something?" I'm hoping that they'll say no, there's no secret, that they just did the work. Funny as it sounds, the students failing probably just don't know how to be a good student. "OOOHHH ... I'm supposed to actually turn in those things you've been talking about?"

Anyway, this is all still in the dream. I really make plans like this in dreams, then hope I remember them in the morning, but I rarely write things down so I rarely remember. This one I should remember, even this part:

I'm trying to round up the kids, but they're all in their own private canoes, and only one or two stop to hear what I have to say. I'm upset because the rest are not listening. And because they're spoiling my planned rant. But then I realize that it's such a beautiful day, and it's my fault for letting them go off on their own without a plan. Oh yeah, I just remembered this detail: It looks like we're in the Florida Keys, canoeing around trees and vegetation, watching all sorts of sea life. Why would they stop to listen to me?

And that's about when I woke up.

I have a "dream" book in my classroom. I'll have to look this up, find out what a dream means when it's about canoes and students not listening. Meanwhile, is there a dream expert out there that can help?

24 Hours Later: Well, it's happened again. Fell asleep a little early last night, because I was tired from a long day and a lack of sleep, and now it's 1 a.m. again and I'm awake again. Don't remember any dreams this time, thankfully. Oh, but I'm happy to report that my evil little plan worked--the good kids were very freaked out when I called their names and said they're in trouble. Then, a big explosion of relief when I gave them my line about having a 100+ percent average. Students that really care about their grades are just so cute.

I break into the top 10

I recently learned that there are now only 10 teachers in my department. There used to be 15 or 16. Our school has had a drop in enrollment in recent years, so when teachers retire or quit, they're not replaced. Anyway, it takes me a while to find out about these kinds of things because I make up any excuse possible to avoid department meetings. But now that I know this little fact, I proudly tell my students:

"You are being taught by one of the ten best English teachers at this school. It's a fact."

Makes them feel better about being stuck with me, I'm sure.

I hate teenagers

This afternoon, just like every couple of weeks, this happens: A student comes over to my desk, sees a photo hanging on my filing cabinet, and says, "Awww ... she's so cute! Is that your daughter?"

"Nope," I answer. "That's my niece. I don't have any children."

"Why not?" the student asks. It's a girl asking the question, and at 16 or 17, the one thing she knows is that she eventually wants a child, or several. "Don't you like kids?"

"Oh, I love children," I say, "but then they turn into teenagers. And I hate teenagers!" I try to keep a straight face, look stern. But I'm busted anyway.

"No, you don't! You love us!"

If I do, it's definitely a love-hate thing. I mean, I hate them because they're young. And I'm getting old. And they're wasting their youth. And if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't have wasted my youth. And I would've listened when some older person gave me advice. But I realize that, if anyone really was giving me advice, I wasn't listening, and so why should they?

I hate the ones that aren't wasting their youth, too, because they're reckless. Or stupid. Or do things I've never done. And they're definitely not taking education seriously, because they're out there living, too busy to read, to do homework. And, more than anything, I hate them because they sometimes won't shut up, especially when telling me about something I really don't want to hear.

Case in point: A couple of years ago, one of the nicest guys I have ever taught told me about prom night. This was a kid I had known for three years. He was polite. He was something of a mama's boy. A little shy. Soft spoken. Basically, he was the kind of boy I wouldn't mind my daughter dating if I had a daughter. But then again.

"Hey, so how was prom?" I remember asking him on the Monday after. He said it was OK, but there was something about the way he looked that made me think he had more to say. "What did you guys do afterwards?" I shouldn't have asked.

He smiled. He tried not to say anything, then struggled with himself. Finally, in a whisper, he said, "Um, we ... we had an orgy." I didn't say anything, but he continued, saying how there was liquor, then someone taking off clothes, then a whole mess of nakedness. The weird thing about him telling the story was that he wasn't bragging, he wasn't excited, or trying to get me to high-five him or anything. He had just done something remarkable, and he really, really wanted to tell someone. It's probably something he would never tell his mother. Teacher, though, why not?

The only thing I could think of saying was, "Oh man ... I hope you used protection." He swore he did, said he made sure everyone did.

I've gotten better at steering clear of certain topics. If I sense something is about to be said, I change the subject, cut the kid off, run out of the room screaming, something. I've also gotten better at lecturing kids, sounding like a parent, being a voice of reason. I scold them, threaten to call their mother, take the side of the family, or teacher, or whoever is being complained about. And then, on the weekends, when I talk about my job with anyone who isn't a teacher, I end up talking about "my kids." And so, that's the way it goes. Even when you choose not to be a father, you end up with something like 150 kids each year. Sheesh. I hate 'em.

Day 2 Q's

The bell rings, students shuffle out of the room, heading off to their next classes, except one boy, who comes over. "I have a question," he says.

All right, I think, I'm ready. He's going to ask if he can get an extension on tonight's assignment. Or maybe he's wondering if I'll really give him supplies for class--everyone needs a binder, notebook, paper, and pens by tomorrow, but I've announced that I've got plenty to spare if anyone needs one. Or maybe he has a question about his program, his classes, my class policies, the grading scale, the ACT, something, anything I've talked about these first two days.

Of course it's none of the above, but before I get to it, I have a few questions myself, here on Day 2. Questions like: Will the new multimillion-dollar attendance software system work anytime soon? Why are 25 of the 31 students in my honors English III class female? What are we saying about the boys in this school? Should I call the homes of all the students that made it yesterday but are absent today? What about the kids who refused to work today? Should I call them, make a statement? Should I vote for the new contract? And, as one union guy asked, am I ready to strike?

I can't worry too much about these minor issues of life, though, because a student has a question:

"Would it be OK for me to bring a gallon of milk to class?"

Milk? A gallon?? "Why would you want to do that?" I ask.

"I get thirsty."

"Yeah, but milk?" (I'm a soy milk drinker myself, so the idea of a gallon of cow's milk in my 90+ degree fifth period classroom sort of, kind of makes my stomach churn.)

"I drink a lot of milk," he says. Yeah, he's a pretty big kid, and I can't imagine anything less healthy.

"Why not water?" I ask. "Or juice? I mean, it's really hot in here. I mean, a gallon of milk?"

"Well, OK, how about half a gallon?"

I tell him I'll think about it.

Official school policy is that there are to be no food or drinks in the classroom, but when it's hot like this, what am I really supposed to say to a thirsty kid? And, well, if we have vending machines in the building, and the proceeds supposedly go to the school, shouldn't we actually encourage students to buy more and drink wherever they want? These are the questions I think about on Day 2. I have an answer for most of them. But milk?

The Golden Rule of the first day

Ask a hundred teachers for their advice to the novice teacher, and 101 of them will say: "Whatever you do on the first day of school, do NOT smile." Apparently, you've got to act tough, no matter how weak you feel. As I am no longer a novice teacher, I too have advice, and it's only slightly different. I say to the novice teacher: "Whatever you do on the first day, do NOT smile ... at your own jokes."

Yeah, so today was the first day, the computer system was down so we couldn't take attendance (and we already got rid of the old blue books!), there were hundreds of sleepy faces to contend with, and I thought to myself, "They're still quiet, some are actually listening, what a great chance to test out some of my new material." Let's just say that teenagers are a tough crowd. There I was, sweating away in my unairconditioned room, pacing around, explaining my bellringer and how it'll improve their ACT scores, assigning seats, trying to remember names (of hopefully good kids as well as troublemakers), cracking jokes, and never once smiling. I was the bomb. Or did I bomb? Whatever.

My best joke (and also least politically correct one) goes like this: I ask how many students had part time jobs over the summer, followed up by how many plan to keep those jobs now that the school year has started. I ask them if they make decent money. Then I ask, "How many of you would like to earn $200,000 in the next two years?" This is me trying to be motivational on the first day of classes to a room of juniors. Some are interested. I tell them about the three or four kids last year that got full-ride scholarships. "At many universities these days, that means about $50,000 a year, making the scholarship worth $200,000 or more," I say. "And all you have to do is work hard this year, raise those GPA's, get a decent ACT score, and you can get that money, too. And you don't have to be the number one or two kid in the graduating class," I say. "Just about anyone can get that kind of scholarship."

Some kids seem interested, and I can almost sense a few making silent vows to actually buckle down and work hard. But then in every class, some kid has to say, "Oh man, I thought you were talking about $200,000 cash."

"What's the difference? This is better than cash," I say, "because this way, you get a great education. And you don't need a part-time job if you take your job as a student seriously."

Some heads nod in agreement, others nod off. But at least no one's disruptive, and I'm hoping that the troublemakers are seeing that this is a teacher not to mess with. So I have to go in for a joke.

"Hey, here's a homework assignment for tonight. Go home and ask your parents if they make $100,000 a year. Ask them, and then tell them that you can make that much this year and next. Heck, I don't make that much money." I pause, then appear to think things over. "In fact, if your Mom makes that much money, and if she's single, why don't you tell her about your cool English teacher? Then maybe I can marry her and quit this job."

I let that sink in. Then go for the kill: "Can you imagine calling me Dad?"

If there's one thing that is guaranteed to gross out a room full of tough, inner-city kids, it's the thought of their Mom marrying their Teacher Man. But they don't know how to react. After all, it's the first day of class, and I'm not smiling.

Just Go!

As I walk from the laundromat to my local bar, I am reminded that tomorrow is the first day of school. First day of school for the kids, first day of work for me. I am reminded by signs stuck in the median and on corners, signs similar to ones seen around election time. "Just Go! To School" these signs say. And I think, yes, what a great slogan for the city youth. Nothing about studying. Nothing about achieving. Nothing about striving for anything. Just go.


I am spending time at the laundromat because I am trying to wash my comforter, and it won't fit in my home washing machine. I am trying to wash my comforter because of something I saw on Oprah this morning, something about billions of dust mites living in my bed and causing me to wheeze. And this is why I am glad the summer is over and the school year is beginning: I've been reduced to watching Oprah and freaking out about everything I see.

And so a new year is about to begin. I should be writing lesson plans. I should be thinking of new ways of reaching my students, new ways of teaching to the test. But instead I'm worried about dust mites. Oh well, I don't really need to worry about my classes this week, as long as my students and I remember to Just Go!

I'm thinking, though, of ways the signs in the streets could inspire my students.

Just Go! ...

... and make your teachers' lives miserable! (Well, more so than they already are.)

... and get away from your parent(s)/guardian(s)!

... and get a free lunch!

... and get a 14 on the ACT!

OK, OK, this is a negative way to start the new year. So, now that it's out of my system, I will make a public vow: This year I will be positive. I will look on the sunny side of whatever life and teenagers throw at me. I will do my best, and at the end of every day, I will do my darnedest to write about it here, whatever happens.

All you have to remember is to Just Go! to this blog once in a while.

TIWIT, part 11 of 174: Positivity

"You look sick. Or are you in a bad mood?"

The first kid has walked into fourth period, Thomas, a tough, tall kid on the basketball team. He's usually loud, singing some rap song, obnoxious, barely pays attention to a word I say, but today he sees I'm leaning over my podium instead of standing at the door and shows a little compassion.

"I'm OK," I respond, my voice a lot scratchier than it feels. "Just a cold." It's winter, so it's time for my annual aches and pains. You'd think I'd be immune to most viruses by now, but the kids keep on bringing more germs from all corners of the planet. And so I go through the annual cycle of sickness: The First-Week-of-School Flu, the Parent-Teacher-Conference Cold, the Winter Whooping Cough, Spring Fever, Senioritis. That last one, I think, I've been suffering for the past 15 years of my life. There's no cure.

"If you're not feeling well, we should watch a movie!" Thomas announces. "Doesn't even have to be educational. Just pop something on and relax."

"Thanks for your concern," I say.

"Yeah, I'm concerned," he says. "I'm so concerned, maybe you should just take the day off tomorrow. You know, stay in bed, have some soup, relax, get better."

"I don't know," I say. "When I'm sick, I like to come share my unhappiness with you guys. Misery loves company, you know."

When I'm sick, I go to work. Usually. And when the bell rings, classes start, I usually feel less cranky and tired. The students wake me up, energize me, make me think less about my suffering. Plus, I want to save up my sick days for when I have something better to do, like go on vacation. I love the idea of calling in sick while rushing to catch a flight. But there's another reason I hate calling in: I don't want the substitute teacher to learn how bad of a teacher I am.

If I leave work, and the kids don't do it, or if they're wildly out of control, the sub will know that these kids don't really respect me, don't take my class seriously. And that's what I'm afraid of. I used to be a sub, so I know this is true: When I walked into a room, handed out an assignment, and the kids actually did it, that was a good teacher's classroom. It only happened two or three times, but still, I want to be one of those teachers.

So far this year, I've been out three times: twice for conferences and once because I strained my back and could barely walk. Each time I was so worried about what was going on in my classroom that I could barely enjoy myself. But each time when I returned, I realized the world did not end in my absence. The first time I was out, in fact, I got an interesting note from the sub the next day.

I had warned all my classes that I'd be out. I explained what they'd have to do. I begged them to behave, told them there would be consequences if I returned to the scene of a disaster. Then I left a note for the sub, detailing what each class was supposed to be doing, and telling her what to expect from my classes. "Most of my classes are well-mannered and you shouldn't have too many problems," I wrote. "However, fourth period is my rowdiest class, and I apologize in advance for their actions."

When I returned, the note was quite opposite from my expectations: All my classes, apparently, were loud and disrespectful except for fourth period. At the start of class, I read from the substitute's note: "Students were out of their seats, listening to i-Pods, and talking back." I looked up. The fourth period kids were incredulous.

"What!? We were good!" one girl yelled.

"Oh yeah, that's for third period," I said. "Let's see what she wrote about you guys: 'Class was surprisingly good. Students worked quietly together to finish assignment.'" I looked up. Big smiles from around the room. They were proud. Happy to be acknowledged. And all those years of hearing how students want and need positive reinforcement finally proved to be true. If you focus on the good ... and you reward positive behavior instead of punishing negative behavior ... they will behave. When kids act out, supposedly, they just want attention.

"We should get extra credit for that," Thomas announced, speaking louder than the other dozen voices wanting something in return. "Show us a movie!"

"A movie for doing what you were supposed to be doing? I don't think so," I said. "But I will remember this."

Two days later, things were back to normal. At the start of class, a couple of boys were tormenting a girl, who hurled curses back at them. Some kids were restless, barely able to sit still. Others had heads down. A couple of the good kids were bored, waiting to learn something. And I was frustrated and, as I was ready to blow, to forget the focus-on-the-positives bullshit and start kicking kids out, Thomas came to the rescue. "Don't get mad. We're your best class, remember?" he said. "Maybe you could show us a movie!"

TIWIT, part 10 of 174: A civics lesson

My IB class was supposed to have a novel test today. The way I teach novels, at least in my advanced classes, is like this: They read the book, take a test, and then get working on analyzing it. If they fail the test, they get zeroes on all class assignments until they pass a version of the test. (Trust me, this usually gets them to read.) Anyway, I assigned a novel two, three weeks ago, and figured they should finish by today. But yesterday I realized that most of the students wouldn't be ready. Being the slackers that most of my students are, they put everything off until the last minute.

So, after school yesterday, on a little blog that I have for the class, I decided to pose a question: How many of you would prefer to hold off on the test until Monday? You have to swear that you'll be ready. So, vote on this blog to keep the original date or to move the test to Monday. I need at least 11 votes by midnight and I'll go with the majority.

In the next couple of hours, there were more than 30 messages posted, students practically begging to change the test date to Monday. And so, being a believer in flexibility, I agreed. The test will be Monday.

After that, I got this interesting message from one of the kids:

Hahaha.. thanks Mr P. I do have to tell you im amazed how everyone worked together to collect the votes, everything from non stop phone calls, to IMs,to email...and even, myspace blogs!!!! just to get our class to come here and vote. Intriguing..

My initial thought was, A-ha! They just learned something about politics. That's exactly how a political Machine operates. On election day, city employees visit or call homes to make sure people cast their ballots for the mayor.

But then I realized that this is NOT how the Machine operates. The Machine relies on old technology, like phone calls and doorbells. These kids used modern technology to get out the vote: instant messaging, email, myspace. The lesson here might be for politicians: If you want to reach a large group of voters, especially the young ones, maybe you should consider new get-out-the-vote strategies.

(Hey Kos readers, since you're here, check out more recent posts.)

TIWIT, part 9 of 174: What's your name again?

Just got back from a basketball game. We were playing a suburban team, and we really hung in there ... for a long while. Down by three at the half. Midway through the third quarter, our center put down a monster dunk to tie it up, and the small cheering section that came up north thought, wow, this might be it. Then ... the other team turned it up a notch, our foul trouble caught up to us, we started putting up air-ball three-point attempts, and we lost by 15. Still, it was a valiant attempt, and we have a shot at doing well in the city playoffs.

Since the team's doing well, fans are actually showing up. I'd say I saw at least 10 graduates, kids I taught three, four, five years ago. And here's the cool thing: Every single one of those kids came over and said hello. Seemed genuinely happy to see me. Whatever our troubles were in the classroom, if we had any, were long since forgotten. Another thing long since forgotten is their names. I remember the faces, even the ones that have aged decades in the past five years. I even remember the classes they were in. But the names ... It's weird to think that I spent a good solid year, maybe two, with so many young people at the turning points in their lives, and now they're gone. Gone from the school, gone from my memory.

Still, as my teacher buddy said on the ride home: "It's a real privilege to work with these kids." It really is. He was talking about the players on the team, and I agree. I teach a couple of the starters, and it's really interesting to see them in their element. They may sometimes struggle in the classroom, may be a little quiet or tired or want to goof off, but on the court, they're confident and mature. I have to remember to say something nice, especially to the forward who was something like 13 of 14 from the free throw line.

I teach about 141 kids this year. I say "about" because kids are still coming and going, I'm still making additions and subtractions on class rosters. It's a wonder I remember any of their names.

Another wonder is that I remember certain names from my very first year of teaching. Some kids just stand out like that, make that kind of impression. In 10, 30 years, if I see certain people walking down the street, I'll still yell out their names. Not all of them were the best students. Or worst. Or the most outgoing. Every once in a while, you just meet someone you really click with, and that person just remains in the brain. Anyway, I call out those names. And I'm sure they'll still call me Mister.

When I started teaching, the weirdest thing to hear was someone calling me "mister," especially walking down the street or in a store. Now, I can't imagine any of these kids, any of these graduates, calling me by my first name.

Anyway ... I think I'm having a moment. Don't mind me. I'm thinking about all those graduates I saw, how they've gone on, are well on their way to adulthood. And here I am, still stuck in high school. "You still teach there?" one kid asked me. "Yeah," I said, "and to be honest, I'm actually sort of starting to like it."

TIWIT, part 8 of 174: Lying to parents

The first time I ever got a phone call from a parent was a shock.

"Hello, sir, I am calling about my son," the caller said. "I am very worried."

It was a shock mainly because it was 8 p.m. and I was at home. "Sure," I said, "how can I help?"

"Can you tell me, sir, is it true that my son is dating a girl?"

Oh boy. How was I going to deal with this?

First, some background. My phone number is listed, so I really shouldn't have been surprised that he reached me at home. The real surprise about getting calls at home was that, in my first six years as a teacher, I had only been called once by a student. Maybe I've gotten prank calls once or twice, but not what might be expected. This shows that students are either very respectful about teachers' privacy or they don't really give a damn or, I guess, that they don't know how to use telephone books. If the information doesn't pop up on google, they don't know how to find it.

Anyway, I sort of should have expected this call from this father. After all, I had just spent about an hour after school talking to this boy about his life, his religion, his girlfriend. He was supposed to be in some ACT prep class but came in my room, said he wasn't feeling well enough to sit through the class, so could he please hang out for a while? I was grading some papers, was planning to be there for a while anyway, so I said sure. Once he sat down, though, we started talking and I graded zero papers.

This kid was from Sri Lanka. As with most kids from religious backgrounds, I asked him about growing up Muslim.

"I don't really care about my religion," he said.

"Do your parents know that?"

"No way," he said. "They'd kill me."

"What would they do if they found out you were dating, especially a non-Muslim?"

"It wouldn't be pretty."

Even though I didn't ask for specifics, I knew he was dating. Every person in the building could see this kid holding hands with his very Mexican, very non-Muslim girlfriend. Still, I didn't probe, figuring he'd tell me more if he wanted to.

An hour into our chat, the counselor in charge of the ACT class came into my room and asked the boy what he was doing, why he wasn't in class. "I didn't feel well," he said. She left in a fury. "Oh boy," I told him. "That's one woman you don't want to piss off."

"Whatever," he asked. "What can she do?"

Famous last words.

What she did was this: She called the boy's house. Told dad that the boy wasn't feeling well enough to go to class, but he was still in the building. Maybe because he was waiting for his girlfriend!

And now I had dad on the line. "Is it true, sir? Does my son have a girlfriend?"

"Well ..." I stammered. "I know he has many friends."

"I am very concerned. We don't want our children to do certain things."

"I understand," I said. "And, from what I've seen of your son, I think he's a great young man. Very respectful. Very ... proper. I'm sure he wouldn't do anything ... bad."

"But what about this counselor calling and saying he has a girlfriend?"

"Oh, I'm sure she was upset that your son wasn't in class. And it was probably true, he was probably waiting for his friends."

"But does he have a girlfriend."

OK. Is it really up to me to inform this man of something like this? Am I my student's keeper? Can't he just ask his son? Doesn't he know as a father what the truth is? I thought back to all the times I had seen this boy with his girlfriend. Seemed innocent enough. Then again, had I ever actually seen anything? Or was my memory colored by what I had heard from other teachers? What is truth anyway?

"Well," I said. "I can assure you, I have never seen anything improper in my classroom." This was the truth! I assign seats, and the two lovebirds sit separate from each other in English. There's no way they had ever done anything in my presence. "What your son does outside of my classroom, I don't really know. But in my room, nothing."

The father thanked me and asked me to call if I ever suspected his son was dating, especially a non-Muslim.


to be continued ...

A-I, A-I-O

Must ... be ... good.

The A.I.O. is visiting. She will most likely stop by my classroom. Must make sure there's evidence ... of ... learning.

An A.I.O. is an area instructional officer. The job description, as far as I can tell, is to make teachers miserable. Or at least fearful. I'm not sure how it works, but the city seems to be subdivided into regions and areas. And each subdivision is ruled by someone in charge. You know, another high-paid bureaucrat that reports back to the big boss, whoever that might be. The A.I.O. is somewhere up there, making a visit somehow dreadful. Oh, our A.I.O. smiles a lot. Says that we are her favorite school. But when I talk to teachers at other schools in the area, I learn that she tells them the same thing.

Anyway ... I won't mention names. But I do have a funny little story about our A.I.O.

She used to be a principal. I interviewed at her school. She didn't hire me. Didn't call to tell me why, didn't answer my calls. But about six months later, after I had found another job and had forgotten all about her school, she finally wrote me a rejection letter. I WISH I had saved it. Had I known she would one day be my A.I.O., I would have. In the brief letter, I counted no fewer than 10 errors in grammar and punctuation. At the time I was so angry that I was ready to pull out my red pen, circle the mistakes, and send it back to her with a little message: Maybe you should've hired me as your personal English teacher!

But whatever. I'm not really all that concerned with the visit. Or what she says if she does poke her head in my classroom. I just would like a chance to edit any report she writes about me.

The kids, on the other hand, might freak out when they see a "team" of observers storm into the room. They get really funny when someone walks in. There could be utter chaos one second, and the next, total silence. The teacher, sobbing at his desk, might look up and notice that the principal has walked in for an observation. The students think they're the ones being observed, so all of a sudden, they're reaching for ID's, taking off out-of-dress-code sweatshirts, opening textbooks. They respectfully raise hands and ask questions, use foreign words like "sir" and "excuse me."

After the observation, I ask the kids what happened, why they were so good. "Because it's the PRINCIPAL!" they say, not realizing that they're setting themselves up for a lifetime of fear. Fear of authority. When I tell them I was the one being watched, not them, they smile. "See?" someone says. "We made you look good!" "Yeah!" someone else agrees. "Now give us extra credit!" And then the whole class is loud again, everyone demanding extra credit.

Ah, back to normal.

Sunday morning blues

I have no idea what normal people do on a Sunday morning. I am an English teacher, which means my morning (and probably afternoon and evening) will be spent grading papers.

I've procrastinated as long as I could. Did the dishes. Watched stupid Sunday morning news programs with coffee in one hand and the Tribune in the other. Scrubbed my toilet. (Well, I let the Scrubbing Bubbles do the scrubbing.) If I stay home any longer, I'll find a hundred and one things to do instead of grading. So it's off to a coffee shop, where I'll be for the next few hours, grading, grading, and trying not to fall asleep, trying not to get distracted.

If there's one thing I know, students HATE when I don't promptly grade and return their papers. On Thursday, some of my classes had quizzes. On Friday, a couple kids asked what they got. When I told them I hadn't graded them, that I had taken them home and left them there, there was a moment of disbelief. "I hate when teachers don't return a quiz I know I did good on," my biggest trouble maker said. This is a kid who rarely pays attention, rarely turns in homework, and all of a sudden he's demanding that I do my job. Sheesh.

I've got more on this subject, but I know that sitting in front of this computer is just another diversion. I must be off. But first a shower ...

TIWIT, part 7 of 174: I guess I don't know

All day long, kids have been walking into my room and exclaiming, "It's cold in here!" At first I wanted to be accommodating by trying to explain. The windows are closed, I'd say. It's an old building, and sometimes the heat doesn't get to all the rooms. The library across the hall is hot, they've got the windows open; I prefer this. No, you can't put on your sweatshirt, it's not in dress code.

But after 20 or so exchanges, I'm tired. So I stand at the door and bark at them as they walk in: "Yes, I know!"

"What do you know?" they ask, enter my room, and say, "Wow, it's cold in here!"

"I already told you, I know!"

A girl heads my way, I know she's not going to like the temperature, so I say, "I know! I know!"

"You do?" she asks, pausing in the doorway. "How do you know?"

"I just do," I respond. "I've been here all day."

She almost starts crying. "I can't believe they'd do that!" she says.

"Who? What?"

"Oh, you know!" she says. "You said you know about it."

Of course I don't know anything about it. I just know that it's cold in my classroom. She takes out a copy of the student newspaper that just came out, flips open to the "personals" section and points at a little love note written to her boyfriend ... by someone else. Then, she points to another. There are two separate messages to this boy, and neither are from her, the girlfriend. I want to laugh. But this is a serious situation, this is the most important thing in the world to her, a crisis.

"Ah, yes, everyone wants him," I say. "But who is he dating?"

"Yeah," she smiles. "Did you see the message he wrote me? Look!" I read a declaration of true love. "I bet they feel salty now," she says and walks in the room with confidence.

It's another typical day. Some students won't be able to concentrate because they're cold. Others will be upset about something their boyfriends did ... or didn't even do. And the list goes on and on. They're hungry. Someone threatened them. They worked all night, didn't get any sleep. They got kicked out of the house. It'll be amazing if any of them will hear a word I say.

But what am I supposed to do about any of it? I can't magically make the room comfortable for everyone. I can't tell this girl the truth, that she isn't really in love, that eventually, the boy will dump her or cheat on her, but she will move on, find someone else and forget about this boy and all his secret admirers.

But as the next few students walk in, I don't say "I know" anymore. Because, really, I don't know what's going on in their lives or who they really are. All I know is that when that bell rings, I've got 46 minutes to educate and entertain, to make them forget about all their worries and realize this is the most important thing in the world, that if they just pay attention and do what I say they will get smart and go to college and get good jobs and live happily ever after.

Um ... one thing at a time. Maybe I'll just focus on the cold today: "Chicken Dance anyone?"

TIWIT, part 6 of 174: Mean girls

As shocking as it may sound, there are fights in school from time to time. Straight-up fist fights with a crowd in a tight circle, hooting and hollering, kids running from all corners of the building to see. There are even times with no security guards present, when a single teacher may try to handle the situation.

Over the years I've stopped my share of fights, and I have even developed a simple formula for determining whether or not I should step in and try to break it up:

Examine combatants. Are girls involved?
If NO, step in and stop the fight.
If YES, yell like hell for security and stand back.

This formula has prevented major injury to both my body and spirit. But I learned it the painful way.

Of the six or seven boy fights I've stopped, here's what typically has happened: Boys have squared off, perhaps have taken swings at each other, perhaps have ended up in a tight embrace. I squeeze myself in between them, loudly say something about having them arrested if either so much as touches me, and they stop fighting. This is because most boys don't really want to fight, don't want to get hurt, don't want to lose. And they're looking for a way out. With me in between them, they can leave with ego intact: I fought, and I would've won, but this teacher man wouldn't let me.

Girls are different.

The last time I tried to break up a girl fight (I mean, the first time I tried to break one up) was four years ago. I heard the distinct yelling in the hallway that clearly signals a fight. I saw the bodies running past my door towards a nearby staircase. I popped my head out of my classroom. No adults around, just lots of teenagers yelling and laughing. I raced over to see two girls swinging wildly at each other, grabbing chunks of hair, falling to the ground. I realized I knew both of them. One was in my fourth period, the other I had the previous year. Both were about five feet tall, petite, sweet Latino girls. No problem, I thought.

I got close, yelled both of their names. "Stop!" I yelled. They kept going. I grabbed one, pulled her away, the whole time yelling her name into her ear. The other girl took the opportunity to mount an attack, with me in between. For five or ten seconds, I was stuck. In that time, I was pinched, scratched, and punched repeatedly, I have no idea by whom or how many times. Security guards came in and separated the two, pulled them away kicking and screaming.

I examined myself. No blood. They didn't break the skin, but it looked like I might have a bruise or two. Oh well. That wasn't the part that scared me. The scary part came 20 minutes later when I was in the discipline office, writing up what had happened.

One of the girls was in there. A lot calmer. She looked at me. "Hi," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean? I was trying to break up the fight you were just in," I said. "Didn't you see me?"

She looked at me blankly. "You were there?"

"Yes, and I've got scratch marks and bruises to prove it. You mean to tell me you don't remember me in between the two of you screaming your names and telling you to stop?"

"No."

I left, having learned a little humility. Since that day, I know that no matter how important I may think I am, there are times when I am totally invisible.

Sometimes you're powerless to teach

Almost had a day off the other day.

When I showed up at 7:15, there was no electricity in the building. Only the emergency lights were on in the hallways. It was a very surreal atmosphere. Dark. Quiet. The few teachers I saw on my way to the main office were smiling, excited about a possible day without students, and crossing their fingers, hoping we'd be sent home, too.

An announcement from the principal ten minutes later: "ComEd has been called. We'll keep the students in the cafeteria and auditorium for a while and see what happens." No power means no classes, that's what happens, I thought. But ten minutes after that, full power was restored.

When students did show up later on, they had no idea. No idea that they almost had a day off. And no idea that their teachers would have been just as excited about it.

Something similar happened at a Northside high school last Friday, the day of the snowstorm. But their kids lucked out.

A friend who teaches there told it like this: "There was no power and we had the kids just waiting, not letting them go to their classes. At about 7:45 it was decided that school would be canceled, and kids started going home. A little after 8, some kids were still hanging out, waiting for rides, when the power came on. The kids that were still there scattered! You should have seen them run."

The teachers, obviously, had to stick around and had an in-service day. For me, that would've been torture. I'll take a day with students over a day of meetings any day. In fact, if they announced a surprise in-service day, I'd be the one running from the building.

TIWIT, part 5 of 174: Cruel and unusual punishment

A cell phone rings, faintly, but I still hear it. The whole class turns around to look at me, wondering what I'll do about it and hoping not to give away the person with the phone. I zero in on her anyway.

"Give me the phone," I say.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was on. I'll turn it off."

"No, that's OK, don't turn it off. Let me answer."

Reluctantly, she hands it over. I answer: "Hello?" A boy's voice, confused, asks for the girl. "No," I say, "she doesn't want to talk to you. She's ... a little busy right now." Behind me I hear some kids starting to laugh. On the phone, there's momentary silence, then a demand to talk to the girl. "Listen, buddy," I say. "She doesn't want to talk to you. She's with me now, got that? And don't bother calling back!"

I hang up, turn the phone off, and tell the girl she can pick it up after school.

The girl shows up right at the end of the day. By then I've forgotten what happened earlier and think she's just visiting. "What's going on?" I ask. "You need help with that essay?"

"Stop playing," she says. "Can I get my cell phone back?"

Of course. I know this by now. If I want kids to stop by after school or during lunch to make up a quiz or conference about an essay, they conveniently forget. But if I have their electronic devices, they show up. No excuses.

I suppose it's fair that if kids can't use cell phones in class, neither should teachers. But I use mine from time to time. As a weapon. Kids fear my phone.

Students are working and I'm taking attendance. "Where's Amanda?" I ask. A couple of kids shrug. "Wait, I saw her in the hallway earlier," I say, loud enough to be heard. "Why isn't she here?" A few more shrugs. So I pull out my cell phone. I make a spectacle of myself, wanting everyone to see me dialing, hear me leaving a message: "Hi, this is Amanda's English teacher calling. I just want you to know that I saw Amanda earlier and she's supposed to be in my class right now, but she's not here. I hope she's OK, not just hanging out with that boyfriend of hers. Thanks."

Kids hate that. Amanda will be in class the next day, and so will all the other good kids who want so badly to be bad.

Better yet is to call home when the kid is in class in front of me. Last week, a tough kid showed up when he was supposed to be taking a practice ACT. There were five other kids in class. Everyone else was gone. So, these kids thought they'd get a free day, but I pulled out a short story and asked them to read. The tough kid, Tony, put his head down.

"Tony, do me a favor and read page one of this story." No response. "Tony, talking to you."

"I don't feel like reading."

"Hey, listen, this is your first time here in a week. I'm not asking if you feel like reading, I'm telling you to read. So, go ahead."

"No."

The other five kids were getting restless. A couple volunteered to read to avoid this confrontation. Maybe they're afraid of Tony and his temper, but I felt like pushing it. None of them should've been in class. They should have been taking the practice ACT, and I was the one who was supposed to have a free period.

"Tony, read."

"I don't know how to read."

"Yes, you do. You're one of the better readers in this classroom."

"I'm telling you I don't know how. And I don't feel like reading."

"Well, if you don't know how to read, now's a good time to learn. This is English class. So, start, and I'll help."

"No."

This could have gone on for the next 30 minutes, but instead, I pulled out my cell phone and called his house. Surprisingly, his mom answered.

"This is Tony's English teacher. Tony is refusing to read."

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know what to do with him. I'm a single mother, doing my best. But he just doesn't listen to me. I've been praying for him."

"I know it's not easy," I lied. I don't really know how hard it is, but I could imagine. "But here's the thing. Tony is saying he doesn't even know how to read. Is this true?"

She was on the verge of tears. "He's a wonderful reader," she said. "He used to read all the time. Now, he just wants to hang out with those friends of his." Then, the magic words: "Can I talk to Tony?"

Absolutely. I handed the phone over to this tough kid, who all of a sudden was mumbling into the phone, "I'm sorry, mama."

When he hung up he read. Did an OK job. The rest of the kids read, too, but the bell rang before we finished, and I knew none of them would ever ask how the story ends. But I hoped that Tony would show up the next day and not attempt to derail yet another lesson. I hoped I had reached him. "Reach out and touch someone," the phone company ads used to say.

The next day there was a note in my mailbox: Tony has a ten-day out-of-school suspension. Drop off some work in the discipline office. I toyed with the idea of dropping off that short story. But I didn't.

What it's all about

Last summer, I read Frank McCourt's Teacher Man, a memoir of his teaching days in New York. In addition to being funny and inspirational, it was absolutely true. I found myself thinking that he could easily be writing about my experiences. Even the school on the book cover looks like the one where I work. (Then again, probably every school built in the early 1900s looks like a cross between a museum and a prison.) Reading his book, for the first time ever, I realized that others go through the same exact things as I do in the classroom. It's strange; when teaching, you're working in front of dozens of teenagers, yet it's one of the loneliest jobs out there. That's because when you actually do your job, you're alone. No colleagues. No teamwork. Just you and a bunch of adolescents, who may or may not want to be there, who may or may not even acknowledge your existence. So who knows what really goes on during those 46 minutes in other people's classes?

There was one part in Teacher Man that I found a little unbelievable -- that students actually called him "teacher man." That, for some reason, seemed just a little too made up. Then, as if on cue, a couple of weeks into this school year, a student raised his hand in my classroom and said, "Hey, teacher man, what are supposed to do?"

And so here it is, a blog about some of the things that go on in the classroom. No complaining about the job (I hope). No ridiculing the students. Just the day-to-day stories that some of my non-teacher friends find amusing. Your comments and questions are much appreciated.

Whoops, and I just realized something today: I have to go back and change some of the titles to previous posts. They should say part 1 of 174, not 184. That's because there are 174 school days this year, and that's definitely one of the reasons why I teach.

TIWIT, part 4 of 184: About a mile that way

It's late at night and I'm riding home on my bike, going fast up my street, almost there, a little out of breath, having had a little too much to drink. I pride myself in not drinking and driving. "If I crash while riding my bike, I'm the one who will get hurt," I like to say.

About two blocks from home I notice a group of gangbangers hanging out on the next street corner. I think they notice me, and they slowly walk towards the street. I start peddling harder, faster, I'll just blow past them, let 'em try to knock me off my bike.

As I approach, one steps into the street. We make eye contact. The moment of truth. "Hey, Mr. P!" he exclaims. "What's up?!"

"How's it going?" I yell back and keep going, wondering who the heck that was. Probably someone in one of my classes, past or present. I arrive home, safe again, realizing yet again that this is the kind of thing that happens when you live a mile away from the school you work at.

I often feel that I'm one of the lucky people in the world because I get to walk to work. I walk just about every day, never worrying about the early morning fight for a parking spot. On snowy days, like last Friday, walking is actually faster than driving.

When students find out that I walk, their first reaction is to laugh. "Can't afford a car?" they ask.

"Let me tell you about luxury," I reply. I've said it many times, and by now I sound like a recording. "I have a car, a brand new car. But I don't have to drive. In life, that's luxury."

To which someone will usually reply: "Since you're not using your car, can I borrow it?"

The second reaction to me walking is: "Hey, wait a second, where do you live?"

I just point in a random direction and say, "About a mile that way." You'd think that living that close would mean I'd see students all the time. But it's not so bad. I think most of them live about a mile the other way.

But I do run into students at stores. The first time was at Jewel. In addition to groceries, I had a 12-pack of beer and a box of condoms. I placed my stuff down before realizing the cashier was in one of my classes. It was too late. She was pretty professional about it, considering, but there was a hint of mischief in her voice when she said, "Have a nice weekend." Ever since then, I make sure I check who the cashier is before getting in line.

So far, knowing the local teens has gotten me out of potential trouble at least twice. There was the cycling incident, and then more recently, a group of five scary-looking guys turned the corner right into my path. It's weird. At school, none of the kids scare me. Maybe because I've figured out that underneath every hard shell is a child that really does want to succeed and wants to be appreciated. On the streets, though, it's a different matter.

"Hey!" one of the guys called out to me. "You remember me?"

"Um ... no, should I?"

"Yeah, you probably don't recognize me because I cut the braids off."

"Oh yeah, hey, how's it going?" Forgot the name, but couldn't forget the kid. I had him two, three years back. He was probably one of the biggest pains of my teaching life. He was smart. One of the sharpest minds I've run across. Despite that, or because of it, he was bored and never, ever did his work. The only contribution he'd make is in class discussions. He's always take the opposing viewpoint, didn't matter if he was arguing against me or the whole class, he loved it and was good at it. He always defended George Bush, which really pissed off his classmates and made me wonder--was he doing it because he believed it or was he just having some fun?

A teacher friend and I used to argue about this kid. "I'm giving him a C because of all his contributions to class discussions," my friend, a history guy, would said. "He could single-handedly defend George Bush's foreign policy against the entire class."

"Are you kidding me?" I'd say. "He doesn't turn in any work. I don't care how smart he is, he's not passing my class."

I eventually gave him a D. Maybe because he turned in a couple of essays late in the year. No drafts, no notes, but still good. Whatever. It would be a bigger waste to have him not graduate just because of me.

"So, what are you doing these days?" I asked.

"Going to Chicago State," he said, proud. "Working on eventually going to law school. Gonna be a lawyer."

"Well, you certainly know how to argue," I said. "You still support Bush?"

"Of course," he said, sly grin on his face. "Anyway, thanks for everything."

And he was gone. And I was safe again, this time to wonder: thanks for what? I certainly didn't teach him anything. He came in smart. He left knowing he could pass without doing much. Oh well, maybe one day he'll defend me after I crash my bike.

Lesson of the week: Never teach on an empty stomach

A couple of girls are talking and I overhear something about "food."

I walk over. "Mmm, I want some," I tell them. "I'm really hungry."

They give me a weird look. "What?" I say. "You were talking about food."

"Actually," one of them laughs, "we were talking about boobs."

"Oh, nevermind," I mutter, walking away. "I just lost my appetite."

This is why I teach, part 3 of 184

So far this school year, I've kicked two kids out of my classroom. It was accidental, but that's still two too many, if you ask me.

I've got this constant battle against sleepy kids. Kids put their heads down and I get offended, thinking there's no way I can be that boring. I'll walk past and kick their desks hard, jarring them awake. "Oh, I'm sorry, was that rude of me?" I'll ask. "Well, so is sleeping in class!" Or I'll do the old drop-a-heavy-book-next-to-them routine and ask them to pick it up. I'll force kids to stand up and stretch, or go get a drink of water, whatever, just don't sleep in my room. My newest trick is "The Chicken Dance." I want it to become my reputation.

A few days ago, I was talking about something important and I wanted to make sure all the kids were paying attention. I can't remember what it was that I was talking about, but it seemed really important at the time. "I need your attention. This is really important," I announced. "So if any of you put your head down, there will be horrible consequences." Of course two minutes into my lecture or presentation or whatever, two heads went down. I tapped them on their shoulders, they looked up, and two minutes later both heads were down again.

"OK, that's it, I warned you," I said. "Come up here, both of you." Surprisingly, they actually did it, got up and walked over to the front of the room. Now what was I going to do with them? For some reason, this idea came to me:

"The three of us are now going to do the Chicken Dance," I said.

"What? I don't know no Chicken Dance," one of them said.

"Fine, I'll show you. It goes like this ..." And I did it, the arms flapping, the squatting, everything. "Got it? Now ... the three of us together!" I started, and they just stood there.

"Man, I'm not dancing!"

"What do you mean you're not dancing? You have to! I said don't sleep, and you put your head down twice, so now, as punishment, you have to dance. What about you," I looked at the other kid, who the whole time was just sleepily standing there, "are you going to dance or not?" He shook his head.

"Fine, then," I said. "You guys have wasted enough time as it is." I turned to the rest of the class. "I'm really sorry about wasting all this time when all you want is an education. Your parents are going to ask you what you learned in school today, and you'll tell them you learned the Chicken Dance. Sorry, I know, this is English class. I just think these two--and the rest of you--need to see that you can't sleep in class. I mean, what's the point of coming to school if you're just going to sleep through your classes? Now, don't the rest of you think that these two should do the Chicken Dance with me?"

Silence. I thought they'd all get a kick out of it, but nobody wanted to see the humiliation. Maybe they were worried about being next. Finally, someone spoke up, "Come on, just let 'em go."

"Fine," I said. "I'll let them go. Listen, you guys have a choice. Either do the Chicken Dance right now with me or get out and don't come back until you're awake and ready to learn."

And with that, both of them went to their desks, got their stuff, and walked out.

"Hey, you can't leave! Come back here and dance! I am not kicking you out, do you hear me?" I shouted at their backs. "Fine, then, since you're leaving, go to the principal's office, and tell him that your mean English teacher won't let you sleep in class. Tell him that I should provide you with pillows and blankets and maybe coffee for when you do wake up!"

They just kept walking, who knows where. Teachers kick students out all the time, and kids end up roaming the halls, but I never do. I think the real punishment is keeping students in the room with me, where they might actually learn something (like the Chicken Dance!). When they really misbehave, I make them leave their things in the room and just stand outside the door until I get the class working on something and can go talk to them. That's supposed to be considered a conference. The next time I'm supposed to call their house, and on the third time I'm supposed to write out a referral, which will get them suspended or whatever. But I'm too lazy to keep track of all that stuff, so I just talk to them and hope it doesn't happen again.

Anyway, class ended, and I sort of forgot about the whole thing. Until later in the day, when a student from another class asked me about it. "I heard some kid complaining about you in the hall," he said. "He said you kicked him out because he wouldn't dance with you. What's that all about?"

"Oh, nothing, I think he was just embarrassed because I can dance better than he can," I said, smiling because I knew this could lead to a reputation: Don't sleep in what's-his-name's class ... he'll make you get up and dance.

Things that make me smile #1

On a quiz for The Kite Runner, a novel about a boy growing up in Afghanistan who flees to the U.S. with his father after the political upheaval only to later return to rescue his nephew:

Question 1: Explain how Hassan dies.
Answer from one of my seniors: Shot in the back of the head by a member of the Tally Band.

I gave her full credit, chuckling about the possibility of Osama bin Laden and his Tally Band of Terrorists.

Bring on the ice and snow and pizza

As I wake up today, I see it's icing outside. Ice and snow, with forecasts calling for up to 12 inches by noon. The first major storm of the school year. Plus, it's Friday.

Attendance will be down.

Makes me think back to being a student, praying that school would be canceled because of snow. "If there's no school tomorrow," I'd promise God, "I promise to go to church every day of my life and do your work." Whatever. I don't remember if my prayers were ever answered, but probably not, considering I don't pray anymore ... for anything.

I do believe in miracles, though. If we get a snow day, for example, that would be a minor miracle. In my seven years with CPS, I can remember one snow day. One. The reasons we don't get more, I've heard, are that we have to keep the kids off the street, and we have to feed them. True. Think back to the nastiness of cafeteria food, the same old burger and limp fries or the cardboard pizza, and imagine it being your only hot meal of the day. For many kids in Chicago, this is the case. Unless if they show up early. Then they get a breakfast, too.

So yeah, attendance will be down today, but the cafeteria will still be dishing out pizza and fries. And plenty of hungry people will be looking forward to it.


AFTER-SCHOOL UPDATE: It wasn't that bad. Well, first period was pretty deserted, and fourth was missing almost 50 percent, but fifth had 100 percent attendance for the first time in a long time. So ... not bad at all. And further proof that kids will do what you least expect.

The kid from Ethiopia who had never been to the beach

Riding home today, I try to observe the lakefront bike trail as if for the first time. I am inspired by a kid I met on Saturday, a kid from Ethiopia who had never been to the beach before.

Saturday was a national beach clean-up day, and I was a somewhat reluctant chaperone of about 140 inner city high school students out to get six service learning hours each. As small groups fanned out to pick up bottles and cans and cigarette butts, a student approached me and asked if I had a Band Aid. I didn't.

"I don't," I said, "but I'll take you to the people in charge. I'm sure they have one." Osterman Beach seems like a pretty small beach, but when you're walking with a quiet teenager holding up a bleeding index finger, it starts to feel larger.

"How'd you cut your finger?"

"Broken bottle."

"Oh. Gotta be careful." Ten paces. Twenty. Silence. "So, other than cutting your finger, are you having a good time?"

"Yes, very much," he replied. "This is my first time on a beach."

"First time, really? Where are you from?"

"Ethiopia."

"No kidding, and you never went to the coast there?"

"Ethiopia doesn't have a coast. It's in the ... middle."

I didn't know that, but still, I said, "Oh yeah, that's right. In the middle of Africa. So ... what do you think of the beach?"

He looked around. "It's nice."

I looked around. At the vastness of Lake Michigan, the water ending in a curve on the horizon, and I wondered what it looked like to someone looking at it for the first time. I've heard people from New York and California are surprised by how large it is and say that it looks just like the ocean. But this kid had never seen an ocean either.

"How long have you been in Chicago?"

"Six ... months."

"So, you came in, what, March, April?"

"Yes."

"So, have you ever seen snow?"

"No."

"Wait until you seen snow. You'll love it." I was reminded of this Australian girl I knew in Japan, where I taught English. One day she came to work, all excited from a weekend trip to Tokyo. "I was on the train, when all of a sudden I saw all this stuff falling. I thought it was dust," she had said. "And then I realized it was snow! That's the first time I've ever seen snow. I'll never forget it."

So there I was on the beach with a bleeding kid from Ethiopia, who had never been to the beach before, and still hasn't seen snow. "Guess you'll never forget your first trip to the beach," I said.

And now it's after 9 p.m. on Monday in late October, it's dark and windy and cold, and I'm cycling home from downtown, trying to imagine what all this would be like for the kid from Ethiopia.

This is what I feel: Cold, biting wind, biting through my too-thin North Face jacket. My guess is that the wind in Ethiopia is never this cold.

This is what I hear: The constant swooshing of cars on Lake Shore Drive, an irritating sound, one that never goes away, although every once in a while, when I'm lost in thought, I'm able to ignore it.

This is what I smell: Nothing. Maybe it's too windy--and of course I'm riding right into it, a northerly wind, which explains why it's so icy. If I were cycling along the Pacific coast, I'd smell the saltiness of the ocean, but I can't think about that because the kid from Ethiopia has never been to the ocean so he doesn't know that smell, and I'm trying to experience what he might experience on this ride in the dark.

This is what I taste: Remnants of an oatmeal raisin cookie I bought for $1.25 earlier.

And this is what I see: Cyclists with their blinking lights, though not too many of them out tonight. A pair of rollerbladers, hand in hand. Two Asian tourists with a guidebook, looking like they want to ask me a question. I slow down a little. Ask me, ask me, ask me, no, too late, I'm past them. I probably don't look all that friendly with my own blinking light and all, scowling into the wind. Still, I like it when people ask for directions, I like to show off Chicago. What else? The lake, as far as the eye can see, is black. Here and there are blinking lights. Boats. Above, planes fly low already, making their descent into O'Hare. I wonder if the kid ever saw so many planes, heard so many cars in Ethiopia. I wonder if he comes from a big city with noisy, crowded streets, or a small village where people rely on animals for transportation. I wonder what a city, any city, looks like in Ethiopia. And what would the kid think about this bike trail? Does his country invest this much money on leisure?

What else is there to see? A guy standing next to his bike, peeing on the edge of the trail. An illuminated statue of an Indian on a horse, proudly holding some sort of spear, near Diversey Avenue. A little further north, a statue of a man, possibly an ex-president. Then, at Addison, a colorful totem pole. I hope the kid wouldn't get the wrong idea. We don't really hold the natives of this land in such high regard. Belmont Harbor is full of boats, and I wonder if the kid would think that they're fishing boats, or would he realize they belong to people with nothing better to spend their money on?

Then, there are sports facilities. At Recreation Drive, the tennis courts are lit up, mostly empty, but there is one group of girls practicing. Possibly a high school team, judging by the poor serves, but would high school students really be practicing so late? On every beach stand white posts, about ten feet high, at regular intervals. If I were the kid from Ethiopia, would I know they were for volleyball nets? Or would I be puzzled? Not being the kid; in fact, being someone wondering about the kid, I wonder what sports they play there in the middle of Africa? Certainly not beach volleyball, considering, as everyone knows, that there is no coast there. Later on, around Montrose and Wilson, are giant, bright soccer fields, also vacant, except for one where a group of friends is playing touch football. Looking at them, I run over some glass. It crunches under my front tire. Damn. Hope I don't get a flat. Still have a long way to go. To think. To marvel at the joggers, especially the women running solo. I wonder if they get nervous. I notice they don't make eye contact.

There are fewer people the further north I ride. Around Foster, a basketball court stands empty. And unlit. Even if someone wanted to play, basketball's off limits at night. The trail ahead looks empty, and I am deserted in my thoughts. Trying to think like someone else, I see so many things I normally miss. Maybe there's a lesson there. I also realize that I cannot possibly think like him, considering I know nothing about him. Or his home.

At an intersection, a car pulls up to the stop sign just as I'm heading across the street. Hope he sees me. I often wonder if this is how it'll end, all this night-time riding and thoughtlessness. I keep peddling, wishing I'm seen, knowing damn well that if I'm not, I won't win the collision. One of these days I'm sure it'll all end with my head going through a windshield. My family and friends will say that they insisted I wear a helmet, but I was too stubborn or too vain, whatever they say about me. And on my headstone will be something to that effect: "He should've worn a helmet." And I'll be mad about the whole thing because no one listened when I said I don't want to be buried, that I want to be cremated. No one listens anymore. If they did, all they'd really hear is cars swooshing along Lake Shore Drive, hurrying away from here.