"...when the lights go down."

"We read to know that we are not alone" (C.S. Lewis). I believe that many of us listen to music for the same reason. The following words come from a song that, for me, allows that noble objective to be realized.

Listen to the tales and romanticize,
How we follow the path of the hero.
Boast about the day when the rivers overrun.
How we rise to the height of our halo.

Listen to the tales as we all rationalize
Our way into the arms of the savior,
Feigning all the trials and the tribulations;
None of us have actually been there.
Not like you.

..................................................................

Who could deny you were the one who illuminated
You'll have a piece of the divine.
And this little light of mine, the gift you passed on to me;
I'll let it shine to guide you safely on your way,
Your way home ...

Oh, what are they going to do when the lights go down
Without you to guide them all to Zion?
What are they going to do when the rivers overrun
Other than tremble incessantly?

High as a wave, but our eyes are upon the ground.
You were the light and the way, they'll only read about.
I only pray, Heaven knows when to lift you out.
Ten thousand days in the fire is long enough,
You're going home.

You're the only one who can hold your head up high,
Shake your fists at the gates saying:"I have come home now!
Fetch me the Spirit, the Son, and the Father.
Tell them their pillar of faith has ascended.
It's time now!
My time now!
Give me my, give me my wings!"

..........................................................................

Please forgive this bold suggestion:
Should you see your Maker's face tonight,
Look Him in the eye, look Him in the eye, and tell Him:
I never lived a lie, never took a life, but surely saved one.
Hallelujah, it's time for you to bring me home.


Lyrical excerpts from the song "10,000 Days" as performed by Tool (words by Maynard James Keenan).

Test Run

I'm having issues publishing a post I just threw together. As a way of testing whether the problem is with the post itself or my entire account, I am creating this superfluous post. If this test run goes off without a hitch, at least you will be entertained by this picture of two little people playing basketball.

Brief (Bloody) Thoughts on Classroom Discipline

I know a post about school runs against my aformentioned concerns about being a one-trick, blog pony but it's what I have to offer you today.

In the microcosmic kingdom of the madness that is my imagination, I have spent much time the last few weeks mulling over potentially effective (even if altogether extreme) tactics of classroom discipline. The following scenario I have shared with several of you already. I call it "the 25th Hour approach."

In the film 25th Hour, Edward Norton plays Monty- a mid-level drug dealer connected to one of New York most powerful, Russian mobsters. Monty is busted by the DEA and offered a deal to lighten his own punishment IF he is willing to provide them information about his boss. Monty refuses, and choses instead to "do his time like a man." As a gesture of gratitude towards Monty, the Russian kingpin offers advice to help the other man survive his stint in prison: "Find the man with no friends, and beat him until his eyes bleed." This is to send a message to the other prisoners that Monty is a little crazy and not to be messed with.

My modification of this advice for dealing with elementary school kids, by contrast, calls for me to go for the biggest and/or most popular kid in the class. When executing the 25th hour approach, I wait until the student I have selected disobeys or disrespects me, and then I strike him (or perhaps her (Why discriminate according to gender?)) repeatedly upside one side of his (her) head with whatever textbook happens to be most handy. I will stop once I am mostly sure the child has lost sight in one eye. Then, still possessed by the heat of my indignation, I will turn to the rest of the class and yell:

"Do you see this, class? Do you see?! X is now blind in one eye. X will never be able to use a View Finder again. All because s/he wouldn't respect me and obey my instructions. Do you wish to share X's cycloptic fate? No?! Then I suggest that everyone pay better attention to what I say for the rest of the day. Are we clear? Good. Now that that's out of the way...Everyone, please turn your attention to our next lesson."

Of course, I would never ever seriously consider such a brutal and inappropriate course of action. However, it does exorcise my id to entertain such thoughts briefly now and again.

A second reflection on classroom discipline developed just this afternoon in discussion with some of the full-time staff at Chapelwood Elementary. This week I am serving my first week-long assignment, subbing with a class of twenty some-odd 4th graders. Two of the regular 4th grade teachers came to my room to check in on me after the students were dismissed. As is often the case, I was still not entirely clear how the discipline/reward system worked by the end of the day. As these two teachers answered my questions, one teacher fetched some forms for me from the office. This is the setting for the following conversation:

Mr. Markley: Here are those forms you asked about. (To the other regular teacher, Mrs. Padgett.) I just grabbed him some Level 2's and some Level 3's.

Mr. Scott: Just so I'm clear...What do Level 2 and Level 3 mean?

Mrs. Padgett: Level 2 is a time out. You send the student to another teacher's room for 30 minutes to an hour so they can cool down. If they come back from time out and they're still giving you problems, then you give them the Level 3 form. Then they have to go to the principal's office for a consulation.

Mr. Scott: Is there a Level 4?

Mrs. Padgett: Why, yes. there is.

Mr. Scott: What does that entail? Instant execution? (All laugh.)

Mrs. Padgett: Perhaps it should.

Mr. Scott: Should there be a note in my sub plans? "Dear Sub. There is a box under your desk which requires a 4-digit code. There is a revolver inside. There is only one bullet, so use it wisely." (All laugh again.)

On the drive home from school, I thought that such a hardnosed discipline system would have to have the consent of the parents. A teacher can't just going around shooting troublemaking kids without a legal release to do so.

Angry parents: We are outraged that Mr. Scott has taken our darlin' Billy from us. He had no right!

Principle: Actually, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, he did have the right. Every teacher in Wayne Township is allowed to execute one student per semester...provided, of course, that said execution is in compliance with certain guidelines stipulated by the school board. It's all right here in the release form you signed at the beginning of the school year. Now I admit that the execution clause is tucked away in the fine print. But it is in there, and you indicated by placing your signature on this form that you had read and consented to all the disciplinary procedures detailed herein.

Angry parents: This is terrible! How can you have such a monstrous policy?

Principle: Monstrous though it may be, the threat of a violent death has been proven to be an effective deterrent in most of the schools where case studies have been done. And as long as parents such as yourselves keep releasing us to make use of such a threat...knowingly or not...our schools will continue to utilize it. Now are there any other matters I can help you with while you're here?


Remember in my first post when I said that, at some point, I would have you shaking your head in disbelief. I suspect that today is "some point."

A New Voice Weighs In

Today, as my students lined up to dismiss, one little girl told me that I reminded her of a character in a movie she had seen. Who, you might ask, did this child say I looked like?

Mr. Incredible

Here It Is

Back when I posted a report about my first day as a substitute teacher, I mentioned that a student presented a somewhat scandalous drawing to me as a gift. It's only scandalous insofar as it was made by a 4th grader. It is my hope that this is a picture of some kind of pop queen or fashion model and not what it appears to be...which, quite frankly, is a prostitute.

Whatever the young artist intended it to be, this drawing is clear evidence that adult sexuality has now pervaded the consciousness of children. That all being said, I think it's hilarious that a little girl was drawing this in class and thought, "You know, I bet Mr. Scott would appreciate this." Without further ado, here is a scanned image of the drawing (I apologize that it's a bit faint):

I wonder if I could get fired for accepting a picture like this from a 9 to 10 year-old girl.

Bringing the Point Home

Dave Scott, April 2005

Dave Scott, October 2006

Now that I've beat this subject to death, I promise my next post will be about something that amuses more people than merely myself.

You Lucked Out

Most of you did anyway.

This afternoon I spent about an hour writing a post about this picture:




However, I lost my internet connection as I went to publish it and my wonderful words dissipated into cyberspace, never to be recovered. So if you care to know what I had written, just ask me about it the next time you talk to me. As for the rest of you, you now have one less UFC-related reflection to skip over.

Call Me Moby

Over the last 10-12 months, I have become a white whale. I'm not exactly blubberous these days, but I'm at least a continent or two removed from the Land of Svelte. I've been aware of this fact for several months now but two incidents yesterday brought the reality of the situation back into the forefront of my mind.


I. Facing My Face

First and foremost, there was a little girl in the class I subbed for Monday afternoon that drew a portrait of yours truly during reading time. The picture's actually fairly flattering, and I was encouraged to see the thinness of face borne by this friendly caricature of myself. For several hours, I optimistically contemplated how my overall body composition may have been improved by my recent return to an active workout program, as well as the increased physical movement that has come with working 5 days a week.

Sadly, this optimism was quickly curbed by the cold hard truth of a photograph. During our evening workout together, my good friend Aaron Homoya took my picture with his camera phone so that he would have a image to accompany the calls I made to his cell. Let me just say folks that this picture showed me to be borderline jowly. It is the one-two punch of my stocky body and ghostly pale skin color that has inspired the comparison between myself and the iconic seabeast of classical literature, Moby Dick.

Dave Scott has always been larger then the average bear. But when I tipped the scales at 275 lbs at one point this summer, I realized I was the heaviest I had ever been in my entire life. Even though this initial state of affairs first led me to feel a bit depressed, I quickly reminded myself that this was not, in fact, the worst shape I'd ever been in during my twenty-four years on this planet.

II. A Brief History of Fat

The Dave of today walks around with a respectable amount of lean tissue clinging to his bones. And because muscle weighs more than fat, I could still very well be in better shape than I was as a 245-lb college freshman. That incarnation of yours truly had not adjusted well to dormitory life and a potent combination of home sickness, near-suicidal pessimism, and excessive comfort eating made me quite squishy.

And I'm certainly more fit than the 11 to 12 year-old version of myself who grew pudgy during the 22 month marathon run of television watching I had used to distract myself from the recent loss of my parents.

So I suppose you could consider this the third "fat period" of my life. On the positive side of things, this fattiness seems to have little to no connection to depression or harsh changes in the personal sphere. On the negative side, however, I'm undeniably caught in a fat period and, as my metabolism continues to slow down with age, I can't help but wonder if this fall from the fitness wagon is for keeps. Just this past Saturday, a certain incident caused me to be literally embarrassed at my recent weight gain.

III. The Tightness of Pants and Its Probable Causes

Here's the incident in a nutshell: I mentioned in a previous post that I was searching for casual pants in the impossible size of 40W-34L. The pair of 40w-36L I have been wearing to work during the last two weeks have fit quite comfortably. If the legs weren't so long, they'd be a perfect fit. So I assumed that 40-34's would be the ideal fit for me right now. WRONG! On Friday, I receives two pairs of such pants I had ordered from the JC Penney webpage. When I tried them on the next day, it was obvious that even these large pants, these relaxed fit pants, were still a tad tight on me. (Susan informed me that my pockets were "gaping.") So there I was, I had just bought two pairs of "fat pants", and I am still too fat to wear them.

"What was it, Dave," you might ask, "that brought you to this looowly state?" Well, I should admit that I am always on the verge of my next period. My body's percentage of body fat tends to fluctuate with the academic calendar- at its lowest in about April and its highest in August. During the 05-06 school year, however, I just kept getting heavier from about November forward. The highest academic demands I've ever faced kept me from exercising as consistently as I should and then a knee injury in mid-January only exacerbated the problem. At graduation, I was about 162 lbs. Then the summer brought with it a great deal of physical inactivity as I searched for work. And, in the absence of any daily routine, my laziness regularly won out over my desire to pump the iron.

Now it is fall, and I am lifting weights three time a week. I have a daily routine and a workout partner to keep me accountable, so things are improving. Subtitute teaching has kept me from being sedentary for much of the day, which has helped "stop the bleeding" in terms of gaining further unhealthy pounds. Sadly, this is the first time in 6 years that I am without the cardiovascular benefits of walking all over a college campus. And, I begrudgingly admit, if I really want to slim down, I will have to incorporate some cardio into my weekly schedule. Meanwhile, the No. 1 demon to be slain is that evil imp Gluttony. My eating habits have never been great, and my body is reflecting that fact as much now as it ever has.

IV. Hopeful Conclusions and Anxious Motives

So the grounds for hope in the long-winded, self-indulgent report is that I am doing many of things I'll need to do to bring my weight down. I'm paying closer attention to what and how much I eat. I'm regularly pushing my body to burn calories with a consistent workout routine. And I've already seen some early gains in my quest for loss: this morning the scale read 268.

I think the reason the matter of excessive pounds is weighing so heavily on me right now has everything to do with the fact that I'm now back on the market, as they say. Like most other Americans, I'm worrying too much about my appearance as I reapproach the world of dating relationships. Of course I endorse the time-tested maxim that true beauty lies within, but I also know that potential buyers are unlikely to check out the gorgeous interior of a house if its exterior appears dilapidated or unkempt. You're likely to attract more flies with honey than blubber.

And on top of the dating concerns, there's simply the fact that my self-image will certainly improve alongside my body composition. I'd rather have the body type of the Hulk than that of Moby Dick. (Yes, I'd even prefer the Hulk's skin tone. Being green would mean having some color even if it's an unorthodox one.) In the vein of trying to classify my body type, I'll end this thing by sharing the comment a friend made to me a couple weeks ago.

"Dave, do you know who you remind me of?" my mildly inebriated friend asked. "From Lord of the Rings. What's it called? The Mountain Troll!"

"You mean the Cave Troll?" I replied.

"Yeah, that. Your build reminds me of the Cave Troll."

I guess that's not too bad. At least it's a more flattering characterization than a whale.

My Present Time Sponge

So there are three reasons why I haven't been posting much on my blog as of late:

1) Being busier than I have been in months.
2) Fatigue/counter-laziness from being busy.
3) Devoting large chunks of my spare time to watching Curb Your Enthusiasm on DVD.

Prior to Tuesday, I'd seen most the episodes of this wonderful series. Thanks to the fact that I was able to get Seasons 1 & 2 at (where else?) Best Buy for just twenty bucks each, I can now say I've seen every single one.

Simply put, I love this show. On one hand, it fills the void left by the cancellation of Larry David's previous series Seinfeld. Curb Your Enthusiasm has essentially the same style of humor as its predecessor, yet it is also a distinct enough product so as not to feel like a simple retread of the "nothing" we've seen before.

What I especially enjoy is the way in which this pseudo-real depiction of Larry David's life continually draws attention to the absurdity that exists at the very core of every day social practices. Equally as engaging is the way in which it demonstrates that the misfortune that befalls each of us from time to time is only rarely pure misfortune. Most often it is the result of unpleasant circumstances beyond our control converging with our own poor choices.

Maybe some day I'll write a more extended post about what deeper merit I find in the show. However, tonight I am quite tired and ready to stop typing. I just wanted you all to know that I've had (what I consider to be) a high quality excuse for not being so chatty as of late.

Don't worry...I now have three partial drafts of more substantial reflections fermenting in the cellar of my blog. Thank you for your patience.

"D"...for "Doughnut"

While I know my Tales of a Substitute Teacher have been amusing many of the readers of this blog, I am a bit worried that my posts are becoming predictable. So in the not-too-distant future I have plans to tackle other themes and issues. I presently have a half-completed draft on the film The Proposition that's been simmering on the back burner for almost two weeks now. I also am still developing ideas for a post on how The Gilmore Girls have led me to reflect on the phenomenon of trends within popular culture, as well as a post on how I struggle to "own" my theological career.

But those posts are still under construction, and all I have for you today is a couple of brief reflections on Pre-K.


So if you thought the idea of Debbie Scott's baby boy working with kindergarteners was entertaining, then it will probably thrill you to know that I spent today with an elementary preschool class. As you would expect, there's not too much school work going down in Pre-K. My most difficult responsibilities included moderating a Concentration style matching game, serving as a human easel for a Disney read along book, and distributing goldfish crackers.

The day was quite fun and the presence of a teacher's aid made my job so easy I almost feel guilty for being paid to be there. (Until I remember how last Monday went. Then all that guilt fades more quickly than Parisian courage.) If I was pressed to pick my favorite moment of the day, I would have to cite the brief instant that the education of 4 and 5 year-olds subtley intersected with the work of one of my favorite comedians:

Mitch Hedberg

Every morning in Miss Cinda's Pre-K class, the letter of the day is announced. Today's letter was none other than "D," the beginner of such beloved words as dog, daddy, and dysentary. After introducing the letter of the day, the teacher (or in this case the teacher's aide Miss Nicole) leads the students in composing a short note that features this letter as often as possible.

My moment of choice occured when Ms. Nicole asked young master Coby if he'd eaten anything for breakfast that began with a "D" sound. Coby's answer? "I had a doughnut." "Very good, Coby!" responded Ms. Nicole. "'D' begins the word 'doughnut.'"

Immediately I began to rehearse a familiar bit in my head. Most of you who read this blog will know it. It goes something (but not exactly) like this...

The other day I bought a doughnut. And the cashier tried to give me a receipt for the doughnut. I said, "Man, I don't need a receipt. I give you the money. You give me the doughnut. End of transaction. There is no need to bring ink and paper into this.

I can't imagine a situation where I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut. Some skeptical friend would be like, "Hey, man! Did you pay for that doughnut?"

"Yeah."

"Bullshit!"

"Hold on. I got the proper documentation right here. Oh wait...it's at home in the file. ...Under 'D.' ...For 'doughnut.'"

I never expected to be reminded of Mitch Hedberg in such an innocent context. But then again, my depraved mind rarely misses an opportunity to spin some dirt into a pristine conversation.

Of course, I did not corrupt the children's minds with this adult comedy. There'll be plenty of time later in their lives for their vocabularies to be sullied. I needn't speed the process along during my cameo in their lives.

There weren't too many other noteworthy moments to share with you all. Recess was interesting. Half the children decided to start calling me "Mr. Stranger," which was, well, strange. And then three of them (2 girls, 1 boy) independently decided to subject me to a double-handed goose during the course of this 30-minute activity time. Needless to say, I gave three short lectures about the importance of keeping one's hands to oneself.

Before I'd left Robey Elementary School today, Ms. Nicole recommended that I be her sub while she was absent this coming Friday. So I will end my work week by mixing it up one more time with this same baker's dozen of preschoolers. Sounds like a top-notch day of work to me.

Know Your Audience

This is the teenie beanie baby that Shiloh gave to me yesterday during my kindergarten adventure. As promised, I returned this token of appreciation to her this morning. Not wanting to hurt her feelings by giving it back, I made sure to attach a small note to Liberty Bear (or Libearty, if you prefer) that her regular teacher could read to her to let her know why it's best that she keep the toy herself.

Much as I have with any academic paper I've written, I struggled to choose the words that would best convey my thoughts to my target audience. Even though this note fit on a 2" x 2.5" piece of paper, it went through about five drafts before I felt confident I was using the kind of language a girl her age could buy into and understand. It appears I was successful. I saw Shiloh in the hallway after her class' lunch period today, and she still liked me enough to say, "Hello, Mr. Scott!" at least three times.

So without further ado, here is the note that Dave Scott, 24 year-old theologian-in-training, wrote to Miss Shiloh Ruby, 5 year-old kindergarten student:



Dear Shiloh,

Thank you for giving me Liberty Bear yesterday. It was very kind of you to do so. But I think it would be best if you take him home with you today. After spending the night at my house, Liberty Bear missed you and wanted to go back to your house. I enjoyed borrowing him for a little while, but he belongs with you.

Thank you for making my day as your guest teacher so special. :) Have a good weekend!

-Mr. Scott

"Is this your homework, Larry?"

Every class has a "problem child." In my short experience as a substitute teacher, I've seen it's fairly common for a class to have 3 or 4. Today, my Grade Zero problem child was Larry. Capped with a Caucasian Afro of curly brown hair and standing a couple inches taller than every other kindergartner in the school, Larry caught my eye even before the other children warned me that "Lawwy don' lissen to duh teacha."

Truth is, Larry isn't that much of a problem to handle. He's just three shades more ornery than your average 5-6 year old. Sure, he threatened to mess himself if I didn't let him go to the bathroom the very moment he demanded to leave the room, but that problem was easily solved by a little alphabet bingo. I did, however, have a noteworthy moment with the youngster when he was inexplicably out of his seat for the umpteenth time and searching through his cubby for God knows what. When I went to the back of the room to see what was afoot, I saw what seemed like an entire month's worth of homework strewn around the floor near said cubby.

"Whose papers are these, Larry?" I asked, trying my best to be a sensitive corrector of wayward children.

"I don't know," he responded as (for the first time that day) he returned to his table unprompted.

Resisting the urge to call Larry a liar in front of the other kids, I simply picked up the worksheet nearest to me and read the name that had been written in green crayon at the top of the page. At that point in the day, I'd had enough exposure to the bizarre hieroglyphics that pass for English characters in kindergarten that I knew with 100% certainty that this Crayola chicken scratch was Larry's name.

So with a strong and confident tone I said to the boy, "I know these are your worksheets Larry because your name's on this one." It wasn't until the drive home that I realized I'd missed a golden opportunity to toss out a verbatim quote from The Big Lebowski ("We know this is your homework, Larry!").

My experience as a kindergarten teacher went much more smoothly than it did for Arnold, but it still wasn't a cakewalk. I can now tell you, Erin, that children that small are not too shy to tell you when they need a potty break. In fact, they're so eager to piss that they'll invent the urge to go if it's not already present. They also looooove to sharpen pencils. Third and fourth on a 5 year-old's list of "Things I'd rather be doing than learning" are getting a drink of water and washing their hands. It was so demoralizing trying to keep these little suburban achievers on task that I spent the last hour of the day doing nothing with them but playing bingo and eating goldfish crackers.

I can also tell you, Nick, that children don't need to be asked whether they have any questions before they start pouring on the autobiographical trivia. "My brother's name is Scott." "I have a pencil this color at home." "Guess what! I had three cats once, but they all died." And that's why kids this small could never be undercover narcotics officers. "Guess what, Manuel duh Cwack Dealuh. When I was weeeeeally little, I won da sack wace at da police picnic." Cover blown. Game over.

Despite all the irritations that came my way, I did enjoy many good moments with these wee persons. One girl decided to give me a little toy bear she had in her cubby. When her friend saw this, she decided to give me an empty plastic bag. After the children had left for the day, I realized the first girl had given me a teenie beanie baby, so I'll be returning this potentially valuable collectable to her tomorrow.

Another quality moment came during Activity Time. We joined the other kindergarten class to watch the last half of The Little Mermaid. I sat in chair behind the children to keep an eye on them while the other teacher graded some papers. A blonde tike named Chelsea pulled up a chair next to mine, sat in it, and then crossed her legs in a mirror reflection of my own.

One last highlight: This morning I finished a certain set of activities with 10 minutes to spare before the next scheduled lesson. So I grabbed a random story book and instructed my young disciples to sit at the feet of their teacher. The book, When the Leaf Blew into the Barn, is a tale of cause-and-effect that ends up circling back on itself. The leaf makes a cow sneeze which blows a spider onto a owl, etc., etc., until finally a robin chased by a squirrel into a tree causes another leaf to fall and drift into the barn. The book took only 6 minutes to read, so I killed the other four by asking the kids to review the story with me. When we'd finished revisiting each event in the sequence, I concluded with, "And that why the story starts over again." Then a boy named Jeremiah called out, "Noooo! Not again!"

The bottom line is that nearly every single kid in that class would be a joy to hang out with outside of school. But their respective cuteness levels drop a fair bit when they're keeping you from meeting your learning goals for the day.

Takin' It Down a Notch

So, as I was saying, I spent yesterday and today working with the same 3rd grade class. These kids were much better than the class I worked with on Monday but even then they weren't that great. But this gig was exponentially easier than my previous assignment. I worked side by side with a student teacher, Ms. Geisler, who handled at least half of the teaching duties. And I received comprehensive lesson plans for both days. The icing on the cake was that the teacher, Ms. Ramey, was actually in the building tending to other business on Tuesday, so yesterday I had the opportunity to talk with her face-to-face before and after the school day.

Once again, quite a few interesting things happened in the relatively short time I was with these 8 and 9 year-olds...more than I care to tell in detail here. But what I will do is offer some brief notes on the more interesting or funny moments from the last two days. Here goes:

a. For the record, Kelli Ramey is a fox. It wasn't until I arrived at Stout Field Elementary yesterday morning that I knew I would be filling in for Ms. Ramey or that she would be there herself to welcome me to her class. It was upon meeting Ms. Ramey that I also discovered she was a beautiful blonde not much older than myself. But before I could get any ideas about working an angle on this particular chicky mama (as if that's something Dave Scott ever does), I saw an impressive rock on her left ring finger that told me, "Not only is she taken, but she's with a dude whose financial situation is much better than -$30,000." The disappointment that came over me at the sight of that ring was accompanied by the voice of Dr. Gonzo saying, "Goddamn what a bummer." It's a good thing I only had about 30 seconds to get my hopes up.

b. Ms. Ramey was kind enough to send one of her problem children to another class for the last two days. However, after the group's misbehavior on Tuesday, she left me a Post It note this morning informing me that two other kids had been relocated. Before lunch, I'd personally relocated yet another.

c. One of the kids that was left in my care just happened to be a boy with high functioning autism who was obviously off his meds. He developed a slight distaste for yours truly when I confiscated his ball of blue putty during yesterday's reading time.

d. Both days, the grammar lesson was on antonyms. Ms. Geisler informed me that the kids had learned about synonyms the week before. So while I was leading the kids in coming up with antonyms for the word "cold," I made the observation, "If you figure out one antonym for a word you can easily come up with more antonyms by thinking of synonyms for that first word you figured out." This helpful trick was lost on them. I might as well have asked them to consider the causal efficacy of the past upon the self-determination of immediate occasions of experience. That's how lofty my spontaneously formed pearl of wisdom seemed to them.

e. I've never heard the sound of a monkey on quaaludes, but I'm pretty sure it would sound something like the noises one little girl continually made as I walked by or sat near her.

f. Upon confiscating Yu-Gi-Oh! cards from one child, I soon found out that they didn't even belong to him but to one of the boys that had been moved to another class.

g. This latter boy had gotten into trouble the day before for dropping the f-bomb on the playground. His reason? When he found out that a girl told Ms. Geisler that he had pushed one of her friends, he called her a "f---ing tattletail." Unfortunatley for him, I was standing two feet away when he said it. When he tried to deny it and neither of us teachers believed him, he revealed his anger management problems. He never screamed at us but he did roll on the ground and convulse like some Gallilean demoniac. Sadly, neither the Son of God nor a herd of pigs were in the area.

h. I got another picture from a student...a boy this time. It was considerably less scandalous than the one I received on Monday. Impressively, he's already capable of drawing cubes. Far less impressive is his ability to draw a three-dimensional triangle. The picture he gave me was a "house" composed of these two shapes. Maybe I can get Susan to scan this drawing as well.

i. This little boy was also excessively eager to be my friend. He got too casual too quickly and started calling me "Scott" instead of "Mister Scott." I guess he thought Scott is my first name. After I told him that, as his teacher, he had to call me "Mister," he started calling me Mr. Scottie. I put the kibosh on that reeeeeal quick.

j. Yesterday afternoon, one little girl kept asking me if she could show me and/or the class something she had wrapped up in her sweatshirt. At the end of the day, I finally agreed that she could, and it turned out to be a trophy she won at a beauty pagent. Today I found out on the playground that this little girl "liked" a boy named Daymond who, in turn, liked her back. I knew I'd been drawn too deeply into their little world when my initial reaction to this turn of events was, "C'mon, Ciera! You can do better than him." Thankfully for all of us, I didn't say that out loud.

k. Finally, my favorite funny moment. During Social Studies today, the kids had to read an essay about El Paso, Texas and complete the accompanying worksheet. When I acknowledged that Kennya Santiago has her hand up, the following short exchange ensued:


Dave Scott: Kennya, do you have a question?
Kennya: No, Mr. Scott. I just wanted to tell you that I know the answer to question one without even looking in the book. [The question asks for the English translation of El Paso.]
Dave Scott: Is that so?
Kennya: Yes. I know Spanish because, well, I am.



That's all the annecdotes for today, friends. The subject of my next report:

kindergarten.

Baptism by Fire

As I stated in my previous post, my first assignment as a substitute teacher was Monday morning. I was placed in charge of about twenty-five 4th graders at Garden City Elementary School. And as the title of this post indicates, my day was anything but a smooth entry into the world of public education. For once I'll spare you all the gritty details and hit the highlights.

The day was off to a tumultuous start when I discovered that the regular teacher had left absolutely no lesson plans. "No worries," I thought. "This situation was covered in orientation. Just go find the other 4th grade teacher and ask for help." This teacher, Mrs. Moler, informs me that, as of that very same day, the entire school had shuffled the order of classes and that she wasn't even sure what her own lesson plan was going to look like that day. She gave me whatever ideas she could, but those ideas weren't going to fill up 6.5 hours of class time.

Thanks to what was certainly nothing less than an act of divine intervention, the kids' first class was "special class." On Mondays they have music with Mr. Miller for the better part of an hour, giving me some free time to track down a neighboring teacher to seek further advice. Ms. Grimmet, the 3rd grade teacher next door, was exceedingly helpful. Together, she and I pilferred through the scant few notes the front office had left us, along with my class' regular text books, and patched together a respectable itinerary. Now I had a schedule of lessons to teach, and my confidence that this day would pan out well began to build.

Then came the unnounced bus safety presentation. As I was leading my kids back from music to what I thought would be math class, Ms. Grimmet intercepts me and tells me that we're all supposed to meet in her room for said presentation. Neither she nor Mrs. Moler had been told this event would be going down. So before I've written my first sample problem on the board, these children are triply exicited by the morning's manifold novelties...there's a new schedule, a spontaneous informational meeting and, finally, the baby-faced Irishman ostensibly leading them through this transgression of routine.

I never got the kids calmed down. Only a handful were outright disrespectful. Several were a actually big help, but several more were simply a pain in the ass. And then the unexpected just kept breaking in.

By days end, I had written up two kids for fighting and one of those same kids for defiance. I'd sent four kids to the nurse, two of which were sent home. I had one kid who felt compelled to beat box during our review of compound subjects. I had another girl who felt inclined to call people "crackhead." Then there was little Xavier, an adorable Mexican boy (and by Mexican I mean, barely spoke english) who nevertheless lacked the ability to respect the personal space of others. Ultimately, nothing caught fire and the room looked clean when everyone left for the afternoon. I guess that means I did my job well enough.

The day was not good but it wasn't awful either. The other teachers were wonderful and the helpful children were an invaluable asset for a first-time substitute at an unfamiliar school. I did experience the short-lived buzz that comes with the discovery that a 10 year-old feels validated by your attention. I also experienced the awkward flattery of 4th grade girls flashing me goo-goo eyes.

(You won't believe the picture this one kid drew for me. I'm going to have Susan scan it for me at her work so I can post it later in the week. It should be up by Friday.)

Today's class went much better. I'll tell you about it tomorrow after I've spent another day with the same group of 3rd graders.

I will close this rushed and disjointed post by sharing the most entertaining exchange I had with a student during Monday's adventures.


Mr. Scott: Ok class, please open your math books to Lesson 18.
Kid: But Mr. Hiatt don't want us to use our math books no more.
Mr. Scott: Are you serious? Why not?
Kid: He don't believe in it.

Maybe by that point in the day I was desperate for laughter but, at the time, I thought that last line was hilarious.