(YouTube – A+D = “Stanky Whip” [GS Boyz vs. Devo])

Well, I’ve finished part of it, I just don’t want to do this next part. It entails writing up information I’ve already read from my textbook. It’s just factual information, so I’m not creating anything new here. It’s very boring and feels like busy-work, so I don’t want to do it.

/Whine

I’m not dead (as all bloggers seem to post after a long period of noncommunication/updates), but I’m in grad school. Only in my grad school, I don’t have to write a thesis! Yay! I’m secretly trying to work it out so I’ve got undergrad: thesis, grad: no thesis; doctorate: obviously thesis. It’s a good gap. Anyway.

I do have to read a lot. And I mean A LOT. It’s nuts. And I do have to write (relatively short) papers. Papers wherein I’m GRAMMATICALLY INCORRECT, y’all! Can you believe it? I’ve never been tagged for this. But–and I’m going to blame this on blogging and Internet culture–I’ve found out I have a problem with my noun-pronoun referent/agreement. I’ve tried to bring it up with my instructor, but I’m left feeling rather “Eh, fuck it” about it.

For instance, I write: “The student has difficulty with repetitions and they will often give their attention elsewhere.”

Well, turns out THE STUDENT is “singular”, while THEY is “plural”.

I’m left saying: Why be so fucking nitpicky? I know we’re trying to be all elite and shit with our academic-ese, but come on!

I use “plural” pronouns because I’m trying to be gender-neutral—to avoid explicitly stating “s/he” or “he/she” or just “he” or just “she”—and to avoid such foreign substitutions as ZE or HIR, which I’m sure would REALLY cause my instructors’ heads to spin.

My instructors can’t seem to wrap their minds around that yet, seeing as how they’re all about APA format.

APA format bugs me.

And I hate using gendered pronouns in my writing about a general subject noun. It could be a “guy” or “dude” or “man”, or “girl” or “gal” or “woman”, but why specify? Can’t it just be a ‘person’? English language has of yet been incapable of leaving a noun genderless due to the pronoun requirement.

The student does something. I don’t care if THEY are a “boy” or a “girl”. I believe it’s rude of me to assume either in either direction.

I suppose if this is one of my main problems with school so far, I’ve got it good, right?

I also have a lot of group work, however, which is especially trying on my nerves, as not everyone reads what’s assigned to them. WHY ARE YOU NOT READING? You are paying the same amount as me, right? And you’re not doing your assignments? Please explain yourself, for $11,500.

I’m in a teacher education program. And I’m facing the same issues I faced when I thought about switching my undergrad to teacher education: folks just don’t read literature within the field. They are not familiar with what should be familiar terms, acronyms, organizations, concepts, and topics in the field of education. They don’t do their homework! Do I have unattainably-high expectations? That you should be at least somewhat familiar with your topic before you decide to devote your life to it? For example, I’m not going to go into computer science or bioengineering if I’ve never attached a file to an email (or cannot navigate Microsoft fucking Word), or messed around with cellular organisms before. I’d say, “Obviously I’m not that into it.”

In short, class time has been rather disappointing. There are highlights, fortunately, and a few classmates I can rally around. I’m hoping it will improve. We’ve got two years.

In these following two years (getting back to the point of this), expect limited updates from me. If you’re reading through RSS (a gripe for another post sometime), don’t sweat it: you’ll see the post(s) when/if I update. Otherwise, consider this a for-now farewell.

xoxo

I’ve been working in the field for the past year and half and somehow–I don’t know how–but I seem to have the patience needed to work with these children. Or at least that’s what folks keep saying to me when I answer their question, “What do you do?” It’s not just patience, but really an annoyance, a “Dammit! This is so silly! This shit can be fixed!” type of annoyance. But this description feels like downgrading or downplaying the real severity of these children’s lives. It isn’t silly to them at all, only silly to me, in the moment-by-moment of the daily grind. Like when it’s taken you two days to assess a child’s pattern of behavior and by the third day you’re all, “What the fuck, John Doe? This shit again?” but to the child it’s “Holy shit I’m freaking out and I have no fucking idea how to cope so I’m just going to throw this chair and scream FUCK YOU BITCH”. Yeah, not so silly. More, scary and freaky, the kind of freaky where you go home and shudder at thoughts of this child’s home life.

I’ve read and heard repeatedly that the average burn-out time for teachers is 4-5 years. I have no idea what the time frame is for SpEd teachers, but by the time I’m finished with my school work and ending student teaching, I’ll be near the 4 year mark. I figure I’ll have a better idea of whether or not I can hack it by then. Right now I’m going off the fact I still show up for work after a year of being cursed at like I’ve never been cursed at before, hit, punched, kicked, spit on, and threatened with murder. On a daily to semi-daily basis. Yes, really.

With even my paltry position as a quasi-teacher, I’m scared by the lack of psychological background required. Even my on-coming studies don’t focus highly on the psychological side of things, which I’ve come to view as paramount to students’ success. They’re dealing with shit I never imagined eight-year-olds would have to face (that’s my bourgeois naïveté for ya). And in the classroom, I feel wholly incompetent and repeatedly find myself throwing up my arms in frustration at not knowing what the fuck to do to help these kids. With adults you can say, “Buck up. Buy a helmet, cause this shit doesn’t get any better” but with kids you feel remorse at their lack and/or loss of childhood, of that time when they shouldn’t have a care in the world, when the adults around them are there to make things better. With my students, often the adults make things worse. They come from “broken” homes, overworked and overburdened parents, or parents who just don’t give a shit because they’re more concerned with themselves.

I never knew this segment of children existed. Or at least, I never thought about the possibility of their existence. Sure, my childhood has mixed parts fucked-up and normal, but these kids? For these kids it’s mostly fucked-up and abnormally normal.

I suppose a lot of this rant of mine stems from the lack of support from our administrators and so-called therapists. But I’d gather even they feel at a loss as to what to do with these kids.

Statistically, I’m working with a miniscule portion of our public school student population. But really, I’m only working with kids who have been so out of whack behaviorally as to garner the recognition and time of their teachers, administrators, and special case workers. Think of all the kids with fucked-up home lives who don’t throw chairs. I’m only working with those who “act it out”, not suffer in silence.

There are upsides–if you look real hard for them, and they’re the things that keep you going.

I’ve seen students who have changed. Who have learned coping skills. Who have been able to learn how to deal with their anger and sadness and frustration and hatred in more “constructive” manners. Sometimes, I have to admit, because we all need to talk about it, it’s only because of drugs. They’ve gotten the antidepressant or stimulant or downer or “inhibitor” that has just clicked with their body and has made them calmer, or more focused, or able to deal with (acknowledge) their emotions. Other times it’s because they’ve been in the system long enough, they’ve matured, or just reached a (mental) age where they can handle the shit life they’ve been dealt. And then they move on, they go back to “normal” school, to a “regular” classroom. And sometimes they stay there. Other times, we see them again, next semester or next year. Sometimes, sometimes though, they’re in the system for good. They get passed along through elementary, junior high, high school, ‘up and out the system, and into our “justice” system.

Seeing a child go from “unmedicated” to “medicated” is halting. The first time I witnessed it in a student unknowingly, I thought something was seriously wrong. It was just like in the movies or teevee, where the mental patient is all crazy and then the doctors stab them with a syringe and the next scene they’re catatonic.

And I have to keep thinking about all the stuff I’ve read about our whole public school system. About how we expect children to sit still in hard desks for 7-8 hours a day, five days a week, ingesting things only to regurgitate them on “standardized” exams. I can’t blame John Doe for getting fidgety after 6 hours of sitting in a desk.

I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you.

I do know that I feel like I’m facing an unwinnable battle. But I’ve signed up for it, thinking that somehow I can win, somewhere, so fuck it, why not try?

Working in an EBD classroom is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Some days are good and there are little Aha! moments where you feel you’ve just affected a child’s life for the better, but I have to be honest: each and every day is a colossal struggle. A struggle to learn, a struggle to deal with emotions that cannot be named or even put into simple words, a struggle to keep a modicum of order and sanity within the classroom, a struggle to remember it is not the child per se but their lack of coping skills.

Don and Kellie Rainwater give a good description in their book, How to Manage a Behavior Classroom: The Beginners Guide to Teaching the Emotionally Disabled and the Oppositional Defiant Child (2008):

Most of these children are on medication, but sometimes the lack of supervision at home does not allow them to take their medication on a consistent basis.
[...]
Of these students, one out of two children will be emotionally disturbed. This could range from mild to severe.
[...]
The children that come into your classroom are usually the children that the mainstream teachers cannot handle and even the administration has almost given up on.
[...]
The students you will receive are mainly damaged from family situations…. (pg. 3-4)

A lot of the time I wonder at the fact that I’m not required to have a psychology background. I get frustrated when I can’t help, when I don’t know enough to help a child with this really heavy shit they shouldn’t have to deal with.

Before working here, I never thought of the existence of students like this. It’s still unfathomable.

The Partner and I spent Friday night with his elder sister, who was visiting from out of town. We had been hanging out on campus, entertaining ourselves with the sight that is Weekend Before Classes Start. Which means: watching and mocking the scantily-clad gals in stilettos trying to get laid mixed with guys acting macho trying to get laid going in-between the four bars closest to campus. It’s always hilarious. This Friday night we were able to get spots next to a great group of folks, whose main aim was critiquing all the drunks as they passed by us.

Rule #1: If you’re out to get drunk, don’t wear fucking stilettos.

Rule #2: Make sure your skirt/dress covers your ass. Your whole ass.

Rule #3: Drink water.

Highlights of the night include seeing three different gals fall while trying to (1) exit a building and (2) get off the curb and into the street and (3) just walk down the sidewalk, and two random guys pissing in bushes, which were in plain sight. Much to my disappointment, there were no pukers, no fist fights, and no one was arrested in front of me.

We ended our night and proceeded to our car. On our way past a fast food joint, we saw a neighbor, Patrick, sitting/slumped on the stairs.

“Hey, Patrick! Thought you were having a party at your place tonight.”

“Oh my god! The Partner! Anne! [stand up, stumble forwards into The Partner] What’s up?! …Where are my friends?!”

A confused conversation ensues, wherein we manage to learn Patrick’s lost the location of the friends he’s supposed to be with and is so drunk he doesn’t care and just wants a ride home.

Yay, neighbors!

We get him to our car, I point out the little garbage bag in case of pukeage, and we drive home. The whole time Patrick’s all drunkard and yelling out of the window at random people.

We arrive home and stumble out of the car to find his lights are all on, the doors are all locked, the windows are locked, he has no keys, and no damn cell phone. By this point he’s belligerent, we’re trying to get him to drink water, and asking him to remember his roommate’s cell number. It becomes a cycle. He finally remembers the cell number.

I call the roommate.

“Hey, Roommate, this is Anne, your neighbor. We found Patrick and he’s really fucking drunk, and without keys, so can you come let him in?”

“Who? Who is this?”

“Your neighbor. Patrick is sick. Can you come home?”

“[garble, background bar noise, background bar noise]”

Hang up. Text message Roommate.

“This is your neighbor. We are with Patrick. He is very drunk and has no keys and doors are locked. Can you come let him in?”

Reply: “Yea be there soon.”

Twenty minutes pass. Patrick has been wandering around the backyard, yelling, sitting, passing out, trying each door, stumbling about. Two people come into the backyard, a gal and guy. Say they last saw him falling onto the floor of a bathroom at a campus bar and passing out, but they weren’t sure what happened to him.

My thoughts: What the fuck kind of friends are you to see your friend pass out on a bathroom floor and not take him home?

They don’t have the keys, or any cell numbers, and eventually leave.

I message Roommate again. “Patrick is really sick. He’s pissing on the wall. Has no keys. Can you come get him?”

Reply: “What? Whos this?”

“Jesus christ. This is your neighbor. Patrick is fucking drunk as hell, has no keys, can you come let him in?”

“Alright on our way damn.”

Ten minutes later two guys show up, one very drunk, and they wake up Patrick, who has since been passed out in a chair, and they’re all, “Dude, you totally fell down in that bathroom! We didn’t know what happened to you!”

Great friends.

Saturday we get back from breakfast and are outside letting George out to do his thing. Patrick was down with some other neighbors playing cornhole, comes over and is all, “I just want to let you guys know I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just our last bash before classes. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m totally going to make you guys dinner. I’m not an alcoholic. Thanks so much.”

Later in the day, around 5:45, The Partner and I are sitting at the kitchen table eating. There are people outside and it’s going good seeing as how folks have been drinking since 9am. Then some dude says, “I’m going to piss in this plant.”

The Partner and I look at each other. We leap and race each other to the door, as we’re the only folks on our side to have plants outside.

I get there first, throw open the screen door, only to see some skinny drunk dude pissing into my fucking ficus benjamina.

“WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE? YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT!”

The guy stuffs himself back into his pants. Looks shocked.

The Partner starts in, “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOUR THINKING?”

I’m all, “YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT! There’s a fucking FENCE there, fucking piss on that!”

He’s all, “It’s only water!” and goes to the fence to finish peeing.

I’m all, “It’s only water!? YOU DON’T PISS IN MY FUCKING PLANT! Let me piss on you, asshole, it’s only water!”

Yeah, the fucking students are back.

Jeff, I miss you.

Let me just say how much I hate hipster bars. It’s all about appearances. At the Zoo, it’s all about community, and having fun, and just being around each other. At the Hipster Bar, it’s all about what clothes you’re wearing and what drink you’re having. –And hey, can you dance to this techno-remix? The overall feel is just one of separation; whereas in the Zoo, you’re bumping up against one another and sharing glances, not making them, and best of all, singing along!

I also have to report that our local Queer Center has moved it’s location. It used to be on the second-story of a building, which was not handicap accessible and not visible from the street unless you were looking for it. It’s now located on the first-floor of a building closer to the heart of the downtown, and has two large windows. We were given a tour tonight by a board member and let me just say, I’ll be the gal hanging out watching films while knitting. It feels comfortable there and I’m really glad they moved to a more prominent locale.

The thing I’ve learned tonight: it’s true, as you age everyone just gets more bloated, so why not just have fun together?