Dear Secret Blogiary,
My dad called me this morning to check in (I am still not sure if it is for my benefit or his) and we got to talking about work. I told him about the evaluation and when he asked me if I was upset, I paused and had to really think about that question. Am I upset about the evaluation or am I more upset about what I think it means?
And as I was talking to Dad, I realized that I am not upset about the evaluation. I am angry about what it represents. Essentially, as I said before I will be hard pressed to get a job in education again. And really, the more I thought about this, the more I realized that I was okay with it. Because the more I thought about it the more I realized that it isn't teaching I have a problem with, it's the students.
I can teach. I can teach well. But my tolerance for kids is shit. I refuse to tolerate belligerant and vile teenage antics. I don’t want to deal with hormonal teenagers rage about the unfairness of having to learn about grammar or why they need to understand how to construct a sentence. I don’t have any sympathy for students who come into my classroom with some kind of sob story about why they don’t have their work. Not doing it is one thing. Trying to bullshit me into believing a story about why they don’t have it something else entirely. I never BS’d my teachers. If I didn’t do an assignment, I owned up to it and took the consequences. But then I was also raised by a woman who demanded honesty and all times.
The only time I ever did not have an assignment finished and tried to get out of it was in college and I had just had emergency gallbladder surgery. The professor’s response: Sorry about that. Yup. Surgery does indeed suck. The paper is still due on Tuesday because you knew about it a month ago.
I turned it in on time and got my first B ever in this particular professor’s class.
It occurred to me today, after a week’s distance between the aforementioned yearly evaluation and my subsequent post about it, that I was awful whiny about it. That isn’t who I am. Well, okay, I do whine a bit on occasion, but in this instance, I am better than that.
So, back to work today, with a smile even, because regardless of what others might say, I know that I am doing my job to the best of my ability. And I take pride in that.
As for the evaluation? One piece of paper does not define who I am as a person. And as for what the future holds? Well, in the immortal words of Tom Petty:
It’s time to move on. It’s time to get going. What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing. But under my feet, Baby, grass is growing. Yeah, it’s time to move on, time to get going.
And I am okay with that.
Countdowns
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Unsatisfactory?
Dear Secret Blogiary,
It turns out, I do secretly care. I care about my stupid job that makes me miserable. I care what I accomplish in my classroom. I care about making sure that the students get the most from me that I can give during the year. I care about the connection I make with my kids. I care about doing a good job despite the fact that I hate it.
So it came as a major blow to see my final yearly evaluation on Friday. It had two categories that were dinged.
One I knew about: professional behavior. Apparently it is unprofessional to miss work when your children are puking their guts out. Every single teacher there that has kids was dinged as “Needs Improvement” in this category. In clear, yet tiny perfect italics it read: needs to improve attendance. Like I was a student. Shit! That comment is one that I can check on my student’s report cards.
Fine. I knew I was going to get dinged. It was the only thing that had been discussed with me at my post-observation. Honestly, and I am all about conspiracy theories, I think it had more to do with getting people out of the “High Performing” category. If we get “High Performing” we can also earn merit pay (although with the new law that was just passed, this will be the last year for this type of merit pay).
It was the second category that was marked “Unsatisfactory” that had my eyeballs about to burst from my head! I was marked down for not having classroom management. I was shocked, hurt, and quite honestly pissed off.
Now overall, this year’s group of students were a nightmare in 6th grade and wretched in 7th – this by the admission of the 6th and 7th grade teachers and the administrators. Every single teacher on the hall has the same problems with the same students I do. I refuse to yell and scream a student or hover over them until they do what I ask. I also refuse to continue to call the parents if after the first call made no difference. This group of kids does not care about consequences. Phone calls to parents do nothing. Time outs do nothing. Referrals do nothing. Nothing fazes them.
As 8th graders they are fully responsible for their actions. I shouldn’t have to call parents.
As a parent of an 8th grader, I refuse to make excuses for my child. She knows how to behave and what is expected from her, so why should I accept anything less from my students? All I hear from the higher ups is that standards and expectations need to be higher for our students. So why should I lower my expectations?
I have a single class that sheer unadulterated Hell. One. Not a single teacher on my team can “control” this class and as they travel together (the same students share all the same classes) they wreak havoc all day long. I only wish I was exaggerating. Ethically, I will not discuss them individually, but I will leave it at this: many of the students in there are certifiably crazy – it is in their IEP – and most are labeled as EH (Emotionally Handicapped – which essentially means they have severe anger management problems and will likely fly into a rage at the drop of a hat).
And I have a theory about that. They know that first of all, the 8th grade administrator, no matter what the offense, will take the student’s word over the teacher’s in just about every case. Secondly, they know that even if they get in trouble, the punishment will not be a punishment; instead it will be a “conference” with the student where the admin will read them the riot act, slap them on the wrist verbally, and send them back to class.
The teachers get no support to back up our management plan. So how am I supposed to have effective classroom management? Beats me. In my two minute read-this-and-sign-here evaluation conference, I got no feedback and it didn’t occur to me to demand any because I was so blindsided.
And unfortunately, I care about it. I care because this is the only time I have been dinged for anything in an evaluation. Not even in my first year as a teacher did I have problems. And as I have been mulling the evaluation over for the past few days it occurred to me why.
I had the support of administrators who backed me up no matter what. Since Mr. MoHOLU took the reins, the school has gone downhill and I wish that was me just being angry and disgruntled. But after talking to other teachers and watching the number of teachers transferring out each year increase, it can’t just be me.
It turns out, I do secretly care. I care about my stupid job that makes me miserable. I care what I accomplish in my classroom. I care about making sure that the students get the most from me that I can give during the year. I care about the connection I make with my kids. I care about doing a good job despite the fact that I hate it.
So it came as a major blow to see my final yearly evaluation on Friday. It had two categories that were dinged.
One I knew about: professional behavior. Apparently it is unprofessional to miss work when your children are puking their guts out. Every single teacher there that has kids was dinged as “Needs Improvement” in this category. In clear, yet tiny perfect italics it read: needs to improve attendance. Like I was a student. Shit! That comment is one that I can check on my student’s report cards.
Fine. I knew I was going to get dinged. It was the only thing that had been discussed with me at my post-observation. Honestly, and I am all about conspiracy theories, I think it had more to do with getting people out of the “High Performing” category. If we get “High Performing” we can also earn merit pay (although with the new law that was just passed, this will be the last year for this type of merit pay).
It was the second category that was marked “Unsatisfactory” that had my eyeballs about to burst from my head! I was marked down for not having classroom management. I was shocked, hurt, and quite honestly pissed off.
Now overall, this year’s group of students were a nightmare in 6th grade and wretched in 7th – this by the admission of the 6th and 7th grade teachers and the administrators. Every single teacher on the hall has the same problems with the same students I do. I refuse to yell and scream a student or hover over them until they do what I ask. I also refuse to continue to call the parents if after the first call made no difference. This group of kids does not care about consequences. Phone calls to parents do nothing. Time outs do nothing. Referrals do nothing. Nothing fazes them.
As 8th graders they are fully responsible for their actions. I shouldn’t have to call parents.
As a parent of an 8th grader, I refuse to make excuses for my child. She knows how to behave and what is expected from her, so why should I accept anything less from my students? All I hear from the higher ups is that standards and expectations need to be higher for our students. So why should I lower my expectations?
I have a single class that sheer unadulterated Hell. One. Not a single teacher on my team can “control” this class and as they travel together (the same students share all the same classes) they wreak havoc all day long. I only wish I was exaggerating. Ethically, I will not discuss them individually, but I will leave it at this: many of the students in there are certifiably crazy – it is in their IEP – and most are labeled as EH (Emotionally Handicapped – which essentially means they have severe anger management problems and will likely fly into a rage at the drop of a hat).
And I have a theory about that. They know that first of all, the 8th grade administrator, no matter what the offense, will take the student’s word over the teacher’s in just about every case. Secondly, they know that even if they get in trouble, the punishment will not be a punishment; instead it will be a “conference” with the student where the admin will read them the riot act, slap them on the wrist verbally, and send them back to class.
The teachers get no support to back up our management plan. So how am I supposed to have effective classroom management? Beats me. In my two minute read-this-and-sign-here evaluation conference, I got no feedback and it didn’t occur to me to demand any because I was so blindsided.
And unfortunately, I care about it. I care because this is the only time I have been dinged for anything in an evaluation. Not even in my first year as a teacher did I have problems. And as I have been mulling the evaluation over for the past few days it occurred to me why.
I had the support of administrators who backed me up no matter what. Since Mr. MoHOLU took the reins, the school has gone downhill and I wish that was me just being angry and disgruntled. But after talking to other teachers and watching the number of teachers transferring out each year increase, it can’t just be me.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Stupid Fucking Day
Dear Secret Blogiary,
What a Stupid Fucking Day. You know those days when nothing “goes wrong” per say but nothing goes right either. Today was a Stupid Fucking Day or an SFD for short.
It started simply enough. Mister W and I woke up at the same time for a change and I attempted to initiate a quick intimate moment. God Lord! How long has it been since morning sex? Pre kids, I think. I could have used the pick-me-up, today, and I was shot down. Hard.
Pushing my hand away, Mister W. goes into a diatribe about how he needs to get up and get going for work. WORK?!?! Screw work! I wanted SEX!
All the time we are on his schedule and this morning it just tipped me off that whenever he wants it, I jump in full on regardless of whether I am really interested or not because I have discovered that unless I am sick, I will get interested real quick once we start. But God Forbid I want it at an inconvenient time and it is all hands off.
So, pissy, horny and now irritated because I woke up early I rolled from bed and moved on. Sort-of. Have I mentioned that I am really, really good at holding a grudge and stewing about things?
The morning continued with diabolical plans to with-hold all sex acts until further notice. That lasted until the end of my shower when I realized that that was just about as likely as me winning the lottery without actually playing.
At school, I had my yearly observation. I was woefully unprepared. The lesson was one that I had never taught before, but the next “required” piece in the curriculum. Stupid curriculum. So despite my prep, I felt, at best, “iffy” about the lesson. The class I chose for the observation is typically one of my better involved ones. They might be my lowest level class, but by God, they try.
Except for today. I don’t know if it was the administrator in the class or what, but they were silent, taciturn, and reticent. Who were these children? Clearly they were abducted last night and replaced by pod-people.
The focus lesson (a mini mini-lesson – essentially I have to teach two lessons one FCAT focused and then one content but that’s a rant for another day) ran long and although they had been over it before, they acted like they had never seen inferences before even though as a focus lesson they have been over it dozens of times. Then when we got into the bulk of the content – character development and historical background of a story – they lost it and went crazy with misbehavior.
Then, before I got into my super required “differentiated instruction” the admin left. Observation over.
Great. Perfect. I am sure to ace this one.
From there it just got worse. Spring is really in the air because I could not get the rest of the class in line with what they needed to do. At one point, I gathered up the five kids who were doing what they were supposed to a taught them alone and ignored the rest.
They didn’t seem to mind.
Then I got yelled at TWICE! for letting a student use the restroom.
SFD.
We have this ridiculous rule about when we are allowed to let students out on hall passes. As ridiculous as it is I follow it to the letter because that is just the law-abiding goody-two-shoes I am. So, with two minutes to spare before the cut-off time, a student who never asks me to go to the restroom asked. I look at the time, I tell him, okay, but hurry because you only have 2 minutes before the cut-off. The boy grabed the pass and took off running to make it to and from in time.
Mr. MoHOLU radioed my direct admin and sent him to reprimand me. My reply was courteous and I told him that the boy was within the time. My admin radioed back letting Mr. MoHOLU know my response and reason. Not ten seconds later Mr. MoHOLU stormed into the wing and shouted, SHOUTED! Down the hall that he was sick of all the hall passes and it didn’t matter that the boy was sent out right before the cut-off I shouldn’t have sent him out because he could have held it until next period.
SFD!
Why the Hell did Mr. MoHOLU established a cut-off time if he wasn’t going to allow us to abide by it? My school is on block schedule so we are in class for 90 minutes. 6th period, because it is the lunch period, actual real time is 2 hours because it is the lunch block and we have to rotate 900 students in three shifts through, with clean-ups between each. So, it is a long period and after lunch, kids need to pee. Fact of life. They guzzle down chocolate milk, juice and soda and then are trapped in a class for near two hours. Hell! I gave up drinking any thing at lunch because I couldn’t hold it that long.
Stupid Fucking Day.
All I’ve got to say is that Mister W. better put out tonight.
What a Stupid Fucking Day. You know those days when nothing “goes wrong” per say but nothing goes right either. Today was a Stupid Fucking Day or an SFD for short.
It started simply enough. Mister W and I woke up at the same time for a change and I attempted to initiate a quick intimate moment. God Lord! How long has it been since morning sex? Pre kids, I think. I could have used the pick-me-up, today, and I was shot down. Hard.
Pushing my hand away, Mister W. goes into a diatribe about how he needs to get up and get going for work. WORK?!?! Screw work! I wanted SEX!
All the time we are on his schedule and this morning it just tipped me off that whenever he wants it, I jump in full on regardless of whether I am really interested or not because I have discovered that unless I am sick, I will get interested real quick once we start. But God Forbid I want it at an inconvenient time and it is all hands off.
So, pissy, horny and now irritated because I woke up early I rolled from bed and moved on. Sort-of. Have I mentioned that I am really, really good at holding a grudge and stewing about things?
The morning continued with diabolical plans to with-hold all sex acts until further notice. That lasted until the end of my shower when I realized that that was just about as likely as me winning the lottery without actually playing.
At school, I had my yearly observation. I was woefully unprepared. The lesson was one that I had never taught before, but the next “required” piece in the curriculum. Stupid curriculum. So despite my prep, I felt, at best, “iffy” about the lesson. The class I chose for the observation is typically one of my better involved ones. They might be my lowest level class, but by God, they try.
Except for today. I don’t know if it was the administrator in the class or what, but they were silent, taciturn, and reticent. Who were these children? Clearly they were abducted last night and replaced by pod-people.
The focus lesson (a mini mini-lesson – essentially I have to teach two lessons one FCAT focused and then one content but that’s a rant for another day) ran long and although they had been over it before, they acted like they had never seen inferences before even though as a focus lesson they have been over it dozens of times. Then when we got into the bulk of the content – character development and historical background of a story – they lost it and went crazy with misbehavior.
Then, before I got into my super required “differentiated instruction” the admin left. Observation over.
Great. Perfect. I am sure to ace this one.
From there it just got worse. Spring is really in the air because I could not get the rest of the class in line with what they needed to do. At one point, I gathered up the five kids who were doing what they were supposed to a taught them alone and ignored the rest.
They didn’t seem to mind.
Then I got yelled at TWICE! for letting a student use the restroom.
SFD.
We have this ridiculous rule about when we are allowed to let students out on hall passes. As ridiculous as it is I follow it to the letter because that is just the law-abiding goody-two-shoes I am. So, with two minutes to spare before the cut-off time, a student who never asks me to go to the restroom asked. I look at the time, I tell him, okay, but hurry because you only have 2 minutes before the cut-off. The boy grabed the pass and took off running to make it to and from in time.
Mr. MoHOLU radioed my direct admin and sent him to reprimand me. My reply was courteous and I told him that the boy was within the time. My admin radioed back letting Mr. MoHOLU know my response and reason. Not ten seconds later Mr. MoHOLU stormed into the wing and shouted, SHOUTED! Down the hall that he was sick of all the hall passes and it didn’t matter that the boy was sent out right before the cut-off I shouldn’t have sent him out because he could have held it until next period.
SFD!
Why the Hell did Mr. MoHOLU established a cut-off time if he wasn’t going to allow us to abide by it? My school is on block schedule so we are in class for 90 minutes. 6th period, because it is the lunch period, actual real time is 2 hours because it is the lunch block and we have to rotate 900 students in three shifts through, with clean-ups between each. So, it is a long period and after lunch, kids need to pee. Fact of life. They guzzle down chocolate milk, juice and soda and then are trapped in a class for near two hours. Hell! I gave up drinking any thing at lunch because I couldn’t hold it that long.
Stupid Fucking Day.
All I’ve got to say is that Mister W. better put out tonight.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Man Can Plan
Dear Secret Blogiary,
So the word is in and it is not in my favor. Not that everything has to be about me (though it is nice when it is) and not that I expect to win get my way all the time (although, really, I still don’t understand why I don’t).
Mister W and I had a deep standing-in-the-kitchen conversation about plans for the future tonight. This was probably not the best time to converse about the subject, but as I had finally forced my way through the massive number of secretaries and voice mails and actually managed to speak to the real live lawyer*, I was able to get some basic real estate advice. And the crazy thing was, after I explained what was going one with Mister W’s dad, the house and everything, his legal advice was explicitly simple in design:
Walk Away.
It. Isn’t. Worth. It.
This from a LAWYER!!
Wow.
He laughed and commented that I sounded like I had been raised by “proper” middle class parents who instilled in me a set of rigid morals that kept me on the straight and narrow.
And I certainly was. You pay your debts, pay your taxes and follow the rules. I was good with this system. I like it. It works for me. Everything is structured and symmetrical; which is odd, considering how chaotic and spontaneous I tend to be. I have never understood myself!
In any case, Mister W and I talked and we developed a three year plan. One that unfortunately does not involve me moving to Maine and becoming a lobsterwoman, never mind the fact that looking at waves gets me seasick! The plan then is this:
We walk away from the house, bankroll my paycheck, I keep working at least until the school year is over, and then we pick up an apartment closer to Mister’s work and I can work or not (probably will so as to keep the extra money coming in for the next two years and then Mister W will entertain the possibility of moving back up north. Maybe.
This is something that I have just got to accept. I knew way back when, that Mister W did not want to leave Florida. He likes it here, likes his job and really invested in it. But me? I’ve never been thrilled with Florida. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it since I came here. I hate it for nine months of the year when the blistering sun bakes the very gray matter in my brain. And Florida loves to torture me with the blistering heat.
There are way more reasons than this, but far too many to go into any great detail. Let’s just say that I came with the understanding that I would remain no more than four years. It has now been ten years and I am more than ready to exit stage right!
The biggest problem I have with this plan is that it puts Big Sis as a junior in high school when the plan magically comes to fruition. And I would feel bad ripping her from school (assuming she didn’t graduate early and head to MIT or Yale because that is how bad-ass her brain is). I hate that I have been unable to provide for her the kind of physical environment I had growing up. I hate that for most of her life she had lived in a city and a crappy one at that! Obviously, I can’t change the fact, I can only do what I can to ease my mind about it (because really, I don’t think she has ever once complained about it except once she mentioned she wanted to live in the country and raise chickens).
Little Sis is, quite honestly, happy wherever. She wants a horse and to live on a farm, but then so did I and that never happened and I turned out mostly sane. I still want to live on a farm though, except, I’d rather have llamas than a horse. And a large concrete wall but that’s a story for another day.
Little Sis seems to have the mindset that home is where Mommy and Daddy are and if we don’t have a horse, chickens or llamas, that’s okay because it is. She is so wise sometimes and makes connections that I just don’t remember making at her age.
I guess what it boils down to is that Mister W needs a plan and I think plans take too long. I’d go tomorrow if Mister W said, “Hey, let’s jam!” I’ll go his way, though, if for no other reason than that while I hate my job, Mister W loves his and he is really good at it. His biggest fear about the “let’s just go” plan is that we’d go and end up in a worse situation where he is in a job that he hates and I can’t find a job I love.
Also, he seems very concerned about food.
Geeze. As if I wouldn’t pack a few granola bars to tide us over.
*Coolest thing about being part of a union, I totally have free access to a lawyer…and of course, by free I mean I make regularly monthly payments to be able to have access to a lawyer.
So the word is in and it is not in my favor. Not that everything has to be about me (though it is nice when it is) and not that I expect to win get my way all the time (although, really, I still don’t understand why I don’t).
Mister W and I had a deep standing-in-the-kitchen conversation about plans for the future tonight. This was probably not the best time to converse about the subject, but as I had finally forced my way through the massive number of secretaries and voice mails and actually managed to speak to the real live lawyer*, I was able to get some basic real estate advice. And the crazy thing was, after I explained what was going one with Mister W’s dad, the house and everything, his legal advice was explicitly simple in design:
Walk Away.
It. Isn’t. Worth. It.
This from a LAWYER!!
Wow.
He laughed and commented that I sounded like I had been raised by “proper” middle class parents who instilled in me a set of rigid morals that kept me on the straight and narrow.
And I certainly was. You pay your debts, pay your taxes and follow the rules. I was good with this system. I like it. It works for me. Everything is structured and symmetrical; which is odd, considering how chaotic and spontaneous I tend to be. I have never understood myself!
In any case, Mister W and I talked and we developed a three year plan. One that unfortunately does not involve me moving to Maine and becoming a lobsterwoman, never mind the fact that looking at waves gets me seasick! The plan then is this:
We walk away from the house, bankroll my paycheck, I keep working at least until the school year is over, and then we pick up an apartment closer to Mister’s work and I can work or not (probably will so as to keep the extra money coming in for the next two years and then Mister W will entertain the possibility of moving back up north. Maybe.
This is something that I have just got to accept. I knew way back when, that Mister W did not want to leave Florida. He likes it here, likes his job and really invested in it. But me? I’ve never been thrilled with Florida. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with it since I came here. I hate it for nine months of the year when the blistering sun bakes the very gray matter in my brain. And Florida loves to torture me with the blistering heat.
There are way more reasons than this, but far too many to go into any great detail. Let’s just say that I came with the understanding that I would remain no more than four years. It has now been ten years and I am more than ready to exit stage right!
The biggest problem I have with this plan is that it puts Big Sis as a junior in high school when the plan magically comes to fruition. And I would feel bad ripping her from school (assuming she didn’t graduate early and head to MIT or Yale because that is how bad-ass her brain is). I hate that I have been unable to provide for her the kind of physical environment I had growing up. I hate that for most of her life she had lived in a city and a crappy one at that! Obviously, I can’t change the fact, I can only do what I can to ease my mind about it (because really, I don’t think she has ever once complained about it except once she mentioned she wanted to live in the country and raise chickens).
Little Sis is, quite honestly, happy wherever. She wants a horse and to live on a farm, but then so did I and that never happened and I turned out mostly sane. I still want to live on a farm though, except, I’d rather have llamas than a horse. And a large concrete wall but that’s a story for another day.
Little Sis seems to have the mindset that home is where Mommy and Daddy are and if we don’t have a horse, chickens or llamas, that’s okay because it is. She is so wise sometimes and makes connections that I just don’t remember making at her age.
I guess what it boils down to is that Mister W needs a plan and I think plans take too long. I’d go tomorrow if Mister W said, “Hey, let’s jam!” I’ll go his way, though, if for no other reason than that while I hate my job, Mister W loves his and he is really good at it. His biggest fear about the “let’s just go” plan is that we’d go and end up in a worse situation where he is in a job that he hates and I can’t find a job I love.
Also, he seems very concerned about food.
Geeze. As if I wouldn’t pack a few granola bars to tide us over.
*Coolest thing about being part of a union, I totally have free access to a lawyer…and of course, by free I mean I make regularly monthly payments to be able to have access to a lawyer.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I might be Mean, but you're still an Ass
Dear Secret Blogiary,
Without fail, every year I am accused of being a racist.
Without exception the student that accuses me of this is always a black boy who has been diagnosed as OHI: a nebulous label that essentially means the child has been diagnosed with an unknown behavioral disorder that is not a learning disability.
These are the students who are not disciplined according to the Code of Conduct because they “can’t be held accountable for their actions.” These are the students whose parents offer no support at school and tell us they’re our problem between 9:30 and 4pm.
Personally, these are the kids that desperately need to be held accountable for their actions because we are doing them a grave disservice. We allow them to continue without consequence and then shake our heads sadly when those same kids become a statistic.
The group of kids I have this year have been a problematic group since they were in sixth grade. The 6th grade teachers warned the 7th grade teachers last year and then in turn the 7th grade teachers warned us. Disrespectful, Disruptive, Disinterested, the three D’s heard over and over for the class of 2014. The 8th grade teachers came down hard the first few weeks but nothing seems to faze them as a whole. I typically end up spending most of the class dealing with behavior problems.
Clarence has been a problem since day one. Every other word from his is a curse. He thinks nothing of making sexual comments to both girls and boys in the class. He exhibits violent tendencies, immediately jumping to his feet the moment he perceives a “challenge.” He is a bully, he makes threatening gestures and comments. He refuses to do any work and cares not at all about his grade.
I have used all my interventions: changing seats, time outs, parent contact, referrals. Nothing works. Maybe if he was the only problem OHI student in the class (he is one of 12). Maybe if I was the only teacher having an issue with him, I could just suck it up and deal with it, but every teacher on my team has trouble with him. Maybe if I had administrative support and Clarence received consequences instead of “conferencing” he might settle down.
Today, I had enough. I sent him and a few others to the office and wrote more referrals. When they strode back into class right before lunch, Clarence danced in, his pants sagging down to his calves and with every step he stopped and thrust his hips forward sexually. I told him to stop and sit down and he just laughed and said he was “dancing.”
I just gritted my teeth and glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes until lunch, I thought, and I wrapped up class as best that I could. A few minutes later we were out the door, down the hall, standing in line waiting to go into the cafeteria.
I happened to be standing near Clarence.
“Mrs. W. I think you racist.”
“Really?” I reply, indifferent. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t like me ‘cause I’m black.”
“No, Clarence, I dislike everyone equally.” I say. It is my standard response to the kids that try to pull a race card with me. I have no tolerance for those types of games.
“Really? ‘Cause you yell at me all the time. You mean, too, you always pickin’ on me.”
“Because you are disruptive. And I’m not “picking” on you, I am attempting to redirect your behavior.” Why I try to reason or explain myself is perplexing.
I moved forward in along the line getting my “wanderers” back into line. While I was doing this, another student, David, a tall gangly black boy came rushing up to me.
“Mrs. W.!” He cried out giving me a big hug.
David is also labeled OHI but his “behavior problem” is a deep need for constant attention and if he doesn’t get it, he fidgets and calls out, so while disruptive, he does follow most of the class procedures and has not once been rude or disrespectful to me or any other student.
I give David a quick one armed pat and ask him how his day has been.
He smiles down at me (did I mention this kid is TALL? Taller I think than Mister W.) and says, “Been good so far, Ma’am. Lookin’ forward to lunch.”
“Me too,” I reply as he rejoins his class in line.
Immediately after David walks off Clarence steps forward his arms open.
My eyes narrow and I step back and say, “Get. Away. From. Me.” Each word is enunciated, pointed and hard.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was harsh and rude. But I had had enough of him.
“Oh,” Clarence spit out, “You’ll give David a hug.”
“Yup. I like him.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that either.
Clarence steps toward me again and I glare at him, turn and walk away.
I got to thinking about his comment though later on. There is no way I could have taught for as long as I have at my school if I was racist. I work in a minority school and the population is roughly 85 percent black.
As a teacher, I am supposed to be fair and unbiased toward the students. And regarding grades and discipline I am 100 percent fair and balanced (like Fox but with less snark). But I am also a human. And I’ve got feelings. So, yeah, I’ll readily admit I have kids that I adore – black, white or green! And I have kids that I dislike intensely; I try not to hate, but sometimes I do. And as much as I try not to let my feelings show, it is really hard to pretend I have anything but disgust and loathing for a certain few.
Does that make me a racist?
According to Dictionary.com racism is:
1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.
2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.
So by definition, I am not. I just have intolerance for this one particular kid.
Without fail, every year I am accused of being a racist.
Without exception the student that accuses me of this is always a black boy who has been diagnosed as OHI: a nebulous label that essentially means the child has been diagnosed with an unknown behavioral disorder that is not a learning disability.
These are the students who are not disciplined according to the Code of Conduct because they “can’t be held accountable for their actions.” These are the students whose parents offer no support at school and tell us they’re our problem between 9:30 and 4pm.
Personally, these are the kids that desperately need to be held accountable for their actions because we are doing them a grave disservice. We allow them to continue without consequence and then shake our heads sadly when those same kids become a statistic.
The group of kids I have this year have been a problematic group since they were in sixth grade. The 6th grade teachers warned the 7th grade teachers last year and then in turn the 7th grade teachers warned us. Disrespectful, Disruptive, Disinterested, the three D’s heard over and over for the class of 2014. The 8th grade teachers came down hard the first few weeks but nothing seems to faze them as a whole. I typically end up spending most of the class dealing with behavior problems.
Clarence has been a problem since day one. Every other word from his is a curse. He thinks nothing of making sexual comments to both girls and boys in the class. He exhibits violent tendencies, immediately jumping to his feet the moment he perceives a “challenge.” He is a bully, he makes threatening gestures and comments. He refuses to do any work and cares not at all about his grade.
I have used all my interventions: changing seats, time outs, parent contact, referrals. Nothing works. Maybe if he was the only problem OHI student in the class (he is one of 12). Maybe if I was the only teacher having an issue with him, I could just suck it up and deal with it, but every teacher on my team has trouble with him. Maybe if I had administrative support and Clarence received consequences instead of “conferencing” he might settle down.
Today, I had enough. I sent him and a few others to the office and wrote more referrals. When they strode back into class right before lunch, Clarence danced in, his pants sagging down to his calves and with every step he stopped and thrust his hips forward sexually. I told him to stop and sit down and he just laughed and said he was “dancing.”
I just gritted my teeth and glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes until lunch, I thought, and I wrapped up class as best that I could. A few minutes later we were out the door, down the hall, standing in line waiting to go into the cafeteria.
I happened to be standing near Clarence.
“Mrs. W. I think you racist.”
“Really?” I reply, indifferent. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t like me ‘cause I’m black.”
“No, Clarence, I dislike everyone equally.” I say. It is my standard response to the kids that try to pull a race card with me. I have no tolerance for those types of games.
“Really? ‘Cause you yell at me all the time. You mean, too, you always pickin’ on me.”
“Because you are disruptive. And I’m not “picking” on you, I am attempting to redirect your behavior.” Why I try to reason or explain myself is perplexing.
I moved forward in along the line getting my “wanderers” back into line. While I was doing this, another student, David, a tall gangly black boy came rushing up to me.
“Mrs. W.!” He cried out giving me a big hug.
David is also labeled OHI but his “behavior problem” is a deep need for constant attention and if he doesn’t get it, he fidgets and calls out, so while disruptive, he does follow most of the class procedures and has not once been rude or disrespectful to me or any other student.
I give David a quick one armed pat and ask him how his day has been.
He smiles down at me (did I mention this kid is TALL? Taller I think than Mister W.) and says, “Been good so far, Ma’am. Lookin’ forward to lunch.”
“Me too,” I reply as he rejoins his class in line.
Immediately after David walks off Clarence steps forward his arms open.
My eyes narrow and I step back and say, “Get. Away. From. Me.” Each word is enunciated, pointed and hard.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was harsh and rude. But I had had enough of him.
“Oh,” Clarence spit out, “You’ll give David a hug.”
“Yup. I like him.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that either.
Clarence steps toward me again and I glare at him, turn and walk away.
I got to thinking about his comment though later on. There is no way I could have taught for as long as I have at my school if I was racist. I work in a minority school and the population is roughly 85 percent black.
As a teacher, I am supposed to be fair and unbiased toward the students. And regarding grades and discipline I am 100 percent fair and balanced (like Fox but with less snark). But I am also a human. And I’ve got feelings. So, yeah, I’ll readily admit I have kids that I adore – black, white or green! And I have kids that I dislike intensely; I try not to hate, but sometimes I do. And as much as I try not to let my feelings show, it is really hard to pretend I have anything but disgust and loathing for a certain few.
Does that make me a racist?
According to Dictionary.com racism is:
1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.
2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.
So by definition, I am not. I just have intolerance for this one particular kid.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Culture Shock
Dear Secret Blogiary,
One of my students today, while we read an essay about growing up with black and white TV, calls me to his table. I go looking to help with a question; instead, he leans over his book, his dreads falling into his face and he points to a grainy black and white photograph the kind you only see in a grandmother’s album.
“Look at this, Mrs. W.” He looks up at me. “What they doing?”
I cringe a little at the poor grammar, but as I have been instructed, I correct only through modeling proper speech. I look at the photograph: a family sitting, Norman Rockwell style, around a table eating dinner. I look at him and blink.
“What do you mean?” I ask frustrated that this was not a “real” question regarding the assignment and fear he is trying to avoid the work, “They’re eating dinner.”
“Yeah, but, they all sittin’ at a table together.”
“Are you serious?” Confused now I stare at him and he looks back at me and nods.
“Yes.” I say slowly nodding trying not to appear as though I am indulging a small child. “That’s what people do when they eat dinner. They sit at the table and talk about their day. Most of the time that is the only time people have together with all the busy schedules.”
“Huh.” He looks back at the picture. “You do that?”
“Eat as a family?”
He nods and his dreads bounce, once, twice.
“Every night. And I try to make a point of having a breakfast together every week too, usually on Sunday.”
He looks at his group, all young black boys, as if to say: “the things crazy white people do” and then back at me dumbfounded. “You watch TV while you eat?”
I shake my head.
“What you do then?”
“We talk. About our day, what happened at school and work. Things that we learned or funny things that people said at work.”
“How long do it take you to eat?”
“At least half an hour, sometimes longer. After dinner, about two or three times a week, we’ll play a card or board game.”
He falls silent for a moment absorbing what I say.
“Huh,” he says finally, shaking his head and flipping back to the story.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Mrs. W.” he says, “ain’t no one in my family ever do that. We grab the food from the kitchen and sit in the living room to watch TV or text while we eat. Most of the time, my ma just text on her phone while we eat.”
I am horrified.
How do I tell him that his parents are robbing him of a good childhood? Do his parents not realize that eating with your children is one of the best ways to stay in touch with them, keep them on track? How do I convey the best part of my day is joining my family at the table. So much can happen at the dinner table, it makes me sad to realize that some kids won’t ever have that experience.
And then just as soon as I think that, I realize I shouldn’t judge. It isn’t my place. I remember my "cultural diversity" training and realize that even though we are both Americans, we do not share the same culture. Still, I am distraught and even though I have taught in this school for six years, I am continually shocked by the foundational differences.
I have no response, so I smile at him, point to the book and tell him to get back to work. And as I reflect on the moment, I wonder if I had said all the things I was thinking, would it have made a difference?
One of my students today, while we read an essay about growing up with black and white TV, calls me to his table. I go looking to help with a question; instead, he leans over his book, his dreads falling into his face and he points to a grainy black and white photograph the kind you only see in a grandmother’s album.
“Look at this, Mrs. W.” He looks up at me. “What they doing?”
I cringe a little at the poor grammar, but as I have been instructed, I correct only through modeling proper speech. I look at the photograph: a family sitting, Norman Rockwell style, around a table eating dinner. I look at him and blink.
“What do you mean?” I ask frustrated that this was not a “real” question regarding the assignment and fear he is trying to avoid the work, “They’re eating dinner.”
“Yeah, but, they all sittin’ at a table together.”
“Are you serious?” Confused now I stare at him and he looks back at me and nods.
“Yes.” I say slowly nodding trying not to appear as though I am indulging a small child. “That’s what people do when they eat dinner. They sit at the table and talk about their day. Most of the time that is the only time people have together with all the busy schedules.”
“Huh.” He looks back at the picture. “You do that?”
“Eat as a family?”
He nods and his dreads bounce, once, twice.
“Every night. And I try to make a point of having a breakfast together every week too, usually on Sunday.”
He looks at his group, all young black boys, as if to say: “the things crazy white people do” and then back at me dumbfounded. “You watch TV while you eat?”
I shake my head.
“What you do then?”
“We talk. About our day, what happened at school and work. Things that we learned or funny things that people said at work.”
“How long do it take you to eat?”
“At least half an hour, sometimes longer. After dinner, about two or three times a week, we’ll play a card or board game.”
He falls silent for a moment absorbing what I say.
“Huh,” he says finally, shaking his head and flipping back to the story.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Mrs. W.” he says, “ain’t no one in my family ever do that. We grab the food from the kitchen and sit in the living room to watch TV or text while we eat. Most of the time, my ma just text on her phone while we eat.”
I am horrified.
How do I tell him that his parents are robbing him of a good childhood? Do his parents not realize that eating with your children is one of the best ways to stay in touch with them, keep them on track? How do I convey the best part of my day is joining my family at the table. So much can happen at the dinner table, it makes me sad to realize that some kids won’t ever have that experience.
And then just as soon as I think that, I realize I shouldn’t judge. It isn’t my place. I remember my "cultural diversity" training and realize that even though we are both Americans, we do not share the same culture. Still, I am distraught and even though I have taught in this school for six years, I am continually shocked by the foundational differences.
I have no response, so I smile at him, point to the book and tell him to get back to work. And as I reflect on the moment, I wonder if I had said all the things I was thinking, would it have made a difference?
Friday, October 1, 2010
Blogtoberfest Kick Off!
Dear Secret Blogiary,
It is almost that time of year again. You know, when would be writers crawl out from what ever manuscript they were feverously working on, and prepare themselves for the glorious madness that is NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. Thirty days of faced-paced furious typing to reach the all powerful 50,000 word count.
Working in devoted frenzy, I managed last year to finally hit that word goal. I am determined to do so again this year too. In fact, I can guarantee that the stakes are much higher this year.
It isn’t just hitting a word goal this year; it is about completing an entire manuscript. I’ve mentioned the trouble I am having at work and how Mister W is all for me quitting. Well, we’ve decided that I am in fact going to quit. We are planning for me to tender my resignation on December 1 with my actual end date as the 31st. This date allows us to settle any accounts and debts as well as start working with a real estate attorney to gracefully walk away from the house.
So this year, NaNo is vitally important. If ever I am to hack it as a writer, now is the time I need to start proving it.
Writing takes time and practice and unfortunately, when things get crazy-busy, daily writing is the first thing that I sacrifice to eke extra time from the day. As such it is not often that I post a blog the same day I type it, sometimes it takes a day or two to get it out, proofread and posted. But in order for me to get back in my good writing habits, I am turning October into BlogtoberFest! Original, right?
For 31 autumn days, I will blog daily, maybe even posting, not once but twice a day. I will blog about my life as I have been doing, but also, I intend to post some creative writing pieces as well. I will be using “A Writer’s Book of Days” by Judy Reeves to help inspire some of my writing exercises and when I do I will post the prompt along with my writing.
NaNoWriMo Countdown is ON!!
It is almost that time of year again. You know, when would be writers crawl out from what ever manuscript they were feverously working on, and prepare themselves for the glorious madness that is NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. Thirty days of faced-paced furious typing to reach the all powerful 50,000 word count.
Working in devoted frenzy, I managed last year to finally hit that word goal. I am determined to do so again this year too. In fact, I can guarantee that the stakes are much higher this year.
It isn’t just hitting a word goal this year; it is about completing an entire manuscript. I’ve mentioned the trouble I am having at work and how Mister W is all for me quitting. Well, we’ve decided that I am in fact going to quit. We are planning for me to tender my resignation on December 1 with my actual end date as the 31st. This date allows us to settle any accounts and debts as well as start working with a real estate attorney to gracefully walk away from the house.
So this year, NaNo is vitally important. If ever I am to hack it as a writer, now is the time I need to start proving it.
Writing takes time and practice and unfortunately, when things get crazy-busy, daily writing is the first thing that I sacrifice to eke extra time from the day. As such it is not often that I post a blog the same day I type it, sometimes it takes a day or two to get it out, proofread and posted. But in order for me to get back in my good writing habits, I am turning October into BlogtoberFest! Original, right?
For 31 autumn days, I will blog daily, maybe even posting, not once but twice a day. I will blog about my life as I have been doing, but also, I intend to post some creative writing pieces as well. I will be using “A Writer’s Book of Days” by Judy Reeves to help inspire some of my writing exercises and when I do I will post the prompt along with my writing.
NaNoWriMo Countdown is ON!!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Easy Button Doesn't Work All Of The Time
Dear Secret Blogiary,
Today, I once again came home from work with my eyes red and poofy from crying.
It was a rough day.
Not only are the students having to adjust to a new schedule because we had to rearrange classes to meet class size amendment, but with block scheduling “B – Day” is my worst day. I have three 90 minute classes of hell with no break except for lunch. Each class is overloaded, still out of compliance with class size I might add, and all three of the classes are over two thirds ESE (also against the law).
Now having ESE students would be fine IF the students had learning disabilities. I can deal with that, but with the labeling the schools have, anyone with a “behavior” problem is also labeled ESE even though what they really need are parents at home doling out discipline with a large stick! Needless to say, it is hard to actually teach when I spend 70 minutes dealing with behavior problems.
Well, when Mister W saw me walk through the door, he took one look at my face and offered to “take care of” whoever was giving me grief. He was trying to get me to smile a little, but all I managed to do was burst into more tears. Mister W did not like that one bit. In fact, it kind-of turned him into a raging lunatic for a brief moment or two (he is so adorable when he gets all He-Man protective of me).
“Just quit.” Mister W makes it sound so simple and easy.
“I can’t just quit!” I garbled into his shoulder.
“Why?”
“...the house, the food you like to eat, the clothes the girls keep growing out of, the new car we have been trying to save up for…should I continue?”
“We can survive on my salary.”
“Survive?” I said, “I’m not sure I want to just “survive.”
“You know what I mean. We downsize, move into an apartment, you can get a part-time job somewhere…or better yet, stay home, write your damn book and home-school the girls.”
“…” Of course this is totally what I want, but I almost feel guilty for wanting it so I say nothing.
“Oh and have dinner for me every night when I get home from work.”
“And a cocktail too I suppose.” I finally crack a tiny smile.
“Yup. Just quit. Works for me.” He smirks.
The awesome thing is, he is serious. Call him a throwback, but his mindset is that of the 1940s where the men worked and the women stayed home. So when he says this to me, I know that if tomorrow, I hand Mr. MoHOLU a resignation letter, Mister W will be fine with it. Hell, he’d probably take me out drinking to celebrate.
Then why am I so scared to do so? Why do I continually torture myself with a job that makes me cry? Sure, I am terrified of being poor. But we have lived on Mister W’s salary alone in the past.
I think what holds me back is my die hard determination to avoid quitting out of defeat. I’ve quit jobs because I’ve moved or have gotten a better offer, but I’ve never quit because I lost, because I was defeated and beaten down.
Right now, I am beaten. And with Mister W prodding me to make a change, I feel like I could almost take that plunge.
Almost.
Today, I once again came home from work with my eyes red and poofy from crying.
It was a rough day.
Not only are the students having to adjust to a new schedule because we had to rearrange classes to meet class size amendment, but with block scheduling “B – Day” is my worst day. I have three 90 minute classes of hell with no break except for lunch. Each class is overloaded, still out of compliance with class size I might add, and all three of the classes are over two thirds ESE (also against the law).
Now having ESE students would be fine IF the students had learning disabilities. I can deal with that, but with the labeling the schools have, anyone with a “behavior” problem is also labeled ESE even though what they really need are parents at home doling out discipline with a large stick! Needless to say, it is hard to actually teach when I spend 70 minutes dealing with behavior problems.
Well, when Mister W saw me walk through the door, he took one look at my face and offered to “take care of” whoever was giving me grief. He was trying to get me to smile a little, but all I managed to do was burst into more tears. Mister W did not like that one bit. In fact, it kind-of turned him into a raging lunatic for a brief moment or two (he is so adorable when he gets all He-Man protective of me).
“Just quit.” Mister W makes it sound so simple and easy.
“I can’t just quit!” I garbled into his shoulder.
“Why?”
“...the house, the food you like to eat, the clothes the girls keep growing out of, the new car we have been trying to save up for…should I continue?”
“We can survive on my salary.”
“Survive?” I said, “I’m not sure I want to just “survive.”
“You know what I mean. We downsize, move into an apartment, you can get a part-time job somewhere…or better yet, stay home, write your damn book and home-school the girls.”
“…” Of course this is totally what I want, but I almost feel guilty for wanting it so I say nothing.
“Oh and have dinner for me every night when I get home from work.”
“And a cocktail too I suppose.” I finally crack a tiny smile.
“Yup. Just quit. Works for me.” He smirks.
The awesome thing is, he is serious. Call him a throwback, but his mindset is that of the 1940s where the men worked and the women stayed home. So when he says this to me, I know that if tomorrow, I hand Mr. MoHOLU a resignation letter, Mister W will be fine with it. Hell, he’d probably take me out drinking to celebrate.
Then why am I so scared to do so? Why do I continually torture myself with a job that makes me cry? Sure, I am terrified of being poor. But we have lived on Mister W’s salary alone in the past.
I think what holds me back is my die hard determination to avoid quitting out of defeat. I’ve quit jobs because I’ve moved or have gotten a better offer, but I’ve never quit because I lost, because I was defeated and beaten down.
Right now, I am beaten. And with Mister W prodding me to make a change, I feel like I could almost take that plunge.
Almost.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Whose Got a "Work Family?" Not me!
Dear Decret Blogiary,
Every year and sometimes multiple times a year, my boss – Mr. MoHOLU – gives the faculty a speech about being at the school for the children and if you are not here for the children then you need to reassess your chosen career. He usually says this in tandem with a “we are a family here at this school. We help and support each other, take care of each other” …blah blah blah.
Well, I have since discovered that that is a big load of crap. There is no “family” at my school. There are cliques, and sure, aren’t they everywhere? Mr. MoHOLU has is own little clique himself. But I always bought into the whole faculty family thing until now.
We have on staff a teacher, Ms. D., who suffers from an incurable degenerative disease. I will not go into details as they are private, but essentially, one faculty member, Ms. S., organized and arranged a fundraiser to donate to MDA research – not to help the family – but strictly for research and local events for the MDA. She talked about it a pre-planning and sent out emails encouraging people to participate – after all this is a cause that we see the effects from every day.
Well, the fundraiser – a bowl-a-thon – came and went. Only two – TWO (including myself) showed up! I’m not sure if any more than that donated, but a family who supports each other we are not!!
Are you telling me that even with a whole month’s notice, people couldn’t clear one 2 hour block of time on a Saturday evening? Are you telling me that STRANGERS are more supportive than a faculty family??
Well, world, I think you are. I have been part of this faculty for six years and I have always involved myself with them. I have attended funeral services, baby showers, other fundraising events, and even donated money to teachers who were going through a difficult time. I had always considered myself lucky to be a part of such a caring faculty.
Well, no more I say. I am so disappointed in my faculty. In people I thought I was friends with. And hell, it wasn’t even MY fundraiser. But the woman we were supporting has been a leading member of the staff. She is on leadership, she is a friend to all, and she manages through every day without complaint and my god! with all that she has been through the woman deserves to complain!!
I am ashamed to be a part of such a faculty. And the next time Mr. MoHOLU makes any comment regarding supporting his “family” I will snort derisively and bow out.
Every year and sometimes multiple times a year, my boss – Mr. MoHOLU – gives the faculty a speech about being at the school for the children and if you are not here for the children then you need to reassess your chosen career. He usually says this in tandem with a “we are a family here at this school. We help and support each other, take care of each other” …blah blah blah.
Well, I have since discovered that that is a big load of crap. There is no “family” at my school. There are cliques, and sure, aren’t they everywhere? Mr. MoHOLU has is own little clique himself. But I always bought into the whole faculty family thing until now.
We have on staff a teacher, Ms. D., who suffers from an incurable degenerative disease. I will not go into details as they are private, but essentially, one faculty member, Ms. S., organized and arranged a fundraiser to donate to MDA research – not to help the family – but strictly for research and local events for the MDA. She talked about it a pre-planning and sent out emails encouraging people to participate – after all this is a cause that we see the effects from every day.
Well, the fundraiser – a bowl-a-thon – came and went. Only two – TWO (including myself) showed up! I’m not sure if any more than that donated, but a family who supports each other we are not!!
Are you telling me that even with a whole month’s notice, people couldn’t clear one 2 hour block of time on a Saturday evening? Are you telling me that STRANGERS are more supportive than a faculty family??
Well, world, I think you are. I have been part of this faculty for six years and I have always involved myself with them. I have attended funeral services, baby showers, other fundraising events, and even donated money to teachers who were going through a difficult time. I had always considered myself lucky to be a part of such a caring faculty.
Well, no more I say. I am so disappointed in my faculty. In people I thought I was friends with. And hell, it wasn’t even MY fundraiser. But the woman we were supporting has been a leading member of the staff. She is on leadership, she is a friend to all, and she manages through every day without complaint and my god! with all that she has been through the woman deserves to complain!!
I am ashamed to be a part of such a faculty. And the next time Mr. MoHOLU makes any comment regarding supporting his “family” I will snort derisively and bow out.
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