TTWA:  Email to parents

TTWA Assignment:  Part 1) You are a coach who has just cut an 11-year-old girl from the team.  Write an email to her parents, explaining why.  Part )  Now you are the school principal.  Write an email to the coach who cut the girl from the team, explaining why he is being fired.

Emailing parents is a necessary but irksome job for teachers.  The risk to upsetting someone is rather high.  I once used the word ‘generosity’ to describe a bumping a deserving student from a C+ to a B-.  The parent then replied a day later that her child ‘worked hard’ and did not need any of my ‘generosity.’  Sometimes you learn the hard way.

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TTWA:  Problematic Party

 A thank-you note for a weekend visit where everything went wrong.

As a devout introvert, weekend visits are chimerical, that is rare and often terrifying.  Attending family parties, being forced into polite but shallow conversations, and eventually seeking out a quiet place to hide and read or play games . . . the whole ordeal taxes my mind and spirit.  Shame, guilt and anxiety build even if I do manage to escape to my comfort zone.  Am I running away from my problems?  Do I dislike the people with whom I surround myself?  Maybe I’m afraid of crowds . . .Talking to two or three people at once is stimulating, but add half-a-dozen and the conversation nose-dives into general pleasantries or rehearsed opinions about sports.  At worst, the conversation devolves into a lecture with the more competent speaker assuming the role of professor.

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Off Duty

LoyolaAs a student, it always amused me to stumble upon my teachers outside the classroom: at the mall, in the movie theater, or even on the school parking lot.  Somehow it seemed strange to discover that our educators had lives and families outside the school property, as if they had apartments in the teacher lounge or — more abstractly — ceased to exist entirely without their class.  I would imagine Mrs. Willis and Mr. Phebus melting from the walls at the ringing of the bells, reforming flesh from discarded glitter glue and construction paper like a Terminator villain armed with copious lesson plans and graded algebra tests.

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Riddles and the Mark

RiddleOne of the most difficult thing about being a teacher is the fact that I cannot write much about my job.  That is to say, I can and — as this post will demonstrate — will, but the repercussions of lawsuits, job loss, and public humiliation always undermine my efforts to write about my life anymore.  Other topics such as my siblings, new houses, geek stuff, and adventurous excursions to far off realms may prove fodder for my ‘talents,’ I often fain from ranting of late.  It’s not the ‘been there, done that’ feeling per se, the ennui of a former life, but my writing has always centered around my feelings, ponderings, and frustrations about daily living.  What is the point of spreading my thoughts across this blank page if — much like a wayward girlfriend — my heart just does not want to commit.

So screw all that.  Time to start afresh (which I discovered the other day was one word, not two; the world indeed is awash with wonder, Charlie Brown).

For the sake of my financial independence both present and future, I’ve decided to disguise my students identity with an alias, or a faux nom if you’re feeling fancy or . . . perhaps French.  Thus, Students of the Murph, I dub thee . . . Robin.  Ta-da.  Now, those that know me may assume (which is always a mistake if you wish to avoid the title of ‘ass’ for both you and me) that I choose this appellation due to my obsession with Bruce Wayne and his alter ego, but you, Sir, could not be more wrong.  As a matter of fact, Robin serves as the perfect androgynous nom de plume for a school of either boys or girls.  Or both!  I could teach at either private or public.  You never know, because it’s a mystery.  I am totally relishing your confusion right now.

So this particular incident occurred the other day during an exam review session after school.  Many teachers volunteer their time to review the final test and acclimate their students to information long buried by snow days, proms and the promise of summer.
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Fire and Ice

As I sit and write, the teachers in the science department are jamming out, banging their heads to Pink Floyd’s “Brick in the Wall.” Besides the obvious irony — my coworkers practically screamed ‘Teacher, leave those kids alone!’ — those students that have dropped by wrinkle their noses as if they caught us cooking chocolate-covered crickets.

Winter proves a difficult time for school.  Too little snow yields a figurative eternity between Christmas and Spring Break, while too much and you may as well cancel your summer holidays.  All in all, I’d to stay indoors by the fire with a good book and a pot of tea, a schedule broken only by my writing, gaming, napping, and jogging to the bathroom — all that tea, you know.

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The End of a Beginning

The tassel hung from my cap like a fly trap in my grandfather’s barn.  Every breath dislocated the strings clinging to my ears, eyes, and nostrils and scattering the pieces into another equally obnoxious location.  It was like being hugged by a miniature octopus in heat: annoying and mildly disturbing.  The rest of the academic staff appeared nonplussed by the attire.  We marched into the bowels of the cathedral between rows of parents and relatives wielding telescopic cameras and palm-sized smart phones.  Within a second the whole procession would be circulating around the web, complete with tags of the students favorite (and most hated) teachers, so I tried to appear as dignified as possible, suppressing the urge to hurl both cap and gown in the air and  blast skeet-style with a shotgun — or not owning a gun, hit it really really hard with my car keys.  Pew.  Pew.

We approached the altar of the cathedral and bowed, then the procession turned to the side and filtered into our seats adjacent to a small electric organ.  Once parked in our pews, we turned to smile on a crowd of white gowned seniors, eager and excited for the evening parties, college and summer vacation.   My many-fingered yarned beast choose the moment to slap me in the face repeatedly.

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The rumors concerning our sanity have been greatly exaggerated.

Coffee cup

The motivation behind all scientific discovery begins here . . .

October found me eager and excited, brimming with confidence and creativity for my work . . . at least during weekends. However, Monday mornings broke with the din of a funeral march, disturbing those few early morning dreams and ushering me upstairs upon the family couch while reruns of Law and Order painted visions of murder and desperation before sleep-filled eyes.  Waiting to leave the house proved the most trying, as my imagination, planting visions of screaming children and growling soccer moms, tried its damnedest to wrack my body with anxiety, upset my stomach and basically ruin the whole of my week.

Thankfully, I had Dunkin Donuts and their wonderful battalion of iced coffees to attack my flagging spirit and sleep deprivation.  Truly, the smell alone had a soothing effect; the extra-large galleon-sized container of liquid energy, a balm to my worries.  My imagination, drowning in legal stimulants, learned to behave, and I drove to school, happily contemplating Thanksgiving and Christmas break, only three months away.

The fallout from the field trip befell us the following Monday when Dr. T took us in the conference room for lunch. Slowly Ms. P spilled the story, downplaying our absence at the deli (a little) and deleting the abusive pot-smoker entirely (to be fair, the kids were not involved at all). Continue reading