Bully in the Past

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique. Of course, I wanted to make a difference in someone’s life. I have always wanted to help change someone’s life for the better. I thought this was always my goal. Clearly it wasn’t.

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique just because I was picked on when I was in middle school and high school either. Upon moving to my uppity community in middle school, I found myself without friends, knowing only my little brother, and thirteen. I was a young teenager trying to fit in. Entering middle school alone is social suicide; the cliques were already full. Girls used to tease me about my “secret” crushes. The boys would taunt me with strange vocabulary words and make me guess their meanings; mostly the words were dirty words, or so they said they were, as they laughed at my stupidity. The stupidity really came from me because I still wanted to impress these people.

In seventh grade, walking down the hallway after school I was stopped by a particular boy. Even twenty years later, I can remember it clearly. He was probably flirting, but I couldn’t allow it. He wanted to flick my bra strap. I dodged his reaching arm and even participated in a small bout with him stumbling around the hall. I ended up kicking the boy in the shin. I loved him. I loved him even after I returned home later that evening as I pleaded with my mom to buy me a bra.

Needless to say, I didn’t win the boy over and I spent most of my middle school and high school career trying to impress boys with anything I could. Because of these “traumatic” teenage experiences, I don’t really remember many people from grade school. I have blocked them out of my mind.

Now with Facebook and an occasional return visit to my hometown, I have been contacted by a variety of old classmates. I wonder why they remember me so well. I wonder why they want to be my Facebook friend now when before they either used me for sexual conquests, or wouldn’t give me the time of day, or sadly, both. Even today, I still want to be their friends a little inside; I accept their friendship requests, and I pretend to recognize them when I cross paths with them. I can fake it for them, for me.

Recently some of my fellow band mates (marching band, not a lame garage rock band) posted some old photos from some band competitions. I flipped through the pictures laughing at my perm and trying to guess each person’s name when I realized that I was tagged as the wrong person. I don’t know why my feelings were hurt. I don’t remember even a quarter of the people I should. Why would it bother me for them to mark me as a color guard member rather than a band member? I decided to retag all my photos, so as to correct the person’s mistakes.

The next day I got a friend request from another person in the photo; obviously he saw my new tags when he explored the photos. It was a boy who grew up next to me, a few blocks down the road in the same neighborhood. I remember him quickly and immediately, and not because I thought he was cute or athletic in school. I remember him because he was someone we picked on in the neighborhood.

Just when I thought that I was the one who was tormented, I recalled my brother and I setting up elaborate haunted scenes in our backyard. See, this boy, in the eighties, was sure he was a Ghostbuster. (This is probably not a suggested practice for any seventh grader.) My brother knew this short little Indian boy liked me, too. My brother knew that the boy trusted me because I was his “friend” at school. With my brother and a few of his friends, we would lure the poor boy in the yard and taunt him with unrealistic ghosts. He was pretty gullible. One time I remember even being tried to a tree by a ghost. The boy always would come to my rescue. Another time we convinced him to search the shed only to lock him into it.

One afternoon he bought me a five pack of lifesavers for me and tried to get me to kiss him. I didn’t. I believe the incident ended with my sister and brother opening and closing the door in his face. Eventually he left, and we split the lifesavers. In retrospect, I don’t remember enjoying them.

I teased the boy in school. I used him for laughs with my girlfriends. Eventually some of the band girls actually influenced his sister against him. He would have given any of us a dollar or a homework assignment just for a little smile or a simple compliment. We made sure everyone treated him the same way.

I was a pretty big loser myself in middle school and high school. I knew and know how it feels to be picked on and used. Why did I do this to this poor boy? Why, of the very few things I remember about being a teenager, do I remember this so clearly?

Actually the adult boy still wanted to talk to me. Oddly, he didn’t remember much about me. He didn’t realize my picture was tagged incorrectly. He didn’t even remember I had a brother. Still, I nearly apologized for my rude immature behavior twice. I didn’t. I probably would feel better right now if I did. Even as he complained about how much he disliked living in that school district, I couldn’t take one for the team and apologize for my actions.

Now, as selfish as it is, I can only think about is what makes so many people remember me so well? The only reason why I remember this poor forsaken Ghostbuster is because I taunted him through school; I helped make middle school and the start of high school miserable for him. I picked on someone else just because people picked on me. Did I really even have this much power?

I have wanted to change someone’s life…make a difference. I could have done that twenty years ago. I could have stepped up and actually been his friend. I guess, in a way, I am a teacher because of this time in my life. I want to make students that were like me stronger, so they will be brave and stick up for others. I would like to make everyone more tolerable of one another. Is this even possible? I might be able to still change one person….

The Hardest Job in Whole World

Parenting has to be the hardest job in the whole world.  When I think I have it rough with my hundred plus teenagers, I thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to go home to more kids.  Call me insensitive, but really I don’t care.  Parenting is a job that keeps going long after a regular day of work is had.  I have the weekend off. I have nieces and nephews…I still get to go home to my quiet house.  It isn’t lonely.  It’s peaceful.  A parent’s job is never really done.  And the better the parent, the longer the sentence they received.  I see my parents multiple times through the week and still encourage my mother to fix dinner weekly.  Truly I believe that mother enjoys her children, but I know for a fact that I have made her cry once or twice for some stupid issues in high school.  I still never made my mother cry because of something I could control; she always cried for things that were impossible for me to take back.  Something I would gladly have done for her on the occasions she did cry.

There was a parent conference at school today.  These meetings are mostly called by the parents at the middle school level.  It would be nearly impossible to meet with every parent in a smaller parent-teacher conference.  This is actually a better solution to middle school problems.  The boy, his mother, his counselor, and his six teachers sit down and discuss what is good about the boy and what he needs to improve.

Personally I think, most general education students can handle middle school classes.  The classes are not that hard to pass, but it is true that some students have to work harder than others.  In the same way that one subject is harder than another.  In most cases, the conferences that I attend involve a student that has two distinct assets: caring parents (at least care enough to call a meeting) and the ability (but not yet the motivation) to fulfill their responsibility.  Vary rarely do I attend a conference where a student in truly incapable of doing the work.  In ten years of teaching, I have only requested tests for three or four students for special education.  It is middle school; hopefully, no one falls through the cracks that long.  It happens but not often.

Every parent makes mistakes.  Most parents care that their children succeed.  I know this to be true as I sit with this mother and her son.  She hears all of the teachers say how great her son is, but still he won’t do his work.  We offer solutions and guidance.  She has grounded him from everything for over a year.  He doesn’t care.  She insists she sees him sit in his room doing absolutely nothing.  The boy just sits in front of us all and stares at the floor.  I might actually believe he could perform an act such as nothing.

The boy leaves for a moment, and the mother tells us that he hasn’t seen his dad in over two years.  In fact, his dad called last week and asked for him to visit his home in Kentucky.  Of course, at the last minute, the father cancels.  The mother begins to weep.  I can only assume that this is something the boy is faced with often.

The boy returns.  We again help give him what his father has taken away from him.  We become after school buddies and promises ourselves to listen to his stories a little more.  The mother spends the rest of the meeting drying her eyes.

I don’t know how any child can sit apathetically as their mother cries.  I want to shake the kid and scream, “Look what you are doing to your mother!” Of course, I have seen worse than this mother.  I have seen other mothers sob or scream or make more excuse.  Can I stop her from crying?  We definitely tried; obviously we all care enough to be there for him.  The boy is offered opportunities to stay after school every day with a teacher, for help with homework and for attention.  We gave him second chances on assignments.  We offered all the help we could.  It won’t make a difference what we do if the student doesn’t do anything for himself.

It may be his father’s fault; he has definitely proved to be a rotten father.  It may be his mother’s fault; she might let the boy off the hook too often.  It may be the teacher’s fault; we don’t help enough, care enough, or reach him with our teaching style enough.  Or it may be the student’s fault; he is still the one passing state tests, reading for fun, and still not turning in his work.

Some parents care; some don’t care enough; others don’t care at all.  There is no winning for some kids.  Still the kids have to overcome odds and make themselves people.  How do I convince a thirteen year old that their lack of interest now will affect them in ten years? I only know the student for a year, maybe two; I can only do so much as a teacher.  Parents are responsible forever.  If the boy never gets motivated, he could be living with his mother when he is thirty or in jail.  The responsibility is too great.  Parenting is the hardest job in the whole world.