We Be Bad

It's School Spirit Week at my school.  The kids have dressed in crazy costumes all week; and yes, that can cause some hyperactivity.  But, all in all, it has been a good week and will culminate tomorrow with a teacher talent show.  Yes, a teacher talent show. 

The girls with whom I teach (grammar is important) are a great bunch.  We work well together and laugh a lot.  Tired, stressed, overworked, and weary, we needed one more thing on our plate.  But, almost all teachers, or any worth their salt, have a bit of theatrics in them.  You might even say we like center stage.  So, my poetry writing got the best of me, and with a few suggestions here and there, I wrote We Bad: The 5th Grade Teacher Rap. 

Any minute now the doorbell will ring.  For one night, we will set aside the papers to grade, forego making that Chapter 3 Social Studies Test, and get our silly on.  Tonight, the Schuh household will go "gangsta.". There's the doorbell. Gotta go.  To be continued...

They came. We practiced. We conquered, Dawg.  And today we performed.  The competition was fierce, but we "represented."

              Fifth Grade Rap


All: We bad, we bad

        We 5th grade teachers are bad

        We make kids study

        Read with a buddy

       And then assign you math

       And make you read a graph

       And tell you not to laugh

      ‘Cause we be bad

Teacher #1: I tell you just last week

                   A kid got outta his seat

                   He said he had to go

                   But I said “No!”

                   He cried, “E-mer-gen-cee,”

                  And I said ” Listen to me

                  I’m teachin’ class right now

                  You’ll have to wait.”

All: He had to wait, He had to wait

       ‘Cause she be bad, B-A-D bad

Teacher #2: Some days we all give tests

                    I make mine harder than the rest

                   So kids will learn their stuff

                   Sometimes I’m gruff

                   If they come unprepared

                   They’ll end up really scared

                    Some even scream and yelp

                   And beg for help

                   Because I’m bad, B-A-D bad

All: Oh yeah, they’ll scream and yelp

        And beg their friends for help

       ‘Cause she be bad, B-A-D bad

Teacher #3: A kid forgot his book

                    And when I  gave him “the look”

                   The poor kid shivered and shook

                   And then he cried

                   I said he’d have to stay in

                   He said, “No recess again?”

                   And I said “Yes.”

                   Because I’m bad

All: She’s really bad

       Have you seen her get mad?

Teacher #4: I remember just last week

                   A student wanted to speak

                   He thought he’d raise his hand

                  While the teacher was talkin’

                   I didn’t like it one bit

                  And threw a hissy-fit

                  Next thing he knew

                  That student was walkin’

                  Down to the office

                  The principal’s office

                  Because I’m bad, B-A-D Bad

All: We bad, We bad

       We 5th grade teachers are bad

       We make kids study

       Read with a buddy

       Because we’re bad

Teacher #5: Last week some kid got sick

                    His mucous was yellow and thick

                    Nurse Robyn sent him home

                    And he missed some work

                    Just sayin’ when he came back

                   Make-up work was piled in a stack

                   ‘Bout gave’em a heart attack

                   It was due at noon

All: It was due at noon?

Teacher #5: It was due at noon.

All: Because we’re bad, B-A-D bad

Teacher #6: I remember the other day

                    When my class went out to play

                    Some students had to stay

                    In the homework room

                    They tried to make an excuse

                    And I said, “It’s no use.”

                   ‘Cause homework has to be done

                    Before there’s fun

All: She said no how, no way

       You can’t go out to play

       They’ll be no fun today

       ‘Til your work is done

        Because I'm bad, B-A-D BAD

                We bad, we bad

                We 5th grade teachers are bad

                We make kids study

                Read with a buddy

                And then assign you math

                And make you read a graph

                And tell you not to laugh

                ‘Cause we be bad

                We make kids study

                Read with a buddy

               ‘Cause we be bad

                 B-B-B-B BAD

               ‘Cause we be bad

                 B-B-B-B BAD

                       WORD

Up and Running



Beginning of school hall display.  Student pictures and
 writing project will be added when completed.



Students rotate in groups to complete various assignments.
I used scrapbooking paper to create backdrops for displaying students'
work.  Cups on desks contain pencils, checking pen, highlighter, and
scissors for easy access and an office feel.

Sunflowers provide a cheery theme throughout the room.
A garden bench is a favorite reading nook for students.

Chair covers with pockets add additional storage for students.
A writing journal and library book are always ready.



A rocking chair is an invitation for a good teacher read-aloud.
Teacher work area includes a fridge and microwave for that morning
cup of coffee and left-overs for lunch.



It's not your grandma's classroom.  Technology includes a SmartBoard.
It take some practice, but an it's an amazing teaching tool.

Students work in groups and rotate to different stations throughout
 the reading period.  Whiteboards are changed daily to detail the expectations
 for each station.

If it Ain't Broke

So I had a few minutes on my hands and started messing with the design of my blog.  It wasn't that I was terribly dissatisfied with the way it looked, it was just something to do.  I mean there were lots of different fonts available, and I love a good font.  There were designs I thought would look neat.  And color, I could add some different colors.  That could be good . . . or not.  The truth is, I messed up; and what's worse, I didn't save my original design.  I want it back, but it's gone.  So, I'll be working on my blog from time to time.  I think there will be lots of intermediary changes before I get it right.  Bear with me.  And remember, if it aint't broke . . .

I'm Wired

I've been on vacation for two weeks, our annual pilgrimage to the beach.  This is our time to relax and renew, get away from any stress or pressure.  That's why we brought 2 laptops, 1 iPad, 2 iPhones, a Blackberry and a Netbook, not to mention a router, car chargers and a drawerful of other charging wires.  I can remember when going to bed meant locking the doors and turning off the lights.  Now we spend an additional ten minutes placing phones in docks, and plugging in computers.  Just a year ago, we'd spend the day at the beach, go out for dinner, and return for a rousing game of Chicken Foot or Mexican Train around the table.  We'd laugh and tell stories as we placed dominoes strategically in a game that was more about  being together than competition.  This year we still played games upon returning from dinner, but the games have changed.  We each grabbed our computer of choice and began playing.  I started with Scrabble on Facebook, proceeded to Hanging with Friends followed by a few games of Words with Friends, and ended with games of Spider Solitaire that left my index finger aching from pecking keys.  The sad thing is, I'm not actually complaining.  I enjoyed having the time to play.  It's just that, in my heart of hearts, I think this isn't right. 

I did bring my laptop for another reason that meshes beautifully with hours of idle surf watching.  With my toes in the water, I am exploring the plot of a book I have wanted to try writing for some time. I appreciate those of you who take the time to read my blog, and I thought I would like to try out my first chapter on you.   Let me know if I've piqued your interest.

Where Evil Lies

Only now, looking back, can I contemplate the evil visited upon the idyllic neighborhood of my childhood.  A lifetime of knowledge allows me to see now what I couldn’t see then- rightly shouldn’t have seen, in my time of innocence.  

Mother stood at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes, a nightly ritual, in preparation for a dinner of what I hoped would be country fried steak.  Sure enough, she pulled the meat mallet out of the utensil drawer and began pounding the round steak she had purchased that afternoon at the nearby Key Market.   Sam, the butcher, had tried to talk her into some pork chops that were on special, but my mother wasn’t one to be easily swayed.  So, steak it was.  No point asking if I could help with tenderizing the meat.  Only once had she trusted me with her mallet; and unfortunately, my aim had been off.  My mighty mallet swing missed the meat and landed firmly and squarely on the tiled edge of the kitchen counter.  The pristine row of white tiles, bleached religiously every Saturday, was broken.  The counter was never repaired, and the story of its demise would be lamented forevermore to any guest who found their way into Mother’s kitchen.

            “When will Daddy be home?” I asked.  “I’m hungry.”

            “He hasn’t called yet,” Mother replied with a slight bit of irritation evident in her voice.  She handed me a slice of raw potato meant to tide me over until we all sat down for dinner.   Although Daddy was often late, we rarely started our meal without him. 

            There was a good chance Daddy had tried to call.  We shared a phone line, or party line, with an elderly lady who spent the afternoons gabbing with her sister.  On occasion I would quietly lift the receiver to see if Old Miss So-‘n-So, as we fondly referred to her, was chatting.   Although I never listened long enough to hear a complete conversation, (Well, there was that one time Mother caught me eavesdropping.)   I often managed to catch a word or two as I lowered the receiver to its cradle.  It seemed that Old Miss So-‘n-So suffered from irregularity on a regular basis, and her sister’s rheumatism wasn’t any better. 

            This once I actually hoped she would be on the line.  That would mean, perhaps, that Daddy had tried to call, couldn’t get through, and would arrive home at any moment.  Dinner would be sooner rather than later, and there would still be time left, after dinner and before the streetlights came on, for my friends and me to play a game of Swinging Statues. 

            Cautiously, I lifted the large black receiver just enough to slide my finger onto the disconnect button.  If you lifted the receiver straight up, the person on the line would almost certainly hear, but if you gently released the disconnect button with your finger, the intrusion was almost imperceptible.  Practice makes perfect, and I had mastered the art.  As expected, upon releasing the button I immediately heard the two gabby sisters animated voices.  Miss So-‘n-So’s was a bit screechier than usual.  She uttered something about “urban renewal” and “those people” just as Daddy walked through the front door.  The need for stealth forgotten, I quickly dropped the receiver in its place.

            “Daddy,” I screamed, as I ran and jumped into his open arms.

            “How’s my girl? “he asked, as he gave me a whiskered hug and kiss.  I rested my head on his shoulder as he carried me into the kitchen, placed his large black lunchbox on the counter, and pulled Mother into our embrace.  As I slithered out of Daddy’s hold, he grabbed Mother tighter and dipped her for his “glad to be home” kiss.

            “I’ve been looking forward to that all day,” he said with a smile and a wink my way.  “Have I told you that you have the most beautiful mother in the world?” he asked.

            “Oh, Daddy,” I moaned.  “You say that every night.  What about me?”

            “You?” he quipped, “Why, you’re the most beautiful ten year old daughter a man could have!  Where’s that other daughter of mine?”

            Mother poked a fork into the sizzling meat and turned each piece.  The hot oil popped and sizzled anew as the floured coating turned to a crispy, brown crust.  She wiped her hands on her apron and poured Daddy a glass of freshly brewed iced tea. 

            “Brenda Sue’s over at the Abbot’s house,” Mother reported.  “She and Carol Ann are working on a science project together.  Carol Ann’s mother invited Brenda Sue to stay for dinner, so it’s just the three of us tonight.”

            “I don’t want her walking home by herself in the dark.  Did you tell her to call when she’s ready to come home?  I’ll go get her.”

            “I did, Russell.  Now sit down and relax while I finish making the gravy.  Angie, go get the paper for your Daddy . . . and then wash those hands for supper.”

            Obediently, I dashed into the living room and grabbed the newspaper from the magazine rack next to Daddy’s chair.  Stopping by the bathroom, I passed my fingers under the cold water and splashed a little on the bar of soap so it would look like it had been used.  I arrived in the kitchen as Mother placed a bowl of creamed peas on the table to go with the steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and Daddy’s favorite, cole slaw.

           I slid into my seat as Mother took her place across from Daddy.  We joined hands and Daddy nodded at me to say grace.

            “God is good.  God is great,” I began.  “Let us thank Him for this food.  By his hands we must be fed.  Give us Lord our daily bread.  Amen.”

            “Amen,” Daddy echoed as he picked up the bowl of potatoes and spooned out a large helping onto his plate and a smaller one onto mine. 

            “What kind of project does Brenda Sue have due this late in the year?” he asked, exchanging the bowl of potatoes for the one filled with peas. 

            “It’s some kind of science fiction project, Russell.  I’m not sure how much they are learning, but they are certainly enjoying themselves.  I had to empty two boxes of cereal into Tupperware containers so they could use the boxes.  They’ve used up all my aluminum foil, too, and that’s not cheap,” Mother complained.

            “It must be science fiction,” said Daddy, “’cause that doesn’t sound like any science I ever heard of.  What are they making?”

            “It’s a robot, Daddy,” I answered, “and its eyes light up.”

            “Well, that sounds pretty impressive.  Sounds like Wally Abbott is lending a hand on that project.  What about you, pumpkin?  Do you have an end of year project?”

             “No. Well, I have to finish reading Hello, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and make a puppet of the main character,” I answered.  “Do you have a sock I can use, Daddy?”

            “I’ll find you a sock after dinner,” said Mother.  “And why is this the first I’m hearing about a puppet project?  You only have two more days of school.  How long have you known about this?”

            “She only just assigned it yesterday, but she said we could bring our materials to school and work on it in class.  I already know what mine’s going to look like.  I’ll get it done on time,” I assured Mother.

            “Well, eat your peas . . .”

            “But I don’t like peas, and you put too many on my plate, Daddy,” I whined.

            “Eat you peas like your Mother said,” Daddy barked in a pretend mad voice.  “Dorothy, is there any more of your sweet iced tea left?  My glass seems to be empty.”

            “There’s plenty,” replied Mother as she rose and crossed to the refrigerator.

            I knew what was coming next.  Daddy gave my peas a sideways glance, winked at me, and scooped a large portion of them from my plate to his, just as Mother turned to pour his tea. 

            “So, Dorothy,” Daddy asked.  “Didn’t you have a PTA meeting today?”

            “I did,” said Mother.  “Angie, I see your peas are gone.”  She glared knowingly at Daddy.  “Run on to your room and get started on that project.”

            “But, Momma, I need a sock,” I said, hoping she wasn’t in the mood to go find one.  “and we were going to play Swinging Statues in Danny and Becky’s backyard.”

            “Well, I’ll find your sock later.  You go to your room and read for 15 minutes, and then you can go play.”

            As I left the room, Mother’s voice immediately lowered.  Whatever she was saying, she didn’t want me to hear.  It seemed like the most interesting information was always spoken in this particular tone.  I stopped and sat on the bottom step of the stairs that led to the room I shared with Brenda Sue.  I was out of sight, but not out of hearing distance.

            “The PTA Board meeting was fine,” Mother began, “Margaret Miller was sworn in as President for next year, and Francine Hogue will serve as Vice-President.  The two of them should make a great team; however, the conversation I had with Miss Hemphill after the meeting was a bit unsettling.”

            “I always found conversations with the school principal to be unsettling at the very least,” said Daddy.

            “Russell, I’m serious.  Miss Hemphill was quite agitated.  It seems a Negro family has purchased a home on this side of Lincoln Avenue.  Were you aware of that?”

           “I’d heard talk,” answered Daddy.  “It was bound to happen.  They keep tearing down those big old homes in the inner city, with all that ‘urban renewal’.  Those people have to live somewhere.”

            “Well, I’m fine with that, but Miss Hemphill isn’t.  She says our school will be forced to integrate next year.  Miss Hemphill has always seemed like such a caring person, but she said, and I quote, ‘The day a Negro child enters this elementary school is the day I leave.’  Just like that, Russell.  I wish you could have seen the look on her face.  Why, It was a look of hatred if I’ve ever seen one.”  Mother hissed.

            “I’m a bit surprised myself,” replied Daddy.  “Second Street Elementary and East Harding have been integrated since 1956.  The folks in that area seem to have accepted it with no problem. “

            That was the second time today I had heard those words, “urban renewal.” I was dying to ask Daddy to explain it to me, but that would certainly reveal the fact that I had been listening in on their conversation. The sound of Daddy’s chair scraping across the linoleum floor let me know he was headed to his chair in the living room.  I scrambled silently up the stairs to my room.  I found the conversation about Miss Hemphill much more interesting than Miss Piggle-Wiggle, but I didn’t want to begin my summer vacation with a punishment so I began to read.

To be continued . . .          

           

             

           

             

Cousins

     The Cousins

I'm locking my closet
And hiding my toys.
The cousins are coming,
They're two little boys

Who'll drag out things
I'd forgotten I had,
And when I get angry
They'll run tell my dad

That I won't let them
Play with my things;
Can you imagine
The trouble that brings?

My dad comes stomping
Right up the stairs.
The back of my neck
Gets prickly hairs.

"What's this I hear?
You're not willing to share?"
And then he gives me
That long, cold stare.

My cousin just grins;
He thinks it's so funny.
Then dad pats his head and says
"It's alright now, honey."

So I'm left to play
With the horrible brat,
Who breaks all my toys
And squeezes my cat.

My toys are askew
And my room is a sight,
And then Aunt Ginny yells,
"Tell your cousins good-night."

"What?  You're leaving?
Huh-uh!  No way!
Not until you help
Put all my toys away!"

But next thing I know
They've donned their coats
And thrown their mufflers
Around their throats

Climbed in their car
And driven away.
I think to myself
I hope they'll stay

Away until
Their kids are full grown
Or at least next time,
Bring toys of their own.

Wrinkle Free

I'm an ironer; I thought you should know.  I spent the morning working my way through a basket of clothes, and there's a second one still to do.  You're probably thinking, "Poor girl.  What away to spend her time off!"  The next time I run into you, you'll tell me how you grab your clothes from the dryer as soon as it goes off and they look great.  Which must be true, because honestly, I am not tsk-tsking behind your back.  What you do is fine with me, but . . . I am an ironer.  It's in my genes.  And yes, speaking of jeans, I iron mine.



 I started ironing at a very early age.  (My husband says I exaggerate this, but I really was three.) Oh, I didn't do the difficult pieces.  I began with Daddy's handkerchiefs and graduated to pillowcases.  Too short to reach the ironing board, I stood on Daddy's footstool.  We didn't have a steam iron in those days, so the clothes had to be sprinkled.  Mother had a coke bottle with a little cork sprinkler that fit into the neck. After bringing the clothes in from the line (No dryer, we hung them outside on the clothesline that stretched from one corner of our yard to the other.) she would place them on the kitchen table where she would sprinkle each piece, roll it into a little ball and place it in a plastic bag to "cure" in the refrigerator until Tuesday, which was ironing day.

After pillowcases came petticoats. It was a great place to learn some of the finer techniques of ironing.  There was a ruffle at the bottom of the petticoat, and one had to learn the proper way to iron "gathered" fabric.  There's a lot of smoothing and holding of the fabric just so, to allow for placing the nose of the iron in each gather.   My early experiences weren't without mishaps.  Little girls dresses tended to have puffy sleeves, make that "the dreaded puffy sleeves."  (Seinfeld had nothing on me.)  You really had to work to create a flat surface to iron.  I remember trying so hard to get it right that I accidentally placed the iron on top of my fingers.  To this day I can show you the faint battle scar I received from that early endeavor.  (Thanks to my big sister who took me for a walk around the block to get my mind off the pain.  Some things you just never forget.)

And so I iron.  I find it deeply satifying-the removal of wrinkles.

I was afraid I had failed my son.  At three, he was watching Sesame Street, at five, he was riding bikes.  I'm pretty sure it was the summer before he left for college that I introduced him to the ironing board.  Fortunately, he was a fast learner (gifted even).  Apparently, he had inherited my ironing gene and was known for it in college.

Well, there's that other basket that needs to be done.  However, before I end this piece let me just mention that I also like to vaccuum.  Stay tune for my next blog "Streaks in the Carpet."

           Laundry List

White sheets
Snapping
Flapping
Waving
Sunlight
Toasting
Slowly
Dry
Clouds
Appearing
Laughing
Leering
Storm clouds
Forming
Angry Sky
Mother
Dashing
Grabbing
Snatching
Folding
Scolding
Quick
Inside.

Jack and the Beanstalk on Shine

Saturday morning, and I'm sitting at my desk sipping coffee and doing my "computer thing." What is that, you ask? Let's be real, you do it too. I see you there. I begin by checking my emails. I must admit, there's little action there these days. It's mainly, advertisements and such, whose email addresses I've permitted (in a weak moment) to slip from spam to inbox . It seems that facebook is where it's happening; so, of course, I go there next. I read what my friends have to say and make empathizing, witty, or non-committal replies. If time allows (Afterall, there are Scrabble games to play.) I view the videos you download. And here's my segue. Speaking of videos, I found one this morning. I connected to it on both the mom and the teacher level. As a mom I chuckled and remembered my own son reciting: Are You My Mother? by P.D. Eastman. I experience a little sadness knowing that we didn't record it and never got to post in on You Tube. In those days, we couldn't even afford a video camera. So it resides in my memory, and is remembered at the dinner table on Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and Mother's Day, and Father's Day, and . . .

As a teacher, I couldn't help but hear the inflection in the aunt's voice as she led the toddler through the story. If you watch it, you will notice what an excellent job the child does of mimicking her tone. Already, he is speaking with expression and appropriate emphasis. I am struck by the positive impact of modeling. Wouldn't this be a wonderful clip to play at a parent/teacher meeting. The video says it better than any words. If you want your child to be a good reader, then read with your child. Predictably, my thoughts didn't stop there. I got hung on the word "positive." In the vernacular of an educator, my metacognition, or the awareness of one's own thinking process, led me to the opposite of positive, which, as you know, is negative. And I pondered for a few moments the negative impact of modeling. The child in this video is quite young; and yet, he takes in and copies what he sees and hears. Although this child appears extremely bright, I don't believe he is selective in what he mimics. If something is repeated enough, his sharp little mind is going to grasp it, and put it back out there. As parents, grandparents, teachers, citizens, etc., it should make us think. What are we modeling for our children? or What's wrong with our country? Hmmm. I wonder.

2 year-old recites Jack and the Beanstalk on Shine