I show up to work Tuesday night, after all the students have left campus except the football and basketball teams, who have games. Every door to the Peterson Event Center is locked. Apparently security misunderstood the building's role as a University building? The University is open until Wednesday at five, even though the students are "on break." I am already flustered because, somehow, I shooshed my very famous professor in class today. He talked while I was talking and I forgot my place in the world and I shooshed the man who is quoted in literally every composition textbook in existence. I shooshed, he laughed, and I began to sweat profusely. Then I go to work and the doors are locked.
I begin to panic because I know my students. They are already sad and pissed that they have to be here over break. They tend to give one tug on a locked door and head home for the PS3. I have to call my big boss in order to get the doors unlocked. Crisis #1.
I run into my hungry student from last year and he gives me a hug. I ask why he has such a huge beard, one that would make a Sikh proud. He tells me there aren't any good "black-folk-barbers" in Pittsburgh, at least not ones that are open during hours he has free. He has to wait until he goes home for Christmas to get a shave. He is very disgruntled about his facial hair and said that I have drawn attention to it. Crisis #2.
My first student of the evening is an enormous student. A doorway sized person with hands the size of my face, thick as a New York bagel. He chooses to hand write his assignment and I ask him, sticking my foot right back in my mouth, why he holds his pencil so awkwardly. He shakes his huge hand in my face and says, "my hand's too damn big! Look at my hand!" I realize that the pencil hides between the folds of his fingers like a sewing needle would in my own paw. Of course he can't hold the pencil properly and of course his fingers, bigger in circumference than a keyboard key, make typing awkward. I have made him aware of his unusual penmanship and he gets frustrated that nothing is his size, from the tiny chair he spews over to the standard door frame that smacks his forehead when he doesn't pay attention. After a few minutes of lamenting, he decides to leave and write his paper another day. Crisis #3
I end the night working with a Floridian student who misses his aunts' cooking and is jealous that I get to see my family when he can't go home until mid-December. He is writing a paper about class in America and doesn't know how to describe adequately the experience of growing up in a poverty stricken neighborhood outside of Naples, wishing all his life for a beach house or at least access to the pristine sand the rich people seem to never let get dirty. The paper and the holidays overwhelm him. He takes frequent bathroom breaks, but discovers the doors to the bathroom have been locked again by security. He wants to give up and go home for the night. We start talking about being left handed and smile that we don't have to switch seats, because neither of us will bump or inhibit the other. He decides to stay for awhile and writes most of his paper. I end the night on a high note.
Showing posts with label Students. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Students. Show all posts
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Work Never Ends
Many of my students have ADHD. I have worked enough with the diagnosed students to recognize the symptoms of the undiagnosed ones just as readily. What does that look like during a tutoring session? I will show you:
I worked with Bob (name completely changed) last night on his English paper. Bob has diagnosed ADHD. He doesn't medicate or use any other sorts of intervention techniques. He came in and paced around the cubicle for ten minutes whining about life and using avoidance tactics to not write the paper. He finally sat down to write, asking me a question before and during every sentence. He took frequent bathroom breaks, bought a smoothie and a burger, and kept checking his Facebook. After two hours, he had a little over a page written, threw down his pencil and said, "man, I don't know. I hate this shit." He started text messaging for a long time until I could convince him to keep working a bit longer. The cycle repeated.
So then I came home to wrangle Corey into thank-you-note mode. We, after six months, are starting to field angry phone calls questioning our gratitude. It had to be done. Corey paced around the living room for a long time while I started writing. "What should I say?" he asked. Repeatedly. He asked if, instead, he could just address the envelopes. He fidgeted with the DVD player. He finally sat down to write, and asked me questions before and during every sentence. "Did I spell your grandma's name right?" "Is this ending too harsh?" "Do I thank them for coming to the wedding? It's ok to say I want to catch up at Thanksgiving? Can I talk about the house in here?" He took frequent breaks to get snacks or drinks, helped make bruschetta, and got a PBR. He became so distracted by the movie that we had to turn it off. After two hours, he got a handful of cards written but forgot to lick the envelopes. I realized that I was having deja vu.
We have talked often about Corey's certainty that he has ADHD. Such is his disorganization that he says I have to make the doctor's appointment for him to talk about it or he'll keep forgetting. Instead, I spent another shift tutoring my husband in thank-you-note etiquette and now I'm about to leave for work to tutor football players again. How does this happen?
I worked with Bob (name completely changed) last night on his English paper. Bob has diagnosed ADHD. He doesn't medicate or use any other sorts of intervention techniques. He came in and paced around the cubicle for ten minutes whining about life and using avoidance tactics to not write the paper. He finally sat down to write, asking me a question before and during every sentence. He took frequent bathroom breaks, bought a smoothie and a burger, and kept checking his Facebook. After two hours, he had a little over a page written, threw down his pencil and said, "man, I don't know. I hate this shit." He started text messaging for a long time until I could convince him to keep working a bit longer. The cycle repeated.
So then I came home to wrangle Corey into thank-you-note mode. We, after six months, are starting to field angry phone calls questioning our gratitude. It had to be done. Corey paced around the living room for a long time while I started writing. "What should I say?" he asked. Repeatedly. He asked if, instead, he could just address the envelopes. He fidgeted with the DVD player. He finally sat down to write, and asked me questions before and during every sentence. "Did I spell your grandma's name right?" "Is this ending too harsh?" "Do I thank them for coming to the wedding? It's ok to say I want to catch up at Thanksgiving? Can I talk about the house in here?" He took frequent breaks to get snacks or drinks, helped make bruschetta, and got a PBR. He became so distracted by the movie that we had to turn it off. After two hours, he got a handful of cards written but forgot to lick the envelopes. I realized that I was having deja vu.
We have talked often about Corey's certainty that he has ADHD. Such is his disorganization that he says I have to make the doctor's appointment for him to talk about it or he'll keep forgetting. Instead, I spent another shift tutoring my husband in thank-you-note etiquette and now I'm about to leave for work to tutor football players again. How does this happen?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Speaking Their Language
A few weeks ago, the hip students at work all started saying, "What's good, Katy?" when they walked into the lab. At first, I thought they were talking about my food since I'm always eating. I responded, "oh, chicken lo mein." Or something similar. Then I noticed they were laughing at me.
So I asked Gary one day what the appropriate response to and definition of the phrase might be. He told me it has replaced, "what's up?" and I'm supposed to say, "Nuttin. Chillin."
Today I got to test it. I was working with Gary, who is 6'10.5" (I was dwarfed by his thigh, which I decided is the exact length and girth of the 60 pound sandbags we lift at rugby practice). Gary was hunched over the too-small chair with his knees up at his ears, typing on the too-small keyboard in front of the too-small monitor when another student walked in and screamed, "WHAT'S GOOD, Katy?"
I tapped Gary knowingly and told the student, "Nuttin. Chillin." Gary laughed hysterically, leaned back in the too-small chair until he tipped over. Then he lay on the floor with his enormous legs, each taller than me, sticking straight up in the air as he howled.
"Shit," Gary said, "You something else."
An hour later, the angry Beowulf kid came in to write a paper. He had chicken parm with him, a tub of yogurt, and two Power Bars, which he ate in about nineteen seconds. When, two hours later, he got up to go get more food, I asked him how much he eats each day.
"Oh, usually 9,000 calories." Again, he weighs 330 pounds of muscle and was roughly the height and width of a doorway. He needs to eat every two hours to maintain his muscle mass. He's like a highly oiled Ferrari, or maybe a Hummer. While he was getting more sustenance, I noticed that he tended to use a lot of comma splices in his paper.
As he sat down to feast, I told him, "Friend, you are making your commas work too hard."
"What do you mean? What's wrong with that?"
"You wouldn't ask a wide receiver to play left tackle, would you?"
"Well, no. That would be stupid."
"It's the same thing with commas. They get tired and aren't strong enough to carry two sentences. You need to call in the big guns, like the semi-colons or the dashes. Punctuation that needs 9,000 calories to stay strong."
He paused for awhile, contemplating. He nodded, mouth full of breadstick, and said, "That totally makes sense when you put it that way."
Sometimes I get it right.
So I asked Gary one day what the appropriate response to and definition of the phrase might be. He told me it has replaced, "what's up?" and I'm supposed to say, "Nuttin. Chillin."
Today I got to test it. I was working with Gary, who is 6'10.5" (I was dwarfed by his thigh, which I decided is the exact length and girth of the 60 pound sandbags we lift at rugby practice). Gary was hunched over the too-small chair with his knees up at his ears, typing on the too-small keyboard in front of the too-small monitor when another student walked in and screamed, "WHAT'S GOOD, Katy?"
I tapped Gary knowingly and told the student, "Nuttin. Chillin." Gary laughed hysterically, leaned back in the too-small chair until he tipped over. Then he lay on the floor with his enormous legs, each taller than me, sticking straight up in the air as he howled.
"Shit," Gary said, "You something else."
An hour later, the angry Beowulf kid came in to write a paper. He had chicken parm with him, a tub of yogurt, and two Power Bars, which he ate in about nineteen seconds. When, two hours later, he got up to go get more food, I asked him how much he eats each day.
"Oh, usually 9,000 calories." Again, he weighs 330 pounds of muscle and was roughly the height and width of a doorway. He needs to eat every two hours to maintain his muscle mass. He's like a highly oiled Ferrari, or maybe a Hummer. While he was getting more sustenance, I noticed that he tended to use a lot of comma splices in his paper.
As he sat down to feast, I told him, "Friend, you are making your commas work too hard."
"What do you mean? What's wrong with that?"
"You wouldn't ask a wide receiver to play left tackle, would you?"
"Well, no. That would be stupid."
"It's the same thing with commas. They get tired and aren't strong enough to carry two sentences. You need to call in the big guns, like the semi-colons or the dashes. Punctuation that needs 9,000 calories to stay strong."
He paused for awhile, contemplating. He nodded, mouth full of breadstick, and said, "That totally makes sense when you put it that way."
Sometimes I get it right.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Have a Good Weekend!
I worked with a student this morning who has learning disabilities. He has trouble with words that sound similar. I can't quite figure out if the best way to help him is to sound out words, or sort of draw visually the difference between certain words, or what, but for now there are just some sounds he genuinely cannot tell apart.
Beyond that, his teacher has a terribly disgusting habit of crossing out his words and putting in things she thinks would sound better. Like he wrote, "to answer Gladwell's question," and she crossed that out and wrote, "in answer to Gladwell's question." What the heck? We were finishing up his paper and he just had to finish his conclusion. He was having trouble rephrasing his thesis statement, so I suggested looking at the assignment to see if he could glean any language from there.
He said, "Man, I don't want to use her shit!" Haha! I love that, troublesome and difficult though it may be, he feels ownership of his words and wants his paper to reflect his thinking.
The second student was a mess. I asked him for his assignment sheet, and he started pulling random things out of his backpack. A math book. Headphones. Finally, he extracted an enormous pair of blue brief underpants and pulled a wadded piece of paper from inside them. This was his assignment sheet. He slid it across the table and told me I could photocopy it if I wanted to. I said, "how about you put it in the machine and I go get you the Windex?"
He looked at the underpants and just said, "Aw these are clean! I got to have fresh ones for after practice. You know how it goes!" I still made him be the one to place the paper in the copier.
Beyond that, his teacher has a terribly disgusting habit of crossing out his words and putting in things she thinks would sound better. Like he wrote, "to answer Gladwell's question," and she crossed that out and wrote, "in answer to Gladwell's question." What the heck? We were finishing up his paper and he just had to finish his conclusion. He was having trouble rephrasing his thesis statement, so I suggested looking at the assignment to see if he could glean any language from there.
He said, "Man, I don't want to use her shit!" Haha! I love that, troublesome and difficult though it may be, he feels ownership of his words and wants his paper to reflect his thinking.
The second student was a mess. I asked him for his assignment sheet, and he started pulling random things out of his backpack. A math book. Headphones. Finally, he extracted an enormous pair of blue brief underpants and pulled a wadded piece of paper from inside them. This was his assignment sheet. He slid it across the table and told me I could photocopy it if I wanted to. I said, "how about you put it in the machine and I go get you the Windex?"
He looked at the underpants and just said, "Aw these are clean! I got to have fresh ones for after practice. You know how it goes!" I still made him be the one to place the paper in the copier.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Encore
I found out from my boss that after the students left tutoring, they went to their night class. 13 of them, all from one sport, in the same basic writing course. On the best of days, they are rambunctious.
On this day, one of them went in without a shirt on. Just walked into the classroom barechested. He must have meandered through the entire classroom building this way until the professor asked him to please clothe himself. This is the same student who often comes for tutoring dressed in a sort of Superman tube top midriff shirt thingy. What the hell is wrong with him?
Then, his teammate started periodically spitting grapes. This is a seminar table, where they sit in a circle. And this kid was spitting grapes across the room. Grapes! When asked why, he said they were very sugary and he felt wound up.
Now, my boss tells me that I have to imagine them not as babies but as 18 year old boys, which amounts to the same thing. What would happen, she asks me to think, if 13 members of the same fraternity were in one class. I suppose I can imagine similar shenanigans. But I would shudder as a parent to think my son had grown into the type of man (because when you are in college you are a man, let's face it) who walks around with no shirt or spits grapes at his classmates.
What are we doing in society when we revere athletes to the point where they aren't allowed to develop as normal people? They are walking around naked and spitting grapes! Grapes!
On this day, one of them went in without a shirt on. Just walked into the classroom barechested. He must have meandered through the entire classroom building this way until the professor asked him to please clothe himself. This is the same student who often comes for tutoring dressed in a sort of Superman tube top midriff shirt thingy. What the hell is wrong with him?
Then, his teammate started periodically spitting grapes. This is a seminar table, where they sit in a circle. And this kid was spitting grapes across the room. Grapes! When asked why, he said they were very sugary and he felt wound up.
Now, my boss tells me that I have to imagine them not as babies but as 18 year old boys, which amounts to the same thing. What would happen, she asks me to think, if 13 members of the same fraternity were in one class. I suppose I can imagine similar shenanigans. But I would shudder as a parent to think my son had grown into the type of man (because when you are in college you are a man, let's face it) who walks around with no shirt or spits grapes at his classmates.
What are we doing in society when we revere athletes to the point where they aren't allowed to develop as normal people? They are walking around naked and spitting grapes! Grapes!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Terrible Night
I just had a terrible night at work. One student kicked another student (from another sport) in the nuts and then denied it, even after I said I saw it happen. "I didn't do nothin'," he said. Like a child. The poor victim limped around saying, "I'm good. Nothing wrong here."
Then, a female student athlete loudly proclaimed to the whole lab that she had to go do a number two. When I went into the work bathroom awhile later, there was her number two. Just sitting there. Unflushed. I wanted to kill her.
So many of them work hard and really appreciate us. Then there are assholes, who text message their friends WHILE I AM SPEAKING to them. They demand I do their work for them, freak out when I refuse to type their papers or rewrite their sentences. I need some of the good ones to come in each day so the few unappreciative jerks/babies don't ruin my morale.
Then, a female student athlete loudly proclaimed to the whole lab that she had to go do a number two. When I went into the work bathroom awhile later, there was her number two. Just sitting there. Unflushed. I wanted to kill her.
So many of them work hard and really appreciate us. Then there are assholes, who text message their friends WHILE I AM SPEAKING to them. They demand I do their work for them, freak out when I refuse to type their papers or rewrite their sentences. I need some of the good ones to come in each day so the few unappreciative jerks/babies don't ruin my morale.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Beowulf
One of the student athletes signed up for a literature course in which he must read Beowulf. When scheduling classes, his adviser told him, "Whew! Beowulf, eh? That's a tough book."
"I'll be fine," he told her, and scheduled the class.
Last night, he brought the book into the writing center to get started on his homework. He opened to the first page. "What the f^$k is this?"
"That's Beowulf," I said. "It's a classic."
"But what is this? I can't read this. It's another language."
I looked at him, a bit stunned. Surely he would have realized this by now? "It's Old English. Or maybe it's called Middle English. Anyway, all the books for this course are like this. Look, you have Canterbury Tales, Sir Gawain, lots of stuff."
He starts freaking out. He throws his hands in the air. "Are you kidding me?" He calls for his adviser. "Why did you let me take this class?"
"You told me you could handle it. I told you it was hard."
He is freaking out now, way past add/drop period. Stuck in the class. "I can read a real book. I'll read any real book you want. This isn't a real book."
He puts his feet up on the desk and crosses his arms, like a little baby who is angry that we turned off the television. Only he is 6'7" and weighs 310 pounds. "I can't believe it's not even a real book."
"I'll be fine," he told her, and scheduled the class.
Last night, he brought the book into the writing center to get started on his homework. He opened to the first page. "What the f^$k is this?"
"That's Beowulf," I said. "It's a classic."
"But what is this? I can't read this. It's another language."
I looked at him, a bit stunned. Surely he would have realized this by now? "It's Old English. Or maybe it's called Middle English. Anyway, all the books for this course are like this. Look, you have Canterbury Tales, Sir Gawain, lots of stuff."
He starts freaking out. He throws his hands in the air. "Are you kidding me?" He calls for his adviser. "Why did you let me take this class?"
"You told me you could handle it. I told you it was hard."
He is freaking out now, way past add/drop period. Stuck in the class. "I can read a real book. I'll read any real book you want. This isn't a real book."
He puts his feet up on the desk and crosses his arms, like a little baby who is angry that we turned off the television. Only he is 6'7" and weighs 310 pounds. "I can't believe it's not even a real book."
Friday, September 14, 2007
Hope
This semester, the teacher of one section of basic writing, in which 13 of the 15 students are student-athletes, is having them read and write about education. It's like she's having them continually ask, "Why are you in this class?" and they are finally starting to really listen to the question.
This week, they are reading a piece by Mike Rose. In it, he writes about the low expectations and low results from tech-prep courses for inner city kids. He has a line: "Students will float to the mark you set for them." I have been amazed and pleasantly surprised to talk with my students about what this means to them. They are beginning to see themselves in the work. They'll say things like, "Nobody expects them to do anything, so they don't do nothing. This is kind of like me!"
I'll ask, "Whose fault is it that the students are doing poorly in class?" Last week, in response to a similar essay, they all said, "The kids! They need to work harder." Now, after reading Rose and seeing the teachers using racial slurs, ignoring them, paddling the South LA students, my students look up at me timidly. When I ask the same question, they say, "The teachers? Because the teachers don't respect the kids? So the kids give up?"
Regardless of opinions on fault for the current state of education, nobody can deny that these kids are interacting with writing. They are responding and making statements, analyses. I feel so much hope right now. I just know good things are happening in that classroom.
This week, they are reading a piece by Mike Rose. In it, he writes about the low expectations and low results from tech-prep courses for inner city kids. He has a line: "Students will float to the mark you set for them." I have been amazed and pleasantly surprised to talk with my students about what this means to them. They are beginning to see themselves in the work. They'll say things like, "Nobody expects them to do anything, so they don't do nothing. This is kind of like me!"
I'll ask, "Whose fault is it that the students are doing poorly in class?" Last week, in response to a similar essay, they all said, "The kids! They need to work harder." Now, after reading Rose and seeing the teachers using racial slurs, ignoring them, paddling the South LA students, my students look up at me timidly. When I ask the same question, they say, "The teachers? Because the teachers don't respect the kids? So the kids give up?"
Regardless of opinions on fault for the current state of education, nobody can deny that these kids are interacting with writing. They are responding and making statements, analyses. I feel so much hope right now. I just know good things are happening in that classroom.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Rookies
When I read the placement tests for two of the students I would be working with this semester, I must admit I cringed. I sucked in my breath. This was going to be a hard term. But yesterday, I met these kids and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The first kiddo sat down and talked to me about colonialism and understood that the US was disinclined to do anything about the Rwandan genocide because they had no resources we desired. Anyone who has seen Freedom Writers or this season of The Wire understands that our urban youth are not typically exposed to this level of history for any number of reasons.
I was floored by how bright this kid was and stunned by my first real experience seeing a learning disability. Here was a kiddo who knew his stuff, really knew what he wanted to say, but because of a misfire somewhere in his brain just can't write it down the way he says it out loud. I felt so honored to work with him, and also like I wasn't doing much as he picked the paper up from the printer and recognized on his own the places where he needed to make changes.
This tutoring session of delight was quickly followed by another student who opened up to me immediately. Their assignment was to write about language and power, and he offered an example of a time a girl called him a dumb jock. He so emotional, telling me how that has stuck with him for years and all he's ever wanted to be was smart. I wonder how far he would excel if he were given time to be a student? As it is, he only got off the field and into the writing lab at 8pm. Today he's in at 9am after lifting weights since 6am. No wonder he's behind in school. I told him I thought he was very smart and pointed out places he used nice language and good descriptors in his paper. He then told me the girl who called him that asked him to dedicate his next touchdown to her. I hope she got pregnant at 16 and works at McDonalds. She is a mean girl.
I still have some cocky attitudes and some potty mouths to concentrate on, but as long as these sessions are punctuated with the two hard workers I met yesterday, I will enjoy every second of my day.
I was floored by how bright this kid was and stunned by my first real experience seeing a learning disability. Here was a kiddo who knew his stuff, really knew what he wanted to say, but because of a misfire somewhere in his brain just can't write it down the way he says it out loud. I felt so honored to work with him, and also like I wasn't doing much as he picked the paper up from the printer and recognized on his own the places where he needed to make changes.
This tutoring session of delight was quickly followed by another student who opened up to me immediately. Their assignment was to write about language and power, and he offered an example of a time a girl called him a dumb jock. He so emotional, telling me how that has stuck with him for years and all he's ever wanted to be was smart. I wonder how far he would excel if he were given time to be a student? As it is, he only got off the field and into the writing lab at 8pm. Today he's in at 9am after lifting weights since 6am. No wonder he's behind in school. I told him I thought he was very smart and pointed out places he used nice language and good descriptors in his paper. He then told me the girl who called him that asked him to dedicate his next touchdown to her. I hope she got pregnant at 16 and works at McDonalds. She is a mean girl.
I still have some cocky attitudes and some potty mouths to concentrate on, but as long as these sessions are punctuated with the two hard workers I met yesterday, I will enjoy every second of my day.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Welcome Back, Students!
Me: So, Student, how was your first day of class?
Student A: Pretty good. I only have one gay class this semester. My psych teacher is a fu@^ing c*%t."
Student B walks in, with an assignment to read a mock editorial by Michael Rogers, which intimates that literacy is a thing of the past. The work implies that reading is a "luxury" and only an elite class should even bother learning the skill. Their assignment is to write an essay agreeing or disagreeing with Rogers. I ask Student B what he thinks of the editorial.
Student B: This dude has it pretty right. Look at text messaging! Also, those motherf*^ers workin' at Burger King don't need to read anyway. He's right.
Student C: Is it alright if I take my shirt off? It's hot as hell in this joint. No? I really can't take my shirt off? What you mean no shirt, no shoes, no service. I got to get comfortable. Sh&*, I'm taking off my shoes anyway.
Student A: Pretty good. I only have one gay class this semester. My psych teacher is a fu@^ing c*%t."
Student B walks in, with an assignment to read a mock editorial by Michael Rogers, which intimates that literacy is a thing of the past. The work implies that reading is a "luxury" and only an elite class should even bother learning the skill. Their assignment is to write an essay agreeing or disagreeing with Rogers. I ask Student B what he thinks of the editorial.
Student B: This dude has it pretty right. Look at text messaging! Also, those motherf*^ers workin' at Burger King don't need to read anyway. He's right.
Student C: Is it alright if I take my shirt off? It's hot as hell in this joint. No? I really can't take my shirt off? What you mean no shirt, no shoes, no service. I got to get comfortable. Sh&*, I'm taking off my shoes anyway.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Favorites
I know teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but I can't help it. There is a little guy in my class (I shall call him Robert) who I want to kidnap and keep and raise on my own. He is just so darn smart! I love every thing about him.
Today, we rewrote fairy tales from a new perspective and Robert retold Rumplstiltskin from Rumple's perspective. He wrote the following sentence: My great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Rumplestiltskin V, saved the magical economy when the Fairyland bank burned down.
Later, during free write, he composed a story about Anabel Rodriguez, who was working to supplement her family's income at a Taco Bell in Jaurez, Mexico. How does he know details about Juarez, Mexico? Who told him the economy exists? I didn't know there was an economy when I was 11.
During snack, he drinks juice boxes two at a time, putting both straws in his mouth. He had four of them today.
Yesterday, I took the kids to the carosel to write and we finagled free rides for everyone. He hopped aboard a dolphin and not only buckled the safety belt, but tightened the straps to secure him onto the ride. He is unapologetically dorky, and I love every ounce of his brilliant self.
Plus, Robert wears dorky man shirts and man sandals with dorky messy hair. I'm afraid I won't ever produce a child as wonderful as him and I'll have to live forever knowing I could have easily stolen the world's best kid.
Today, we rewrote fairy tales from a new perspective and Robert retold Rumplstiltskin from Rumple's perspective. He wrote the following sentence: My great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Rumplestiltskin V, saved the magical economy when the Fairyland bank burned down.
Later, during free write, he composed a story about Anabel Rodriguez, who was working to supplement her family's income at a Taco Bell in Jaurez, Mexico. How does he know details about Juarez, Mexico? Who told him the economy exists? I didn't know there was an economy when I was 11.
During snack, he drinks juice boxes two at a time, putting both straws in his mouth. He had four of them today.
Yesterday, I took the kids to the carosel to write and we finagled free rides for everyone. He hopped aboard a dolphin and not only buckled the safety belt, but tightened the straps to secure him onto the ride. He is unapologetically dorky, and I love every ounce of his brilliant self.
Plus, Robert wears dorky man shirts and man sandals with dorky messy hair. I'm afraid I won't ever produce a child as wonderful as him and I'll have to live forever knowing I could have easily stolen the world's best kid.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Gifts
Yesterday, my students gave me gifts all day. I'm doing the Young Writers Institute this summer again and I have 11 year-olds this year. You would think that means they aren't deep and can't write anything stunning, but that would be wrong. These kiddos are so profound! They write realistic fiction and period pieces and poems that shake my soul. Each time they run up to me with their journals, I feel like it's Christmas when I get to read their work.
Yesterday morning, one of my littlest ones, a wee little girl shorter than me, told me she noticed that I liked shoes. She is very perceptive! I have worn a different pair of Old Navy flip flops each day for the past 2 weeks. Anyway, she built me a necklace from a piece of gold elastic and a plastic pair of bedroom slippers. I don't want to ever take it off.
In the afternoon, I climbed up the hill to work with the athletes. I had a long appointment with the anxious kid, the one who used to carry his own stapler with him until I made fun of him. We worked through a long essay about the power of language. He shared intense stories about how language controls him, how the hateful brutality from some of his coaches shakes his bones. It was a tough essay and I was so proud of him for writing it. When he was done, he pulled up a bunch of files and showed me videos of bears he's hunted and fish he's caught.
I feel so amazing when they share with me, when they trust me so much they let me see their private fears and then want me to see their joys, too. I can't describe how electrifying it is to have such an effect on another person. It's an intensely intimate space. I'm so thankful I get to inhabit it.
Yesterday morning, one of my littlest ones, a wee little girl shorter than me, told me she noticed that I liked shoes. She is very perceptive! I have worn a different pair of Old Navy flip flops each day for the past 2 weeks. Anyway, she built me a necklace from a piece of gold elastic and a plastic pair of bedroom slippers. I don't want to ever take it off.
In the afternoon, I climbed up the hill to work with the athletes. I had a long appointment with the anxious kid, the one who used to carry his own stapler with him until I made fun of him. We worked through a long essay about the power of language. He shared intense stories about how language controls him, how the hateful brutality from some of his coaches shakes his bones. It was a tough essay and I was so proud of him for writing it. When he was done, he pulled up a bunch of files and showed me videos of bears he's hunted and fish he's caught.
I feel so amazing when they share with me, when they trust me so much they let me see their private fears and then want me to see their joys, too. I can't describe how electrifying it is to have such an effect on another person. It's an intensely intimate space. I'm so thankful I get to inhabit it.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Cars Are Coffins
My co-worker came in to work today with some road rash. She had crashed her bike on the cobblestones down town. This started a whole barrage of car accident tales from my co-workers and all the students. I heard the following stories:
Student 1: Dude, I got hit in a hit and run before. This car hit me so hard, and the driver just...he or she just took off. It took me like five minutes to find my boot! It knocked me right on out my Timbs!
Student 2: I was walking up DeSoto you know, outside Children's Hospital? I checked both ways and there was no car. Then I started text messaging and a car hit me! Like in the movies! I rolled up onto the hood and hit the windshield. I was just laying there thinking "Oh my God, I just got hit by a car." Everyone started laughing at me.
Co-Worker 1: I was riding my bike in Colorado and I got drive-by Super-Soakered. It knocked me right off my bike! Have you ever been Super Soakered? If they pump it hard, that can be like a garden hose.
Co-Worker 2: I got drive-by paint balled! I was walking along at night time and they just started shooting at me from the car. Those suckers hurt.
What made this sharing session even more wonderful was that at its conclusion, we tutors helped the students compose cultural analysis essays about Flavor of Love. I love my job.
Student 1: Dude, I got hit in a hit and run before. This car hit me so hard, and the driver just...he or she just took off. It took me like five minutes to find my boot! It knocked me right on out my Timbs!
Student 2: I was walking up DeSoto you know, outside Children's Hospital? I checked both ways and there was no car. Then I started text messaging and a car hit me! Like in the movies! I rolled up onto the hood and hit the windshield. I was just laying there thinking "Oh my God, I just got hit by a car." Everyone started laughing at me.
Co-Worker 1: I was riding my bike in Colorado and I got drive-by Super-Soakered. It knocked me right off my bike! Have you ever been Super Soakered? If they pump it hard, that can be like a garden hose.
Co-Worker 2: I got drive-by paint balled! I was walking along at night time and they just started shooting at me from the car. Those suckers hurt.
What made this sharing session even more wonderful was that at its conclusion, we tutors helped the students compose cultural analysis essays about Flavor of Love. I love my job.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Ego boosting
My anxious student has to take another English class this summer. He got very nervous to hear that I would be away getting married during half of the first summer session. His face fell and he lamented that he couldn't possibly take English class without knowing for certain he had a sounding board to talk out his anxieties. (Oh god, he must have been thinking, what if I slip into passive voice???? Who will help me maintain consistent verb tenses????? Have I explained my point clearly?)
So I must say that I felt myself puffing with pride (perhaps gas?) when he told me he rearranged his whole summer schedule to accommodate my honeymoon. "I'll be able to work with you if I do that, right? Right?" he asked. It just made me feel good inside to know that I am the tutor to beat when it comes to my anxious student. At last! Reassurance that I am winning at work! I hope that this doesn't go to my head. I hope I keep remembering that anal people tend to find each other among the chaos. Today, after our little ego session, we bonded about the fun of alphabetizing and compared secrets for folding fitted sheets into perfect squares. I have to remember that I bond so well with this kiddo because I, too, am freaking insane.
So I must say that I felt myself puffing with pride (perhaps gas?) when he told me he rearranged his whole summer schedule to accommodate my honeymoon. "I'll be able to work with you if I do that, right? Right?" he asked. It just made me feel good inside to know that I am the tutor to beat when it comes to my anxious student. At last! Reassurance that I am winning at work! I hope that this doesn't go to my head. I hope I keep remembering that anal people tend to find each other among the chaos. Today, after our little ego session, we bonded about the fun of alphabetizing and compared secrets for folding fitted sheets into perfect squares. I have to remember that I bond so well with this kiddo because I, too, am freaking insane.
Friday, February 23, 2007
High on Education
Every now and then, I have a day in the classroom where I can't imagine myself anywhere else. I can't even believe that other things exist, in fact, or that other joys are possible. Today was one of those days.
My morning started out at 850am, when my hungry student was waiting for me when I got to the writing lab. I had a note the night before saying he was lifting weights at 630am and would probably be napping. I fully expected to have to wake him up, but there he was, ready to write his philosophy paper. The assignment was five pages on his personal values and belief system. He was stuck. He had no idea what he could possibly write about.
I asked him why he thought he got out of bed to come work with me that morning, what made him come in here. He started talking, telling me how he knows he needs to work hard or he will never reach his goals. How if a person doesn't have goals they won't go anywhere in life. How nobody needs to ever motivate him because the thought of his family's and his own pride in his accomplishments keeps him moving, keeps him pushing harder and harder each day. How as soon as he reaches one goal, he gets right started on the next one.
I started writing down his words, verbatim, copying them in all his colorful vernacular. When he was done talking, I showed him what he had said, essentially over half his paper about his values of discipline and goal-driven motivation. He was so excited he almost spit out his orange juice. He said "Aw, heck! I was just talkin! I had no idea you could make a paper out of stuff I just think about."
I told him I hoped he knew how exciting and unique he was and how wonderful it was to have such a work ethic. His attitude was so natural to him he assumed everyone operated that way. He makes me feel good inside.
Then I had my final session with the gifted high school students I teach on Fridays. For our last class, I arranged a reading for them to share their work at a local coffee shop. I sat in the front row, alternating tears and hysteria listening to them read their polished work before a captivated audience of college and graduate students. They were brilliant. Their revisions were stunning. Their final projects were publishable. I could barely wait to kick them out of there so I could read what they wrote in their course evaluations.
It turns out they love to write. Not knowing what to do otherwise, I gave them readings that made me laugh and gave them writing exercises that stimulated my own creativity. It turns out this was a great tactic. They wrote about how freed they felt from structure of their regular classrooms, how comfortable they felt with a teacher who let them write about whatever they were feeling, even if that involved death or atheism or curse words.
I probably broke a million rules in doing so, but I treated them like I treat my own classmates and often forgot they were in high school. I just got so excited by their wonderful writing I forgot I was supposed to be in charge of them. I feel like I should be paying them because they make me so happy.
I enter into a hellish deadline week for my own writing. I find myself so inspired by the writing of students who make me happy that I don't even begin to know how to thank them. I will have to remember to dedicate my work to them, the only way I can think of to thank them for sharing their day with me.
My morning started out at 850am, when my hungry student was waiting for me when I got to the writing lab. I had a note the night before saying he was lifting weights at 630am and would probably be napping. I fully expected to have to wake him up, but there he was, ready to write his philosophy paper. The assignment was five pages on his personal values and belief system. He was stuck. He had no idea what he could possibly write about.
I asked him why he thought he got out of bed to come work with me that morning, what made him come in here. He started talking, telling me how he knows he needs to work hard or he will never reach his goals. How if a person doesn't have goals they won't go anywhere in life. How nobody needs to ever motivate him because the thought of his family's and his own pride in his accomplishments keeps him moving, keeps him pushing harder and harder each day. How as soon as he reaches one goal, he gets right started on the next one.
I started writing down his words, verbatim, copying them in all his colorful vernacular. When he was done talking, I showed him what he had said, essentially over half his paper about his values of discipline and goal-driven motivation. He was so excited he almost spit out his orange juice. He said "Aw, heck! I was just talkin! I had no idea you could make a paper out of stuff I just think about."
I told him I hoped he knew how exciting and unique he was and how wonderful it was to have such a work ethic. His attitude was so natural to him he assumed everyone operated that way. He makes me feel good inside.
Then I had my final session with the gifted high school students I teach on Fridays. For our last class, I arranged a reading for them to share their work at a local coffee shop. I sat in the front row, alternating tears and hysteria listening to them read their polished work before a captivated audience of college and graduate students. They were brilliant. Their revisions were stunning. Their final projects were publishable. I could barely wait to kick them out of there so I could read what they wrote in their course evaluations.
It turns out they love to write. Not knowing what to do otherwise, I gave them readings that made me laugh and gave them writing exercises that stimulated my own creativity. It turns out this was a great tactic. They wrote about how freed they felt from structure of their regular classrooms, how comfortable they felt with a teacher who let them write about whatever they were feeling, even if that involved death or atheism or curse words.
I probably broke a million rules in doing so, but I treated them like I treat my own classmates and often forgot they were in high school. I just got so excited by their wonderful writing I forgot I was supposed to be in charge of them. I feel like I should be paying them because they make me so happy.
I enter into a hellish deadline week for my own writing. I find myself so inspired by the writing of students who make me happy that I don't even begin to know how to thank them. I will have to remember to dedicate my work to them, the only way I can think of to thank them for sharing their day with me.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Beds
Tonight I spent five hours working with a football player I haven't seen in awhile. He's been falling behind and had a lot of papers to make up. At one point, we took a small break to rest our brains and he asked whether I knew a third teammate had moved into his dorm room.
I had no idea, obviously, who lived in his room and asked him where the heck they fit three beds in a college dorm room. He told me they bunked two of the beds and put them on risers and slid a third mattress on the floor underneath the bunkbeds. They are sleeping three deep. Like in a submarine.
Apparently, this new roommate couldn't stand his current living situation and is bunking up unofficially. They stuffed all his clothes in their desk drawers and shoved him under the bed. Like a dog.
Imagine how that smells in there. Three football players in a dorm room meant for two average sized people.These aren't regular college boys. These are enormous football players who are so tall that their legs dangle off the edge of the bed.
I asked my student where he sleeps in the sandwich and he said he was the meat. He said "I wake up in the morning and I see feet dangling in my face. Then, I roll over and I see a huge arm and leg sticking out and I always think there is a monster under my bed."
I would give ANYTHING to spend a day just following these kids around and watching them operate. Because they are so much funnier than anything on television.
I had no idea, obviously, who lived in his room and asked him where the heck they fit three beds in a college dorm room. He told me they bunked two of the beds and put them on risers and slid a third mattress on the floor underneath the bunkbeds. They are sleeping three deep. Like in a submarine.
Apparently, this new roommate couldn't stand his current living situation and is bunking up unofficially. They stuffed all his clothes in their desk drawers and shoved him under the bed. Like a dog.
Imagine how that smells in there. Three football players in a dorm room meant for two average sized people.These aren't regular college boys. These are enormous football players who are so tall that their legs dangle off the edge of the bed.
I asked my student where he sleeps in the sandwich and he said he was the meat. He said "I wake up in the morning and I see feet dangling in my face. Then, I roll over and I see a huge arm and leg sticking out and I always think there is a monster under my bed."
I would give ANYTHING to spend a day just following these kids around and watching them operate. Because they are so much funnier than anything on television.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Glum
I have to miss my rowing class tonight. For numerous reasons, including treacherous road conditions and a meeting with my professor, I am unable to drive down to the boat house. I question whether anyone has even plowed the path leading to the Millvale facility, but either way I can't go.
I keep weighing the options in my head and trying to work out a way to get there. Which is silly because it makes my day eons easier not to go. I can do the same workout on campus by myself. There is just something about having a room full of people to beat that makes me row harder in class. Or maybe it's Sonja yelling at me to pull harder.
I hate how I get myself really worked up on a routine. I feel like Rainman, repeating to myself that I have to miss rowing. Like I can't accept it as fact unless I say it internally 7,642 times. How I get stuck like that? Some little person inside me keeps yanking on my esophagus telling me that I'm missing the last class and what if they do something fun or worry where I am or hold up the whole boat waiting for me just in case and then think I'm a quitter if they ever see me again.
I just know this is going to ruin my whole day.
But I also know I made the right decision. It's bad out there. They delayed schools and it's 8 degrees and I know the bridges will be slick.
In a few hours, I'm going to be sitting with the stapler student and not paying attention to his worry stories because I'll be stuck with my own. Can it really be productive when two people with OCD are in a room together? Me dwelling on missed rowing and him stuck on whether he will get a fellowship for grad school 6 years from now...we'll probably both have heart attacks this evening.
I keep weighing the options in my head and trying to work out a way to get there. Which is silly because it makes my day eons easier not to go. I can do the same workout on campus by myself. There is just something about having a room full of people to beat that makes me row harder in class. Or maybe it's Sonja yelling at me to pull harder.
I hate how I get myself really worked up on a routine. I feel like Rainman, repeating to myself that I have to miss rowing. Like I can't accept it as fact unless I say it internally 7,642 times. How I get stuck like that? Some little person inside me keeps yanking on my esophagus telling me that I'm missing the last class and what if they do something fun or worry where I am or hold up the whole boat waiting for me just in case and then think I'm a quitter if they ever see me again.
I just know this is going to ruin my whole day.
But I also know I made the right decision. It's bad out there. They delayed schools and it's 8 degrees and I know the bridges will be slick.
In a few hours, I'm going to be sitting with the stapler student and not paying attention to his worry stories because I'll be stuck with my own. Can it really be productive when two people with OCD are in a room together? Me dwelling on missed rowing and him stuck on whether he will get a fellowship for grad school 6 years from now...we'll probably both have heart attacks this evening.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Stapler
I should probably not write about my students as much as I do, but sometimes they just crack me up enormously. I just know one of them is going to somehow find this site and run in horror or have me shot. Especially my newest student, who has a problem with anxiety such that he talks faster than I do and seems to be more nervous than a man with a kilo of dynamite strapped to his chest.
He came running in the door, breathless, concerned that his essay had more than five paragraphs and that his thesis statement wasn't restated as the first sentence in his conclusion. He kept twiddling his enormous thumbs, hunched over the keyboard far too small for his enormous body, and moaning that he would never get an A on his essay.
I was so startled to recognize my own manias in another human being that I didn't even pause to help him. I just leaned in closer and got him to talk about his top five worries of the week with me. I love that I know someone else who has worries of the week!
We eventually talked about his paper for awhile, but not too long because it was basically fine. "Student," I said to him, "You are free. I free you from the five paragraph essay. And, at least once per page, I free you from worrying about ending sentence with prepositions." I think it worked from him. He seemed far less concerned with his formatting.
Then, he decided he would still be worried in the morning. He asked if I could come in and meet with him at 9am on Friday. I have yet to see a student actually make it in at 9am, so I was totally shocked when he bustled in at like 9:03. Talking like the Micro Machine guy, he told me in one breath: "I was up all night watching Troy. That's like my favorite movie ever. And don't you just love how when we turn our alarm clocks off our bodies wake us up on our own when we know we have to be somewhere? Does that happen for everyone? Cause not my roommate. Sometimes he doesn't even go to class. Can you believe it that someone would miss class? Think of all the easy class participation points he's missing out on. What should I worry about for my in-class essay? Should I do an outline or a concept map?"
I convinced him he would be ok on both the take home and the in class and he pressed print. He pulled a stapler out of his sweatpants pocket and was on his way.
After I was done laughing hysterically that he carries around his own office supplies, I started to wonder what would happen if Corey were anal like that, nervous like me. I think it's better that he doesn't care about anything at all. I could barely stand to spend an hour with that kiddo. I can't imagine how Corky puts up with my schusshy fits every second of the day.
He came running in the door, breathless, concerned that his essay had more than five paragraphs and that his thesis statement wasn't restated as the first sentence in his conclusion. He kept twiddling his enormous thumbs, hunched over the keyboard far too small for his enormous body, and moaning that he would never get an A on his essay.
I was so startled to recognize my own manias in another human being that I didn't even pause to help him. I just leaned in closer and got him to talk about his top five worries of the week with me. I love that I know someone else who has worries of the week!
We eventually talked about his paper for awhile, but not too long because it was basically fine. "Student," I said to him, "You are free. I free you from the five paragraph essay. And, at least once per page, I free you from worrying about ending sentence with prepositions." I think it worked from him. He seemed far less concerned with his formatting.
Then, he decided he would still be worried in the morning. He asked if I could come in and meet with him at 9am on Friday. I have yet to see a student actually make it in at 9am, so I was totally shocked when he bustled in at like 9:03. Talking like the Micro Machine guy, he told me in one breath: "I was up all night watching Troy. That's like my favorite movie ever. And don't you just love how when we turn our alarm clocks off our bodies wake us up on our own when we know we have to be somewhere? Does that happen for everyone? Cause not my roommate. Sometimes he doesn't even go to class. Can you believe it that someone would miss class? Think of all the easy class participation points he's missing out on. What should I worry about for my in-class essay? Should I do an outline or a concept map?"
I convinced him he would be ok on both the take home and the in class and he pressed print. He pulled a stapler out of his sweatpants pocket and was on his way.
After I was done laughing hysterically that he carries around his own office supplies, I started to wonder what would happen if Corey were anal like that, nervous like me. I think it's better that he doesn't care about anything at all. I could barely stand to spend an hour with that kiddo. I can't imagine how Corky puts up with my schusshy fits every second of the day.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Hungry Again
My hungry student was back today for three hours. I worked with him for almost 15 hours this week, though he was in the writing center at least 5 more and spent another 6 or 7 hours with his math tutor. He works so hard, harder than anyone I've ever seen. This material, entry-level English and Math classes, is nearly insurmountable for him but he will not relent until he learns it, tackles it, finishes his work. He made the Dean's List his first semester. The first person in his extended family to ever go to college and he made the Dean's List.
He got a phone call while we were working this morning. It was his father, and he talked for a few moments before hanging up the phone, visibly shaken and upset. He told me his cousin just died, shot in a gang fight. A cousin who, if he had lived, faced 40 years in prison for shooting a police officer. Two of his best friends were killed in the same fight over Christmas break.
He went on and on, pouring out a story of horrors I cannot imagine. Football players are targets in his town because they are on their way out of there, away to college, away from the poverty. My student has been shot at on his way home, hiding behind his duffel bag.
I told him we had to stop, that he should go talk to his dad, process this horrible news. He looked at me, put his hand on mine, and said
"We have to finish this. It's my only way out of there."
This kid knows he isn't going into the NFL. He knows he is, academically, leagues behind most students at this university. And he knows his athletic gift has given him an opportunity to get a college degree. And so I had to wipe away my tears and concentrate on his assignment.
He poured himself into the paper, trying desperately to summarize the quotes he picked, to explicate film theory, insert examples. He pounded his fist on the table and told me
"I am never gonna be as smart you. Am I?"
What to say to this young man? I told him of course he was as smart as me, that he is in fact much smarter than me at certain things. I told him reading was like football practice, that you have to put in many hours before you are good. How do I make him see that he has had to navigate challenges I will never face? That my insignificant ability to talk about literature isn't any kind of smart that really matters?
I can't get his eyes out of my head, the look on his face when he finished his essay and emailed it to his professor, two days early. I want to be like him, to have his courage and hunger to succeed. I have never respected a person so much. I want nothing more in this world than for him to graduate from college and succeed. I hope I can be there to watch it happen.
He got a phone call while we were working this morning. It was his father, and he talked for a few moments before hanging up the phone, visibly shaken and upset. He told me his cousin just died, shot in a gang fight. A cousin who, if he had lived, faced 40 years in prison for shooting a police officer. Two of his best friends were killed in the same fight over Christmas break.
He went on and on, pouring out a story of horrors I cannot imagine. Football players are targets in his town because they are on their way out of there, away to college, away from the poverty. My student has been shot at on his way home, hiding behind his duffel bag.
I told him we had to stop, that he should go talk to his dad, process this horrible news. He looked at me, put his hand on mine, and said
"We have to finish this. It's my only way out of there."
This kid knows he isn't going into the NFL. He knows he is, academically, leagues behind most students at this university. And he knows his athletic gift has given him an opportunity to get a college degree. And so I had to wipe away my tears and concentrate on his assignment.
He poured himself into the paper, trying desperately to summarize the quotes he picked, to explicate film theory, insert examples. He pounded his fist on the table and told me
"I am never gonna be as smart you. Am I?"
What to say to this young man? I told him of course he was as smart as me, that he is in fact much smarter than me at certain things. I told him reading was like football practice, that you have to put in many hours before you are good. How do I make him see that he has had to navigate challenges I will never face? That my insignificant ability to talk about literature isn't any kind of smart that really matters?
I can't get his eyes out of my head, the look on his face when he finished his essay and emailed it to his professor, two days early. I want to be like him, to have his courage and hunger to succeed. I have never respected a person so much. I want nothing more in this world than for him to graduate from college and succeed. I hope I can be there to watch it happen.
Going Pro
My hungry student was in again last night, only this time he had some Burger King "food" so he was in a better mood. As always, I was eating dinner while I work. Because there isn't enough time between students to pee let alone eat some food. This time, he looked at my dinner and said:
"Miss Katy, you're always eating."
He kept staring.
"You're like an all-state eater or something."
To be fair to myself, I always work 5 to 6 hour shifts, which means that no matter what I am always at work during a meal time. Working 3 to 9 means I have to eat dinner at work. 2 is too early and 930 when I get home is too late and close to bed time. On top of this, I like to eat a snack every 2 hours (an apple, some yogurt...) to keep fuel in my tank and encourage a healthy metabolism.
So it probably does appear to my student that I am always eating. I guess I sort of am. But I'm an athlete! I need to use the right gas or my engine will putter out and die.
And as an athlete, I feel kind of miffed at my student's suggestion of All-State status. He could at least promote me to All American.
"Miss Katy, you're always eating."
He kept staring.
"You're like an all-state eater or something."
To be fair to myself, I always work 5 to 6 hour shifts, which means that no matter what I am always at work during a meal time. Working 3 to 9 means I have to eat dinner at work. 2 is too early and 930 when I get home is too late and close to bed time. On top of this, I like to eat a snack every 2 hours (an apple, some yogurt...) to keep fuel in my tank and encourage a healthy metabolism.
So it probably does appear to my student that I am always eating. I guess I sort of am. But I'm an athlete! I need to use the right gas or my engine will putter out and die.
And as an athlete, I feel kind of miffed at my student's suggestion of All-State status. He could at least promote me to All American.
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