by John Pearson
Later,
B. Fuddled
Date: Tuesday, November 11, 2004
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: You can’t say that on the school bus!
Hey dude, Thanks for the essay, but I already know that you are a good citizenship since you clean up garbage in your cubicle. And no, you don’t get to do morning announcements tomorrow.
Third through sixth grade has started after-school tutoring on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, from 3:00 till 4:30. All of us keep 8 or 9 (or 20) kids that need extra help. Ms. Whitney, who is in charge of the really baaaaaad kids at the school (the ones who make Mark Peter and Francine look like, well, almost normal kids), also drives one of the buses that takes kids home. In addition, she drives the only bus for tutoring.
Today had gone well, tutoring had been productive, and all of the kids got on board the bus. All seemed right with the universe. The bus doors closed. The bus started to move forward. After traveling roughly six feet, the bus came to a screeching halt, the doors flew open, and Ms. Whitney stormed out, yelling my name. At the same time, she was shouting at someone to get off the bus. One of mine, it would seem.
Apparently Jorge had let slip one or two of those words that in our day, you didn’t even learn until the sixth or seventh grade, much less use in a large group setting, such as a school bus. Jorge and Marvin must be spending time together. Ms. Whitney was so mad that she refused to let Jorge ride home on the bus, and I think she wants that ban to last for the rest of the year. I’ll have to try to talk her out of that one.
In the meantime, however, Jorge and I had to do the walk of shame all the way from the bus stop to the office, where we called his home. Thankfully, a Spanish-speaking teacher that I am on good terms with happened by, and she spoke with Jorge’s mother, who doesn’t know any English.
I was hoping that the mother would come and pick Jorge up at the school. However, they don’t have a car and, according to the mother, it would take her about an hour to walk to the school. She has a bum leg, and there are busy streets to cross. So being the softy I am, I volunteered to drive Jorge home. Too bad my Spidey-Sense was on the fritz, not warning me of the potential ambush I was headed into.
When we got to Jorge’s apartment complex, there was a large group waiting for us. I’m trying to stay away from using the word “mob,” but that wouldn’t be far off. Jorge’s mother and his brother were there, but there were several other women and kids as well. Jorge got out of the car, and I rolled down my window as one of the women approached with a stern face. She started berating me, saying that her daughter had been on the tutoring bus and witnessed it all, and there had been a misappropriation of justice.
As she yelled, more people got interested in the spectacle. I observed a lot of other kids from the school who live in that complex, hanging out of upper-story windows. A lot of nearby adults — talking to each other, walking by, or standing around drinking beers — started giving me nasty looks. I was glad that I hadn’t put the car into park, because I was ready to put the pedal to the floor if things got any uglier.
The woman went on, saying that according to her daughter, Jorge wasn’t the one who had cursed, it was another boy, and he’s the one who should have been kicked off the bus. See, the funny thing was, Jorge had admitted to me on the ride over that he had in fact cussed, even telling me which words he had used. I told her as much. That silenced her pretty well, and it seemed to break a spell. The ominous gray thunderclouds retreated and the sun returned, passers-by resumed passing by, Jorge’s brother resumed picking his nose. And I left as quickly as I could. I feel a little bad about the cloud of dirt and pebbles my back tires threw up on the woman as I screeched out of there, but what are you going to do?
Actually, the situation was not nearly as perilous as I’ve made it out to be, but as you may have guessed, I really don’t want to have to take Jorge home every day after tutoring. I wonder if Ms. Whitney likes chocolate...
Later,
Jeeves
Date: Thursday, November 13, 2003
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: An Athletic Supporter
Hola Fredster, No, no, no, my life was never in danger, I was merely using a bit of hyperbole (Latin for outright lying that is sometimes humorous). But you just can’t compare a customer visit as an engineer to a home visit as a teacher. The customer visits never seemed as nerve-wracking. Although those guys in Paris DID make me eat dead snails (and with no ketchup!), so maybe I should have been a little fearful for my life.
Today was an interesting, if awkward, day. Things seemed to be going well at first. We had done our Minute Math, listened to a few multiplication songs (complete with a Lindsay-led conga-line around the room), and I had just taught a mini-lesson on number lines. The kids were working independently while I was looking at some papers on my desk. All of a sudden, I heard rumblings coming from the other side of the room. When I looked over there, a couple of kids near Anita’s desk were giggling, whereas Anita herself had a look of total disgust on her face. When I asked her what was wrong, she answered, “Mr. Woodson, there’s a bra in my desk.” The way she said it was just dripping with contempt. The word “bra” came out as a two-syllable word — “Bra-uh.”
I walked over to her desk to take a look, and I saw that Anita had taken out the bra — with her pencil. Like a police investigator who doesn’t want to get fingerprints on a piece of evidence, Anita held out her pencil with the bra hanging from it by a strap.
Now Fred, I know that you haven’t seen too many bras in your life, not counting the one Larry wears, but this thing was tiny tiny. Wadded up, it fit completely inside my fist, and as it had looked in pretty poor condition, I threw it in the trashcan. Things got back to normal, and we switched classes at the usual time.
Mrs. Swanson’s class came in and got started on their Problem of the Day. I figured chances were good that the unmentionable in question had been left there by either Susan, who sits in Anita’s desk, or by Guadelupe, who sits at the very next desk. So I approached them, in full-on Columbo-meetsWoody-Allen mode, and quietly asked, “Did one of you... leave... something... in your desk yesterday?” (The ...’s are for the pauses where my brain worked in overdrive not to say something really embarrassing.)
Guadelupe looked puzzled at the question, but Susan flashed a sheepish grin and answered in the positive.
I think that’s when my composure started to break down. Seemingly vital questions sprang rapid-fire to my brain, but midway through, “Why aren’t you wearing it?” I realized that I probably didn’t really want to be discussing supporting garments with an eight-year-old. Still, “Why was it in your desk?” did escape my lips. This was answered with the standard “I dunno,” and a serene look that suggested that nothing could be more normal than to keep underwear in your desk at school. I masterfully took care of all future incidents with the admonition, “Just don’t put that stuff in your desk anymore, OK?”
Help me out here! This is not normal, right? I mean, nobody there at HPU keeps their briefs in their file cabinets, do they? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.
Talk to you later,
The Wizard of Bras
Date: Friday, November 14, 2003
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: Is it safe?
Hey Fred, Thanks to you, I got three, count ‘em, THREE emails from people telling me that they keep underwear in their cubicles. All of them were joking, I’m pretty sure. At least I hope. The one from Nancy I didn’t mind so much. But the notes from Larry and Tom were a bit disturbing in their detail.
I’ve told you that there is a door in my room that leads to Ms. Hamm’s special education room, right? The kids constantly ask me what’s behind that door. I’m always tempted to answer, “I really don’t know. A couple of kids have walked through the door, but no one has ever returned...”
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br /> The latch on that door is not very good, so frequently the door will drift slightly ajar. Whenever that happens, without fail, Lindsay has to proclaim, “Ooooh, Mr. Woodson, it’s a ghost!” in her Scarlett O’Hara southern drawl. Most of the kids stop what they’re doing and stare bug-eyed at the door as if they’re expecting the Wolfman himself to walk into the room.
Hey, that gives me an idea. Maybe you could take a day off from work and come by dressed as the Wolfman. You could enter my room through the special ed. door and say, “Hey kids, stay in school! Don’t do drugs! And always practice good personal hygiene!”
And on the topic of personal hygiene, all of the children at the school were offered a free health service this week, which involved a dental screening and sealant application. Several of my students brought back their permission slips and went to see the hygienists today in the library. When they came back, they each had an information sheet for their parents, and I snuck a glance at them.
It was no great surprise to see the notation, “Sealant has already been applied. Nothing further necessary,” on Ariel’s and Christy’s forms. Overachievers as they are, they probably saw this as extra credit for their teeth. Alex’s came back with the note, “Could not apply sealant because child refused to stay in seat.” Apparently, he got a little spooked and wouldn’t let them touch him. Too bad his dad wasn’t sitting in on the class today.
The others — and there were three whom I won’t name here — came back with more startling notes on their papers. Nothing as cruel as, “This child could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence,” but disturbing nonetheless. On this document there was a simple graphic of a mouthful of teeth, and on each form, several teeth had been marked with an X. The X’s presumably indicated cavities, or chipped enamel, or other dental hazards. All three of these kids had at least four teeth marked, and one of them had EIGHT X’s! Now I’m no math teacher — oh wait, I AM a math teacher! That’s one out of every four teeth!! Accompanying these marks was the warning, “Could not apply sealant due to condition of teeth. Your child needs immediate dental attention!!”
Dire, ain’t it? Sure, I’ve noticed that most of these children’s teeth aren’t perfect, but this is a bit perturbing. It’s not like any of them are British; over there, I think they brush their teeth with pure cane sugar. I’ll ask Latya, he can probably confirm that.
It makes me wonder about the other children, though, those who weren’t screened. A lot of them probably need immediate dental attention as well. I’m sure the steady diet of Laffy Taffy and Hot Cheetos isn't helping.
Later,
Jack Plaque
Date: Wednesday, November 19, 2003
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: Viewer Discretion Advised
Hey Fred, You’re right, this week would have been a particularly good time to wear the Bubba teeth and scream, “I need immediate dental attention!” every few minutes. The sad thing is that we’ve had the weekend and 3 school days now since the dental screening, but none of these kids have been to see the dentist yet. Except maybe Christy, who doesn’t need it.
Oh, and I didn’t suggest a visit from Latya because I wanted the Wolfman, not Eddie Munster. Besides, when Latya speaks, the kids wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway.
Now let’s jump from kids who need their teeth fixed to kids who need their mouths washed out with soap. Thomson, my wannabe hip-hopster, likes to rap. Or at least try. There have been several times when, right in the middle of a lesson, Thomson will suddenly do this kind of “pop and lock” motion, all the while muttering something under his breath. I’m sometimes worried that he’s having a grand mal seizure, but then I realize he’s just had a “rap attack.” And it’s usually while staring me directly in the eye, like he’s just waiting to shout, “You got served!” (I think I used that phrase correctly.)
Today we were taking a restroom break, and I heard Thomson mouthing the words, “She wants to slobber my knob...” He clearly had no clue what it meant. (Do you?) I told him that those words were inappropriate, and I asked where he had learned them. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he had answered, “From that lady that came in to talk to us about glasses.” But instead, he told me he had heard a friend of his dad’s playing the song a few times. Hey a friend of his dad’s playing the song a few times. Hey year-olds!
And boy did I hear a doozy of a story today about bad influences! At lunch, Mrs. Fitzgerald was talking about a conference that she and Miss Lake had had yesterday with the mother of one of their little girls. A little girl who is quite overtly sexual, writing notes to a little boy in their class that say, “I want to lie in the same bed with you and sex you.” Anyway, the mother cried during the conference, and sobbed, “I just don’t know where she learns this behavior from! I don’t say these things! Maybe she gets it from Sex and the City, I just don’t know...”
That’s right. This lady lets her daughter watch Sex and the City and then wonders why she says the things she does. Meanwhile, we have a third grader spouting explicit lyrics at school, and a buddy film starring two serial killing monsters is the kids’ favorite movie. I’m not sure how many more signs of the impending Apocalypse I can take.
Talk to you later,
15 Cent
Date: Friday, November 21, 2003
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: Crowd Control
Hey Big Poppa Heat Pump, Regarding your attempt at rap: With lyrics like “All day long I’m makin’ big heat pumps, I got more rhymes than Forest Gump,” I’m gonna have to say don’t quit your day job.
How about this one:
Early to bed and early to rise, Makes it real hard to open my eyes. I’ve been telling you about stuff that happens during the school day and even after (in the case of tutoring). But have I told you about anything that goes on BEFORE school? No, I’m not talking about my drive to work — even though I seem to be the only person in Dallas who actually goes 20 mph in a school zone. I mean AT the school.
The kids that ride a bus to school get dropped off starting at 7:20 each morning. Nobody wants them just milling about unsupervised (drawing on the walls, running with scissors, putting jump ropes in toilets), so some teachers volunteer for morning duty. This involves overseeing the kids on the playground, keeping them out of the halls, monitoring the breakfast line, and so on. The good thing about this is that we get paid extra for this time. The bad thing is having to be at the school earlier than I usually like to roll out of bed.
I agreed to do morning duty out on the playground every Thursday and Friday this year. It hasn’t really been that bad. Yes, it’s hard for me to climb out of bed that much earlier (I can only hit the snooze button four times instead of the usual ten), but it’s kind of fun because of the interaction with the kids.
When I wander over near the basketball courts, Ricky or Miguel or one of the other boys will shout, “Mr. Woodson, watch this!” as they attempt to heave the ball from roughly half-court. On the other side of the playground, I get, “Mr. Woodson, watch this!” from Lindsay or Laura, who are jumproping (far from the bathrooms). And for some reason, Mark Peter always feels the need to announce his presence to me. He runs up, jumps so he lands right in front of me, and goes, “TA-DAAAA!” If only there was some wrestling hand gesture that meant, “I can’t see you — so go away!”
Then there’s the Mr. Woodson Fan Club. These are the kids who come over and stick to me like glue the whole time I’m out there. Bet you didn’t know I had groupies. This crowd contains Pinar, Sally, and Rose. Sally and Rose also have little sisters who tag along. Guadelupe and Sandra sometimes join this group, but not always.
This morning, the fan club was in rare form. Francine of all people joined Pinar, Sally and Rose and their sisters, and they all kept linking hands to form a Maypole circle around me. I would occasionally slip through their ranks and attempt to continue walking around, but the circle would qui
ckly reform around me. At one point, I told them a circle was too easy, and that they should try something harder, like a triangular prism. They just looked at me like I was crazy.
You know, I don’t see Francine much anymore except for the early mornings. She’s in Special Ed. now for math, so she goes to lunch and P.E. with my class, but the rest of the time, she’s in another classroom. I’m not complaining though, because from what I hear, she’s turned into quite a terror, even without Lucifer’s influence.
In other news, we’ve been having a canned food drive here at the school all week long. The kids have been doing a pretty good job of bringing in boxes and cans for less fortunate people. However, they don’t all seem to understand the concept of “non-perishable.” Today, Ralph brought in a can of pinto beans, a can of corn, and a box of generic tuna helper. All well and good. But he also brought in a loaf of French bread, a jar of pickles, and some grape jam with an expiration date of 8/03. I guess it’s the thought that counts, right?
Later,
Sal Monilla
Date: Monday, November 24, 2003
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: Daily affirmation
Hey dude, Thanks for the offer, but our food drive will NOT be accepting your half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. Nice try. And anything that Larry has even touched can automatically be ruled out.
Today was a relatively uneventful day at school, brightened by a small piece of paper. At some point after lunch, Guadelupe gave me a folded up note. I was busy at the time, so I thanked her and stuck the note in my pocket. I didn’t remember it again until the school day was over and I was alone in my room.
Here’s what it said:
Dear Mr. Woodson, I want to tell you that you are a great teacher. You’ve been a nice teache this days, weeks, and months.
You are a good kind heart teacher.
