Please listen up, because this one comes from the heart: I’m tired of your knuckles pummeling me into the hospital.
This is not why I became a teacher.
Seven years ago, I happily discarded plans to become an electrical engineer so I could read your argumentative essays on why the school’s dress-code sucks. I have forsaken fortunes to explain to you why 2X over X equals ... hell, I forget what that equals, thanks to the concussion you gave me with your trapper-keeper. I still vomit in my sleep from that one. And do you know how much new flannel sheets cost after tax? No, you don’t, because when I tried to teach you percentages, you shivved me with my own mechanical pencil. ...
Look outside at the staff parking lot, kids. See that Ford Escort? It’s the faded one with the missing hub cap. You think that car helps me find a woman to re-place my ex-wife, who left me for Vice Principal Baumgartner and his ‘98 Accord? No, it doesn’t. Maybe you’ll think about that the next time you pick up a desk chair.
And just so you know: I was planning on showing all of the BBC’s Planet Earth documentaries on DVD next week. But now that I’m sipping mashed potatoes through a sippy cup, I've left the substitute a stack of worksheets – thirty-seven pages worth of U.S. History word-finds. And they’re the hard-ones, with backwards spelling and diagonals and stuff.
Payback's a bitch, ain’t it kids?
Sixth-grade homeroom teacher
A.J. Rickoff Academy
Cleveland Metropolitan School District