Second hour, my Algebra class. Supposedly the smart ones. I overhear one of my boys listing off ingredients.
“Stop looking up the Big Arch and do your math.”
The boys at table exchange glances.
“How did you know that was the ingredients for the Big Arch?”
“I’m fat. Do your work.”
During sixth hour, I have to explain to a student that we have a “turn off the lights and hide” policy during lockdown drills because it is, in fact, a better idea for 800+ kids to be quiet and hiding during an emergency than jumping out the windows and running away, which is what he suggests the right idea would be.
He points out that most school shooters are students of the school (a fact I’m not completely sure of, but whatever) and that they would surely know which classes had students in them and would not be fooled by darkness and silence.
I ask him “Does Mrs. So-and-so have a fourth hour class?”
“Why would I know that?”
Today’s assignment has sixteen “real” questions and, just so that the points end up as a multiple of 10, which I care about for no reason, I include four questions taken from preschool standards, just to give the grades a little bump for the hell of it. Four students miss at least one of these questions and I have to explain to one of them, a native English speaker, what “fewer” means.
A teacher is absent and I am covering her homeroom, which means that both classes will be in my room at the same time. My prep period is fourth hour which is right before Advisory. A student knocks on my door at the beginning of fourth hour.
“I’m in Mrs. Such-and-so’s class.”
“I’m covering her advisory, not her fourth hour.”
“But <other adult> told me to come here.”
“There is a literal sign on her door saying that her Advisory class should come to me. Not her fourth hour. I’m not covering her fourth.”
“What should I do?”
“Mrs. Whatshername is covering her fourth. So if they aren’t in Mrs. So-and-so’s room they’re probably in her class. Go look and see if there’s a sign on the door.”
She repeats that the other adult told her to come to me.
I step out of the way and grandly reveal the empty classroom.
“There are no other students in here. I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”
She stares at me.
I close the door.
A student tells me she wants a rat and a snake as pets. I ask if she plans to put them in the same cage. She says she might have to since “there’s not enough room.” I ask what she means.
There are four humans, four cats, and three dogs living in her home. The dogs are a pit bull mix, some sort of dog with the word “mountain” in the name, and a St. Bernard. She lives in a trailer.
I had at least one more when I was prewriting this. If I remember what it was I’ll add it in. This was a ridiculous day.
