Summer’s End

There are three stages to Back to School. Stage One, “Backish,” begins tomorrow. I have professional development from 7:30 to 2:30 tomorrow and Tuesday, but it’s not required and, in fact, I’m getting paid for it. If I decide I’m bored and I want to cut out halfway through (and it’s PD, so this is a virtual guarantee) nothing bad happens other than I don’t get paid for all of the time unless I can figure out a way to fake it. I will very likely be at school at least two days out of Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, working in my classroom. I will be on my own schedule and not getting paid.

I will also probably spend a lot of money on school shit this week, unfortunately. The week of Backish is often one of the most expensive of the year.

(Money burning a hole in your pocket? Feeling generous? My teacher wish list is here; all of that is for classroom use.)

The second stage of Back to School is “Back.” That happens next week; ie, a week from tomorrow. I have three days of required PD, I have to take sick days if I’m not there, and there are orientations on Tuesday and Wednesday and I expect both to be 11- or 12-hour days. I will not spend a lot of money during Back but I will be tired as hell.

The third stage of Back to School is “Back-back,” sometimes italicized, as “Back-back,” and that happens Thursday, when the kids return to class. I do like that I only have kids two days during the first week back. I’m less happy with the road trip we have planned for the following weekend, but that’s how the timing worked out.

So. Yeah. We’re backish. We’re not back, and we’re not back-back (see?), but we’re backish.

Year 20, motherfuckers.

What a weird day

My day started with a visit to my dermatologist, who is a lovely person. I only have a dermatologist because I asked my doctor once to check out a mole that is located on my back and squarely in the middle of a tattoo; she made me a referral out of an excess of caution and since then once a year in June or July I get way closer to naked than I’m comfortable with in a room sometimes containing as many as three other people (only two, this time) and they pore over damn near every inch of me– way too much, one way or another– with those little flashlights dermatologists use. As of yet there have been no issues, and as I don’t encounter the sun unless absolutely necessary, skin cancer really isn’t very high on my list of health concerns. My dad has had a few suspect moles removed, I think, but I have considerably fewer moles than he does.

When she came in today, I referred to my visits with her as the most awkward fifteen minutes of my year, which is a virtual guarantee that my regular doctor will insist on a prostate exam when I see her in July. Stand by for that one; it’ll be fun for everybody.

The rest of my day was taken up with interviews for the open assistant principal position at my school. I haven’t fully written out all of the rules for the Assistant Principal Interview Drinking Game, but if you sip every time you hear the word relationships and finish your drink whenever you hear servant leader, you will be fucking dead by the end of the game. This is the second round of first round interviews, since the first time around we went to two different people and offered them the job and they both went elsewhere, so we had to start the search over. I think we had two really solid candidates out of the batch, so hopefully one of them ends up still being available at the end of the week when we make an offer.

Also, if you get asked “What would you do if you witnessed one student bullying another student,” and your reaction is to freeze for ten seconds while you consider your answer to this utter fucking softball of a question, you may consider yourself instantly eliminated from the competition. You had to know there were questions about bullying coming. Had to.

Anyway, now I’m exhausted. I conked out on the couch for about half an hour after I got home, then got up and had dinner, and now that my Computer Tasks are done for the night. Tomorrow morning is another four hours of meetings with the honors teachers and then I think I’ve got the rest of the week to myself.

On HB 1608, Indiana’s “Don’t Say Gay” bill, and being a teacher

Because the place I live is terrible, the state legislature has passed, and our governor has signed, a “Don’t Say Gay” bill inspired by the recent bullshit in Florida. I’ve been thinking hard about how I want to deal with this bill as an educator and I think my thoughts are formed enough that I can write about it.

First and foremost: I refuse to out any student to their parents under any circumstances, my teaching license be damned. I simply won’t do it. Any parents who needs their kids’ teachers to let them know that their kid is trans does not need to be notified that their kids are trans. If you could be trusted with that information, you’d already have it.

That said, there’s noncompliance and then there’s noncompliance, and this bill is so sloppily written that one wonders why they even bothered.

(That’s not true. They bothered because they wanted to make it clear to a vulnerable minority that they hate them and think they should be dead. That’s the reason this bill passed. It’s the only reason.)

Anyway, here’s the text of the law:

Chapter 7.5. Parental Notification Regarding Identification

Sec. 1. As used in this chapter, “school” has the meaning set forth in IC 20-30-17-1.
Sec. 2. (a) A school shall notify in writing at least one (1) parent of a student, if the student is an unemancipated minor, of a request made by the student to change the student’s:
(1) name; or
(2) pronoun, title, or word to identify the student.
(b) Not later than five (5) business days after the date on which a school receives a request described in subsection (a), the school shall provide notification to a parent as required by subsection (a).

I can think of two ways to deal with this law. The first relies on a close reading of the text itself. Note the usage of the words “request” and “change” in the first line of Sec. 2, and the repetition of “a school receives a request” in subsection b.

This does not describe a situation that ever happens.

First of all, I, a teacher, am not a school as defined by the law, and the word “teacher” does not appear in the law. There is not a form that a kid fills out when they decide that they want to be Ryan and not Sophia, nor is there anywhere at all where someone can file to have their pronouns changed. I find out that a kid wants to use different pronouns or a different name when they tell me, generally right after they’ve met. It strains credulity to call that a “request” to “change” anything. It’s them telling me what they want to be called, and it’s not a “request.” I have gone by my middle name for my entire life and have had to tell every teacher I have ever had to call me something other than what was written on the attendance form in front of them. By this law, even a diminutive or a nickname– going by “Andy” instead of “Andrew” or “DJ” instead of “Denise Jane”– requires notification.

There are, plain and simple, no “requests” being made here as the law seems to envision, and even if they are, they are being made to teachers, not to a school, and the law does not state who needs to make said requests and makes no requirement that I, for example, pass on said request to an administrator.

So that’s the first possibility; simply ignore the law, because as written it genuinely doesn’t appear to me to require me to do anything and does not bother to make itself clear enough to make it possible to figure out how to comply. It doesn’t even define “provide notification” in any coherent form other than saying that it should be by writing.

The second option is some form of malicious compliance. Again, the law does not specifically mention trans students, and as such it seems to apply to all of them. Which means that every “Andrew” who wants to be “Andy” or “Emmanuel” who wants to be “Manny” triggers the law, and if Bill wanting to be Bella gets a notification, that means that Robert wanting to be Bob gets one too. The law makes no distinction. It also– and this is potentially important– makes no requirement that the actual new name or pronouns be identified.

So I can either:

  1. literally send a letter to every single parent I have at the beginning of the year stating that I will call every student I have by the names and pronouns they prefer; or
  2. put said policy into something distributed to every parent (or at least accessible to them) at the beginning of the year, such as a syllabus or parent letter or my class website.

When you consider that the law also says that notification is required for any “word” used to identify the students? Shit. Granted, no kid is making a “request” to be called “you in the green hoodie” by anyone, but again, I don’t think “call me Evan” is a request either by the normal definition of the term. So am I notifying every single parent in the building? Because it is entirely within the realm of possibility that I might be using a “word” to refer to literally every kid in the building on any given day that school is in session, and given that I don’t know most of them those references will almost certainly not be using their names as spelled out on their birth certificates or school registrations.

And can I find a way to get every teacher in the building to notify every parent in the building, thus leading to an utter flood of mail and a nice little bit of civil malicious compliance designed to demonstrate how fucking stupid this law is?

Maybe.

This has never happened before

We are two weeks, more or less, into Summer Break, and …

I miss my students.

God help me.

On hope, ctd.

You may– I suspect it’s unlikely, but you may– recall this August 2021 post about Makyi Toliver, a former student of mine and one I was quite fond of, who had been sentenced to 45 years in prison for felony murder. I don’t know if you know what felony murder is, but it’s a wildly unjust fucking crime. Makyi and a sixteen-year-old friend attempted to steal a gun from a third person, a bungled theft that led to the gun’s owner killing his friend and shooting Makyi at least eight times. This, somehow, led to Makyi being convicted of murder. 45 years. At 20.

I’ve corresponded with Makyi a couple of times– not enough, to tell the truth– since he’s been locked up. Yesterday morning I checked my messages and noticed that his account was marked as inactive. I didn’t initially think much of it; maybe he’d been transferred or the prison was changing providers or something.

At 8:00 yesterday evening I got a text message from another teacher who had also had him in her classes. Makyi was dead. As far as we know right now, he died from suicide. Why “as far as we know”? The jail and the coroner are refusing to give his mother any information, which means we’re relying on– wait for it– rumors and secondhand information from other former students at Parchman.

Makyi was a good kid. He was a good kid and he had an immense amount of potential and he didn’t fucking deserve any of this.

I hate it here, and I’m not okay.

And … done

Undeniably my most successful and fun year of teaching… well, sixish months of teaching, at least … in at least a decade. Quite possibly my most successful and fun ever, since there are kids from that 2013 year I still look up occasionally hoping to discover they’re in jail, and there’s no one from this class I’m going to remember negatively.

So, naturally, I came home and took a nap on the couch, and it took half an hour at least of staring dully at the screen before I was able to muster up the willpower to type even these few sentences, and I have to get up at regular time tomorrow to go to a thing at my son’s school, so it ain’t like summer’s starting just yet.

(10 more minutes of staring)

… yeah, I’m going to bed early tonight, aren’t I?

And now one more

Oh, man, I made so many of them cry today. It was awesome.

I said more or less the same thing to all of my classes today, and I said it today because I expect a fair number of them to be absent tomorrow: that this was the first year that teaching was fun in a very long time, and that the last class of kids that I remember with the level of fondness that I suspect I’ll remember this class with was ten goddamn years ago. This is the end of year 19; seven months ago I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to 20. Now I’m back to thinking I might actually retire from teaching whenever that magical date rolls around, as opposed to quitting in disgust and going to do something else.

Tomorrow afternoon is a field day, and the universe has rewarded me for these heartfelt thoughts by putting me in charge of monitoring the inflatables, which means I am going to spend four hours tomorrow stuck in a gym with several dozen seventh and eighth graders at a time, all of whom will be sweaty and, because I’m working with the inflatables, none of whom will be wearing shoes. I cannot imagine what my world is going to smell like tomorrow. I am not sure that I want to.

Grading: DONE!

Well, mostly. My Algebra kids had their final today and today was the last day for 8th grade Math kids to turn in late work and expect me to grade it. Tomorrow is the last day for the Algebra kids to turn in late work, so I’ll have to grade whatever that is, but that will get done during the day and not at home at my desk. So I’m done, but I’m not done-done, so to speak, but I will be by this time tomorrow.

The final went pretty well, all told. They didn’t all pass, although the large majority of them did and the kids who bombed it weren’t huge surprises. I’ll take it, especially after their performance on NWEA.

And now, to finish reading a book before bed.