Standard Observations

Today I was observed. For the first time this year. At this point last year I had video taped myself twice and been observed three times. My ego was stroked. This time it was a total sneak attack. Observation during yearbook where there is no essential question and very few, if any, lesson plans. Observation was a success . . . how can anything go wrong when you have the most motivated students in school working on the annual publication of pictures and catchy captions? I was rest assured the observation was now over with, barely missing my read-aloud unit of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Though morally I refused to read the "n" word, I was asked by my students how I could read G.D. (it is peppered in most conversations between Lennie and George). The unit was a huge success. The students enjoyed the story with much enthusiasm and their affinity to Lennie was genuine. Frankly, I told them I would not, nor could not, read the last two chapters aloud. My emotions take over and I end up sobbing like a 6th grader reading Where the Red Fern Grows. There is a point to this, I promise. Stay with me. I had a fantastic day. Too bad the day doesn't end at 2pm. I decided to show my students the movie; although my one-woman show of the book was up for an Oscar, Randy Quaid and Robert Blake portray the different hairstyles.
Cell phones have a way of ruining everything. This is not off topic. A student asked me to use the bathroom just as Quaid was professing his love for ketchup and beans. Feeling exhilerated, I let her go, even though I was disappointed she would miss the first appearance of Curley's wife. After ten minutes I began to worry that she had gotten flushed down the toilet, so I sent a trustworthy student to check up on her. She was not in the bathroom, she was on her cell phone. In my hallway. While Lennie was offering to go live in a cave. And Candy was debating on shooting his most loved and trusted companion. Wicked bad timing, my friend. She reamed me up and down, lied to me and to her savior and then told me where I could stick it. Fine. Let's go to the office. She proceeded to the AP's comfy couch, where she yelled and cried and called me lots of names . . . but she called me a liar and a really "bad teacher". Friday afternoons are not good for this. I lost it. And my face was red and I could not listen to anymore. I put my hand up, shakily, and informed the audience I could not, or would not, listen to this anymore. Somehow I managed to keep the convulsions at bay until I got down the hallway; tears down my face and a class to teach. Defeat. I had been observed in my utmost weakness. By a student who got my goat.
Never, never, never let them know where your goat lives. She just broke into the house, unchained the goat and fed it the best brambles on the east coast.
To Be Continued . . . . .