Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Orange Explosion
Things in my end of the day double period are getting crazier and major. There are a few kids who cut class pretty much everyday during the first marking period who have started showing up. As an educator, I am supposed to be happy about this, but really they’re just a pain in my ass, and I wish they’d go away.

One of them is a kid named Michael, a seemingly intelligent young fellow who constantly talks in a Donald Duck voice, quacking out such comedic gems as, “Fuck you, bitch!” and “Suck my dick!” Say it in the voice. I’m not too proud to admit that it’s funny. It just pisses me off, though.

Another new attendee is the infamous Smokey, who I never saw again for quite some time after the “Pizza Chant” day the first week of school.

Smokey is by far the weirdest kid I’ve ever dealt with. Maybe he’s just really, really high all the time, but I think the kid has some other, deeper issues on top of that.

He didn’t come back to class all at once but via an elaborate and gradual process. He began by poking his head around corners as, per school regulations, I stood in the doorway before class ushering students in.

“Samuel!” I would holler a little half-heartedly. “Come to class.”

His head would quickly disappear.

Then he started strolling into class sometime halfway through the period.

“Samuel! What’s up man? Long time no see. Why doncha sit down and get to work, we’re on page 53.”

“Lemme get the pass to the bathroom. C’mon, Mista. Lemme go.”

Every time, I would, of course, decline this absurd request, and every time he would throw a little fit, call me a “racist nigga,” then pick up and leave. Good riddance.

I even pulled him aside for a man-to-man, told him he seemed like a smart kid, assured him he was on his way to failing 9th grade if he didn't start showing up and doing some work. He fidgeted and avoided eye-contact, grunted and pushed past me back in the room, soon to storm out again for greener pastures.

He finally stuck around for the whole class last Tuesday, to my chagrin. His erratic behavior and trouble-making began innocuously enough. I caught him eating an orange and tossing the peel all over the floor, and managed to snatch the offending fruit out of his unsuspecting hand. This was probably a bad move on my part, turning things into a challenge of quickness and secrecy, instead of just making the little punk throw his orange away.

As soon as I’d stashed the orange in my desk I turned around to see young Smokey with another one. Then another and another. He had at least a dozen stashed in the depths of his over-sized black coat. I confiscated five or six, he probably ate at least two others, and finally the orange supply was exhausted.

Smokey then asked to go the bathroom. This time, though, instead of storming out of the room when I refused him, he winked at me, told me I had “sexy eyes,” and started wandering around the room humping things and people. He then pulled out a wrinkled Newport which he kept going over to the window and pretending to light. This behavior caused quite a stir among his classmates, who had not, before, during the whole orange situation, been behaving exactly like angels.

I completely lost control of the class. At some point Smokey and Michael the foul-mouthed duck began to wrestle amongst the disheveled desks and scattered orange peels, grunting, grappling and contorting into all sorts of homo-erotic positions. This eventually lead to a series of body-slams and culminated in one of their flying bodies breaking the lock on another teacher’s filing cabinet in the back of the room.

Sometime during all this my AP and another teacher came by to borrow a table. Good times. No wonder they hide me in the basement most of the day.

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