Today I sent a student to the office. No, I tried to send a student to the office. He, however, refused to take the disciplinary referral. Instead, he attempted to engage me in a loud, illogical negotiation based on the belief that his perceived offence was an unjust observation of an incident initiated by another student. In fact, this 16-year old guy is a repeat offender. He makes loud “attention seeking” remarks during lessons, initiates redundant noises during tests, makes faces and tries to communicate via body language to students sitting around him. In other words, he is obnoxious and disruptive. All my tried-and-true techniques for extinguishing inappropriate behavior have been to no avail. Of course teachers are never suppose to dislike students, just their behavior. But I dislike this student… immensely.

I’ve been asking myself, what kind of self-respecting, educated person subjects herself (five days a week, no less) to instruct condescending uncouth sub-adults. No wonder so many teachers leave the profession. I ask you, where’s the respect? Teachers are so busy trying to manage the ne’er-do-wells that the deserving students who want to learn are largely ignored.

Besides discourteous students, teachers have to deal with “No Child Left Behind”, a federal law that has fallen short of its idealized goal of providing education regardless of student ability or initiative. Schools don’t want student dropouts or failures. That would mean that they have “left students behind” and therefore in jeopardy of not receiving much needed federal funding. Here’s how it has played out in my district: If I fail too many students per class (that would be approximately 7%/30 students—2/class), I am called to one of the principal’s offices to discuss what I should have done to avoid failing the student. To justify student failures, I must show documentation of parent contact, counselor contact, and tutoring efforts to keep the student on track. It is expected that teachers give retake exams, extra credit—whatever it takes to pass these kids. Many teachers simply give students a 70 to avoid the extra hoopla, documentation, and trips to the office. Not me, I still hold fast to the notion that students must earn their grades. Truth is, I’m getting tired. Education is a fiasco.

Another Christmas. One week left of freedom, then back to the classroom. What a crazy year. My older son married. My dad died. My dog died.

I've been thinking a lot about my past--growing up in Galveston, the happy times and the sad. Is this what one does when the future seems uncertain? Or maybe it's the holiday. Christmas eve I made a pot of gumbo for a family get-together. How my father loved nice spicy gumbo! Normally, he would join me in the kitchen and be the “taste-tester”. He would start telling his WWII stories to the children. Of course, I had already heard them dozens of times and yet, I was still intrigued with his accounts. And I found myself missing my little dog, Petey Boudreaux. Every Christmas he would sniff out his gifts and unwrap them. How he loved a new, squeaky ball. He could toss it in the air and then catch it! Very cute.

I’m not even sure if I properly grieved for my dad. He had been sick with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma for over two years. From the time he was diagnosed he had the look of death in his eyes. When he passed, mom and I were at his side watching his breathing as it slowed and finally stopped.
“I’ll get the nurse now, mom.”
“Is he gone?”
“He is, mom.”
I reached over to close his eyelids, but mom asked me to leave them open so he could see. I thought it odd. The nurse returned with me to the dad’s bed. She placed a stethoscope to his chest. “Is he gone?” mom asked again. She knew he was. We gathered her belongings from the room—a reading lamp, a lap blanket, a clock. There were papers to be signed and people to call. After all was done, I went back to my father’s room one last time. Was this small wasted man my dad? Impossible! “Bye, daddy—“ And so it ended. After 86 years on this earth, W5RK was over and out.

I saw your photo online. It was easy, I simply “googled” your name. But there was no initial recall—just a side view of some older guy. It couldn’t be you—probably someone with the same name. I clicked on the image just to make sure. It enlarged, and yes, there was some semblance of the boy after all. Whew, I thought I would always have immediate recognition of your face. It was, after all, burned in my memory. But that was the young you—the boy. As I studied the photo carefully, I searched for details that might speak to me as to who you became. Your nose seemed different—the tip a little lower. Is that what happens when we age? I placed my thumb over the slackening jaw-line. Oh, yea…now I see you. And your hair! Mostly gone on top. Ah, my blond-haired boy, love of my youth—how vulnerable you look. There is something so invincible and strong about youth. I see that now. How I wanted to reach through the monitor and take your face in my hands turning it this way and that, kissing the creases around your eyes and mouth as though that would erase time and make you mine once more during this lifetime.

Wednesday was my birthday. Thursday my dog of 15+ years died. Friday, upon arriving home after teaching, the gravity of his passing was upon me. I dreaded opening the door. No wagging tail and wet licks for me—instead, an overwhelming sense of loss.

"Age-related multi organ failure"— that's what the vet said. She spoke of failing kidneys and an enlarged heart. Oh, yes, he had deterioration of his spine, was deaf, and partially blind. Still, he was a happy, active dog until three weeks ago. He was still jumping up the stairs and taking long walks.

Old as he was, I still saw “the puppy” in him till the end. How empty the house seems now.