The Good, the Bad, and the Crazy: A semi-coherent ramble on topics as far-ranging as my crazy ass sophomores, teacher evaluation, and PCP

by ALISTAIR BOMPHRAY

I’ve got some crazy ass sophomores this year. The kids aren’t disrespectful per se—they’re just… young. And I actually kind of love them for it. Their transgressions have been cuter than they’ve been disheartening—with a couple of exceptions, of course.

Case in point: the time I found a nickel bag on the floor of my room. Even less cute was when Roberto tried to claim it after class. “What you gonna do with that?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I replied, amazed that he was even trying this with me. His eyes darted back and forth between the baggie and the stunned expression that was surely writ across my face. “Give it to me,” he said, a shit-eating grin taking away some (but not all) of the menace and strangeness from the request. “Are you for real?” I asked. Dude was about one millitesticle (that’s how male pattern boldness is measured, didn’t you know?) away from reaching out and grabbing the baggie from my hand and to hell with the consequences. An awkward moment passed. Common sense won out at last and he booked it to lunch.

This is a kid who got into an altercation with a teacher last year while high on PCP. That’s freakin’ horse tranquilizer if you didn’t know. I wouldn’t want to hang out on a beach in the Caribbean drinking margaritas while high on PCP let alone sit through high school math class. Shi-i-i-t.

What I really mean to say is, yeah, my classes are a little crazy, but it’s a lovable crazy, minus PCP-doing sociopaths. Even Roberto isn’t a mean kid, just deeply misguided. Which I suppose would be an apt descriptor for a lot of my students. Or—even better—deeply unguided.

And I guess that’s part of my job—to guide.

So it wasn’t a surprise when my 3^rd period sophomores crowded into my room last Friday and brought with them the unmistakable scent of good ol’ Californ-i-a herb. Not as in somebody had sparked up a joint in there, but as in somebody had some fresh stinky stuff on their person. Which is to say the smell wasn’t going to go away. I knew it was bad when one of my seniors popped their head in the room and said, “Yo, what you doooing in here?”

Getting high, I wanted to deadpan. Whattaya think?

Instead I said, “Yeah, I know, it stinks,” looking around the room meaningfully.

A teacher’s daily life is made up of literally thousands of miniature forks in the road. And there’s usually not time for extended deliberation. We must act quickly and decisively. Here I was at one of those forks: Do I make a big deal out of this? Or do I just move on?

Personally, I can’t stomach the idea of calling security into my room to search backpacks. Nor do I want to accuse the wrong kid (which, by the way, happened to me once when I was in high school). So I acknowledged the smell (if you thought we couldn’t smell it, think again, dumb ass, the implied message) and moved on.

Okay, class, open your books to page 420.

This day was a little different, though. The assistant principal was scheduled to observe me, formally. The fact that my room smelled like a Method Man concert was mildly disconcerting to be sure. But minus that annoying detail, I was ready for her: lesson plan printed out (check), materials all in order (check), student-centered activity ready to go (check), hair combed (well, that’s not that important, is it?).

In my sixth year, I’m a lot more confident going into these evaluations. I don’t feel the need to perform, or to go out my way to please my evaluator. In other words, I’m not afraid of getting fired. I just want to be myself and not mess up in some major kind of way—you know, like fart on a student or something.

In fact, I’ve grown kind of stubbornly opposed to changing my routine in any way for the benefit of an administrator. I want them to see my class for what it is. Yeah, it smells like weed in here. What can I say? These are my kids. Welcome.

Of course, add a principal to the mix, and the kids’ behavior changes too. Typically, this means for the better, and as a newer teacher, I graciously benefited from this phenomenon. But I’ve gotten to the point in my career where I don’t want to put on a show anymore, and I don’t want my kids to either. I want it to be real.

I was not to be disappointed this time. My kids were absolutely, one hundred percent themselves. They interrupted each other. They got distracted. They struggled to transition from one activity to the next. Two kids got in a yelling match. Another kid called his friend a “pendejo.” They also participated. They said really smart things. They completed all of the activities. They listened.

It was my most authentic evaluation ever. When the assistant principal left my room after forty minutes of silently observing and typing on her laptop, I thought, “Well, she saw it all. The good, the bad, and the crazy.”

It strikes me now as I write this that perhaps one of the distinguishing characteristics of an experienced teacher (not that I’m anywhere near such hallowed grounds yet) is simply being comfortable in their own skin: as a disciplinarian, a teacher, an employee, and a human being. This doesn’t mean not wanting or needing to get better, it just means being at peace with the way things are, even when things are kind of out of control.

When that yelling match broke out, the two years ago me would’ve thought, “You assholes! I’m being observed right now!” And then I would’ve frantically tried to break it up, a pitch of desperation in my voice. Perhaps I would’ve even tried to mediate the conflict, thinking that’s what my principal wanted to see. This time I remained calm, cool even. “Tony. Patty,” I said, “ Can we move on?” And we did.

I haven’t had my post-observation conference yet. I imagine it’ll just be a formality: Good job on this. Do better on that. Now sign on the dotted line. Regardless, it seems a significant victory that I was able to be so myself up there, even when things didn’t go exactly as I wanted. The important shift here, I think, is that my classroom is no longer a threatening place for me, crazy ass sophomores be damned. This is the opposite of saying that my classroom is my domain, and that I’m the master of that domain, or some such nonsense. It’s saying that I’ve made a home of the chaos. And if I want to make a career out of this thing, I better learn to live in it—even if some of my roommates think they need horse tranquilizer just to feel okay.

Alistair teaches English and Journalism in Hayward, CA.