A schoolhouse perk, desired by many, but generally reserved
for department chairs, the outrageously tenured, and Bossman’s latest squeeze,
was always to gain Oh-mission from the list of Homeroom Teachers. Despite 4 or 5 years as a middle-school
department chair (that’s a whole ‘nother journey down a whole ‘nother path), I
always made the list; but in the balancing scales of hindsight and reflection,
I was the winner. What perk?
In my first public school gig, my bright eyes and bushy tail
were assigned to teach primarily 7th graders (the babies of the
school), but somehow wound up with a homeroom of 9th graders, the
Royalty of this old-fashioned junior high school. I must have appeared innocent, cuddly and /
or desperately in need of help because a few of those kids all but adopted me,
and as a group they made me feel comfortable – and on rare occasions even
knowledgeable and helpful. In the grand
scheme of things, I believe it was beneficial to be only Homeroom- and not
classroom-teacher for them. This (and
whatever Hands control Fate) allowed for development of a consistently positive
rapport free of academic tension. I was
able to tap into this distinction more fully in Act II of my public school
career.
‘Twas an even dozen years later that a mid-career crisis /
decision (yet another path) placed me in front of a 10th grade
Homeroom in a senior high school. All
the Whos down in Whoville welcomed Christmas never so heartily as they did
me. Turns out that my predecessor the
previous spring semester, in the kids’ eyes, bore a striking resemblance to a
pre-closed-heart-surgery Grinch, so even Snidely Whiplash would have been
cool. (Given my penchant for head-gear,
I more fancy myself The Cat in the Hat.)
Since I was again assigned to teach the babies of the school, the
freshmen – was somebody trying to tell me something? – a rapport similar to
that with my Originals was able to develop.
Three years of hard work, laughs, and a few tears later, all but a
couple of that group graduated from a challenging, college-prep, magnet
program. (It was the first time I
personally had ascended a graduation stage in 23 years. ‘Twas nice.)
Simple and convenient rotation positioned my name under
Freshmen on the afore-mentioned “dreaded” list for the following year. I’d experienced the teaching team / cluster
concept in my prior pedagogic incarnation, so teaching my own Homeroom kids
wasn’t unfamiliar to me. But with all
three of the subsequent Homerooms that I helped steer through commencement, I
underwent, if only in my own mind, a subtle but significant
transformation. Now, in my interactions
with all the kids in our program, when they put English I in their academic
rear window, I would tend to morph from their every-day-in-class,
gotta-get-a-grade-from-him teacher into a crazy uncle they’d see only
sporadically. Quadrennially, when
there’d be Homeroomers going through the change, for them I’d become the
absolutely insane big brother they loved to hate, and hated to love
sometimes. Pretty quickly, in the high
school environment, I’d acquired the habit of hand-writing a comment to the
student, expressed from the Homeroom Teacher / Big Brother persona, on each
kid’s report card before I’d distribute them.
Once, only once, did a parent complain to me about this practice –
though I fear in the “don’t sue us” bureaucratic mindset that permeates today’s
schools, I’d be required to gain prior parental approval before pen could touch
grade report. The gist of her objection
was that I was “rubbing salt” in her wounded son. With regret – fearful about perhaps making
him stand out in the eyes of his peers – I refrained from joking with this
child for the remainder of his one-year stay in our program. C’est la vie, and even Jesus couldn’t save
‘em all.
That guinea-pig, first freshman Homeroom included an
interesting, industrious young man who faced his share of challenges as well as
a set-back or two on his path to Grade 13.
The nicknames I’ve hung on students over the years have been many, but
this particular kid gave me one, one that can be repeated in mixed company and
that he was cool using with his absolutely insane big brother. Actually, he took our “relationship” a step
further. He dubbed me Vince McMahon, the
professional wrestling guru, and himself his (and therefore my) son Shane. For over two years, we were Vince and Shane,
and not just to each other.
The letter of recommendation I prepared for Shane wasn’t
easy to compose. Not a genius, his
unique talents and varied interests didn’t truly reveal themselves on a
transcript or resume. My mind can still
conjure a vision of the small but satisfied smile that came to his face as he
read my final product. Given the persona
(and antics) for which I became notorious, I thought it important, in dealing
with both Homeroom kids and others, to share a letter of recommendation with
the student before submitting it. If a
parent had made the request on behalf of the kid, I’d often share it with Mom
or Dad first. My reasoning is that if I can’t
allow such preview, then maybe I shouldn’t be the one writing the
recommendation. Aside from overlooked
typos and an occasional factual error, complaints and suggestions were
non-existent (as far as I know, anyway).
One morning Shane’s senior year, during one of those
stretches where the nice little groove into which everyone’s worked themselves
is threatening to become a rut, he was standing outside my classroom at his
locker shortly after 1st
Period, long my “Free” Period, had begun. In response to my inquiry after his wellness
and his tardiness, he informed me he was merely “gathering his thoughts.” With no hesitation, but with Spike Jones and
His City Slickers mischievously playing “You Only Hurt the One You Love” on my
mental stereo (talk about Playlists!!!), I responded, “That shouldn’t take
long.” Back off in his thoughts, Shane
was oblivious to my wise-crack. Not so
the lone student passing by on the hallway.
He was smiling and shaking his head at his crazy uncle.
Maybe Snidely Whiplash did replace the Grinch.
And sure, I’ll take a Homeroom.
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