Wait, did we just fight over a light?

Confession- I’ve been seeing this man, Jack for several weeks now. Really, like a month. He’s great, he’s fun. But the dude can kinda act like a princess. For example, he kept dropping hints about how he was losing an hour of his precious sleep when he stays over at my house and how he is tired. blah blah blah.I have to wake up 1-1.5 hours before him and get ready and apparently, I am ruining his slumber. His biggest complaint was about the light from the bathroom while I drowsily get ready…

I just couldn’t EVEN handle it…. So ya, I went off about a light. A light.

Dardos Award

Huge shout out to TheSassyBitch for the nomination for the Dardos Award! Go follow her and discover her amazing journey as a confident, young adult as told by her blog posts at I Put The Ass in Sassy.

I am nominating one of my favorite and most genuinely authentic teacher bloggers, Chasing Piggens! She inspires me every day (or at least every few days when I sneak a moment of time away from grading or making lesson plans, to catch up on her adventurous life!

More posts to come! BRB, busy slamming my head through a wall and attempting to learn and learn how to teach Algebra simultaneously.

Panty Flashers and Cuss Words

3:58 p.m. The final bell rang, signaling the end of another school day.

I sat at my desk, stunned.

Today made me wonder, are all my kids huffing glue?!

In one day I had 2 office referrals (AKA as the “you need to take your things and leave this classroom” moments) and three detentions. One girl in my homeroom thought it was a brilliant idea to stand up when she should be seated silently and pull the edges of her skirt up, flashing her panties to half a dozen students and my peripheral vision.

Confession-I am always full of sass and I always have plenty of light-hearted, playful, but to-the-point comebacks.

But the panty flasher left me completely speechless. When shit like this happens, my silent and still reaction is insanely effective. The whole mood of the room shifts like, “oohh damn if Ms. Wildes isn’t saying a damn thing then you know you screwed something up realll bad,”. In this case, I just silently gave the student the look that she needs to sit the eff down and then I silently and slowly floated towards my desk, where I keep my referral forms. Calmly handing her her form, I asked if she knew where she needed to go. She didn’t so I said “ok, hun. Come over here and have a look at my map with me,”. We looked at it together and I explained where she needed to go.

Poor girl was more speechless that I had been only moments earlier.

Another girl shouted “SHUT THE HELL UP!” to a boy clear across the classroom today. The profanity and the outburst earned her an office referral too. But in all honesty, that boy did need to shut the hell up and I secretly cheered her on. ‘Cause he just got TOLD! I spoke to her in the hall as I calmly sent her on her way, I reminded her that sometimes it’s better to react with no reaction. 

Good kids making silly decisions… That’s high school in a nutshell.

Tears, Fears, and Mascara Smears

“What?!” I looked on in horror as Carey stood in the doorway of my classroom. Judging by the sight of her, it was safe to assume that someone surely had died.

Carey is another first year org-member and fellow first year, clueless math teacher at The Delta High School. I like her a lot, we get along really well, and she is what I would consider a phenomenal first year teacher. She has her shit together, she is on top of everything, and she know the content (that’s a big one that I certainly do not have). But here Carey was, standing at my door face all puffy and red with tears welling up behind her eyes.

“I–I,” she began, stammering through her hysterics. “I just had a parent-teacher conference and this mom just ripped me to shreds!”

Carey then went on to explain the whole story behind the particular student and the details of the conference itself. Basically, the student is struggling and not asking for help, not coming to tutorials, not doing his homework, and left 75 percent of his test completely blank. “And—and.. his mom said my biggest fear of all!” she now sat slumped in a desk tears streaming down her cheeks. Dear God, I thought to myself, racing over to close my door, the bell is going to ring in seven minutes get your shit together, Carey! 

“She said it’s because I’m a bad teacher!” 

Christ.

I just, emotionally do not understand how people take some of this shit so personally. No shit a mom says it’s your fault! She just cares about what is best for her kid and her kid is probably trying to cover it up and save his ass by convincing mama and daddy at home that none of it could ever be his fault. I pulled this shit only 5 years ago! I know exactly how the story goes. 

All I could say to Carey was a nicer version of…

Y’all are so NEEDY

Neediness. 

The one true characteristic that makes me rage with anger, fill with anxiety, and gasp desperately for air.

Needy friend who always wants to hang out or asks “what are we doing tonight?”. NOPE. Cannot handle. Needy guy who’s emotional stability somehow depends upon the number of times I replied to his texts that day or the hours that we hung out during the week. NOPE. Be gone with you. And finally, that leaves me to the neediest of all humans.

Children. 

I see the faces of 100 children a day and 96 of them are some of the neediest human beings I have ever encountered.

“Ms. Wildes!” “Ms. Wildes”, 25 voices call my name as I race frantically between partners during “buddy work”. “Ms. Wildes, my hand has been up for a long time!” “Ms. Wildes, we need help over here,” “Ms. Wildes, can I borrow your pencil sharpener again?” “Ms. Wildes, I need to go to the office to call my mom,” “Ms. Wildes, does this look right so far?”

“Ms. Wildes!” “Ms. Wildes!”

75 percent of the time, the scenario goes as follows…

“Ms. Wildes, HAAALP!” the innocent children shriek. “Yes?” I dart over from across the room, practically breaking a sweat with crazy pieces of hair falling out of my bun around my eyes. “Ms. Wildes, we don’t get it,”. “Ok… Where are you getting stuck?” “EVERYYYTHING!” the children make similar sounds to the dying mammals in the science video I saw a teacher testing during my planning period. “Alright. Well, did you read the question?” “…No,”

FACEPALM 

“Ok,” the anxiety in my voice gradually becomes audible as I signal to 3 other groups that I see their hands and will be right with them. “Start with that. Read it. Read it twice. I only help students who help themselves,” I race off almost slipping on the dirty floors to repeat the same conversation with another 4 students.

It often takes every fiber of my being not to look up to the sky and scream “Shut the fuck upppp already!!!” at the top of my lungs. In my daydreams, I have this outburst, the room goes silent, and all my students stare at me, blink twice, and turn to their assignments, reading the questions and no longer needing all this hand-holding bullshit. Instead, I reopen the wound on the inside of my cheek and tap my foot to communicate my disappointment.

By the end of the day I am exhausted, thirsty, and so overwhelmed with the anxiety of having 100 needy-as-shit kids that I can hardly handle reading and responding to any text messages that I have missed since 8:00 a.m.

I love kids. Love ’em. But this whole experience has made me seriously question if I could ever be a

1. dog owner
2. mother
3. wife
4. anyone who anyone else depends on for their own livelihood

Shit. I’m fucked.

Winging It- The Importance of Adaptability

Confession- I am a control freak. 

I am neat, orderly, generally very organized, and I always know what’s going on. With teaching however, I am learning the essentially skill of adaptability. Plans only go so far. You can only plan for so much. Most importantly, if you only stick to your plan, you will fail. Your lesson is guaranteed to crash and burn. 

Now at teacher training this summer, they made us script out basically word for word what we were going to say and do which is POINTLESS because…

1. you’re not going to memorize it and talk like a fucking robot 
2. you’re not going to stand in front of a class and read aloud from your lesson plan 

Your students would eat you alive. 

Everyday, I plan. I plan out an agenda that I also write on the board. 10 min. doing this. 15 min. doing that. So on and so forth. I then also write a list of what I need to do to be ready for that lesson. Print and make 82 copies of HW packet. Pull up warm-up on the projector. I am organized. I am meticulous. I am a fucking psycho.

But I have not written a “lesson plan” since the beginning of the school year. 

At some point throughout my day, I always find myself smearing my agenda on the white board with my bare hand and scribbling in edits and changes. Ok, my students did that fast, next class I’ll give them 5 minutes instead. Or… Holy shit… my students struggled with the warm up… Adding and subtracting negative integers is like rocket science in the 9th grade, add 15 more minutes to the warm up. Covered in dry erase marker, I am a hot mess by the end of the day! 

And some days, I just get up there and I fucking wing it and that’s when the best things happen. 

One day when we talked about grouping things based on similarities, my kids led the class on a productive tangent about race and the history of segregation. Another day we discussed Michael Brown and the recent explosion of news coming out of Ferguson, MO for at least 20 minutes. 

The best thing I have learned so far is to plan and plan well, but don’t get so caught up in your plan that you don’t allow for productive conversations, important questions, and important life lessons. And that my friends, is why I am now a proud supporter of the occasional “wingin’ it” day! 

 

Baseball Booty and Cream Cheese

 

For the past couple of weeks, I have been seeing this guy named Evan. We met out one night and he is so insanely sexy. But of course, the second I found out what he does, he became even more sexy as if that was even possible.Evan is… 

• 26
• a minor league baseball player-first baseman 
• 6’4″
• 225 lbs of pure baseball booty 
• hot 
• and pretty damn sweet too

AKA, Evan is freaking perfect. The only problem, and it’s kind of a big one, is that he is in town only to play  for the local minor league team and the instant the season is over, Evan is back to the great state of California. 

Last night, the season unexpectedly ended for Evan’s team. He texted me at 4:00 p.m. that he would be flying home the very next morning. I actually felt sad. Like a pit in my stomach. This feeling alarmed me because it doesn’t happen often! Normally, I am an island. Pretty damn nonchalant to most everybody and every relationship. This time though, I was bummed. 

The team was on the way back from a series of games in Louisiana and we had been playing on having me pick him up from the bus at 10:00 p.m. when they arrived. This would be his last night in Mississippi. Throwing all morals and hesitations aside, I decided quietly to myself, “Yep, I am totally going to sleep with him. Yep. It’s happening,”. Because it’s fucking baseball booty and you DON’T say no to that. 

So naturally, I wore some pretty little outfit and waited patiently behind the charter bus as 50 something baseball booties unloaded and wandered on home to their families, friends, parents, and slam pieces, like me! Evan, who lives out of one suitcase, loaded on up into my SUV and we went on home too. 

And y’all, he was so damn hot. 

Anyways. He stayed the night and I dropped him off at the airport on my way to teach children… *insert guilty feelings here. We hugged and kissed goodbye and I watched him wander into the terminal with his one suitcase, tight ass, and bag of baseball bats. Sigh, goodbye you beautiful creature. 

By the time I got to work, I had a text from Evan. “So sad leaving you 😦 Since I never got to take you out to do something fancy, I left you a little present under your cream cheese in the fridge. Just wanna help you out when I can,”. 

First of all, what the fuck?! He left me a present under the cream cheese? That is the weirdest place to leave a present. Second, did this dude just leave me cash-money?! 

Now I have to wait all fucking day to find out how much he left me! my mind was bursting with curiosity. 

Finally, a long 2.5 hours after the work day technically ended, I made it on home and went straight for the fridge. 

And then I’m pretty sure I blacked out. 

The dude left me $185…. I’m not sure if this makes me a prostitute or a sugar baby… but I honestly didn’t ask for either! Now, as a very independent person, I was a little pissed. I don’t need your name money, I take care of myself and I kick ass doing it. But then, I just shrugged it off. 

The envelope had his name on it (blurred out), so I’m pretty sure it’s money his baseball team gives him for travel funds. But fuck! I’ll take it… I can decide whether or not this means I was paid for sex or “well taken care of” later, while I’m on my shopping spree.

My life is a joke! Awesome, but a fucking joke! 

Solemnly Swear

I solemnly swear that I will get back into blogging and reporting on the daily adventures that is my weird, strange, and exciting life as a high school teacher and young adult in Mississippi. 

Where to begin? School has been in session for a month. It’s manageable. It’s fun. It’s frustrating. 

For one month, I have dreamt about lessons and students and tests. For one month I have been excited to get ready every morning and go to work because I like what I am doing. For a solid month I have not once dreaded or wish that I did not have to drive 15 miles and work for sometimes 13 straight hours in uncomfortable shoes. I love my kids. They crack me up. They make me proud. They piss me off. They completely amazing me with their emotional and academic intelligence. 

One day, I threw my dry erase marker clear across the classroom. Clashing against an unfinished bulletin board and plummeting to the board, the marker silenced every voice and focused every eyes on me. “Scream out an answer to me one more time without thinking it through and SEE WHAT HAPPENS!” my voice was calm and probably 20 decibels lower than my usual “teacher voice” but I spoke with urgency and seriousness. 

I’m not proud of that moment, but you better believe they haven’t told me that 1,800- 0 is 0 ever since. 

I’m aware that I am not a good teacher. I’m a first year freaking teacher. No shit I’m not God’s gift to children. I don’t expect to be. I’m trying my darn hardest and I’m doing the best I can. I think the realist in me is one of the only things keeping me afloat and happy. 

All my friends that are on the verge of having a mental breakdown, Pierce who dry heaved in a parking lot before school because he has so much anxiety associated with failing kids, Kenzie, who came into my classroom after school, closed the door and broke down into tears about picking up a note a kid was writing to the guidance counselor asking to be switched out of her class; they all are expecting perfection of themselves and perfection of their children. 

The kid wants to switch out because you are actually making kids learn and think! You cannot take things personally. 

Good thing I’m an island. Makes teaching not easy but, manageable. 

 

Careers and Tears

Moving has been a heinous, disgusting disaster. 

And I haven’t even moved in yet. 

Long story short, here is a bullet pointed list of the fuck ups and ugly run ins that I have encountered. 

• roommate went out of town–no one was there to open the apartment 
• apartment complex opened the door (after needing 2 phone calls, written permission, and a reminder)
• for Cooper who had the key to my storage box 
• the storage box that was sitting on a trailer at the Uhaul down the street 
• waiting for the movers who showed up on time 
• but the Uhaul people acted like my pod, which was sitting outside, didn’t exist 
• so I had to reschedule to movers 
• and tell Cooper to leave the apartment key and the storage key under the mat 
• of the empty apartment 
• where the movers would be coming to the next day, a Monday 
• at 8:00 AM, when everyone normal works 
• except for my mother, who now-SUPRISE! runs her own small business what the actual fuck? 
• mom gets there by 8:00 AM and so do the movers 
• who bring with them an empty storage box 
• and pack my stuff and drive it back to the Uhaul place 
• who then has to combine my two boxes because, fuck you, y’all screwed up and I’m not shipping 2 boxes… 
• and once they get everything to fit in one box the get it set up to be shipped 
• and it won’t be here for a week… 

What is that nonsense?!?! Ok, rant over. 

 

Isolated.

If I wasn’t outspoken about my beliefs before, seven weeks of discussing race, class, gender, equity, micro-aggressions, and being “anti-racist” has ensured that I cannot sit silently and nod to ideas and actions that I just do not agree with.

If I did, I would get a fucking ulcer. 

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Backstory: Last week, I visited my grandparents. My grandfather who I adoringly call “Pappy” is a Baptist Deacon and obviously, very conservative. Because of his knowledge about Christianity, I asked him, in all seriousness, to teach me about some of the Christian denominations that believed in equality of the sexes.

I didn’t even get started about equality for LGBTQ identities… 

He then went on a tangent about how those denominations are not on “God’s path” because women are not “the same” as men, God made the sexes differently. “That’s biblical and that’s that”. 

“Well,” I scoffed. “I guess I can’t be a Christian then, because I don’t believe in a religion that sees me as inferior,” which of course, horrified him.

He then sent me a pleasantly condescending email about how he will be praying for me to accept Jesus and the “teachings of Christ”. Naturally, I screen shotted the sucker and texted it to my family in our group text. Here is what happened…  

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Now, I almost see my mother’s point. Why even bother with the old fart, right?

Because the issue is worth talking about, because I have things to say, because I have the ability to argue my opinion only because of the activists that came before me argued with the “old farts” and saw their movement as “worth it” even when they thought they could not change their minds. Even when they thought they could not change the minds of a nation.

Because becoming passive to oppression and inequality is the exact same thing as doing the oppressing yourself. 

Then, for my mother (who, might I add taught me to defend myself, about gender equity, about not being a bystander to racism and hatred of ANYONE) to tell me that some things aren’t worth arguing about physically hurt. 

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Dear Mom,

WHAT?! You told me these things matter?!

You modeled this for me when I was seven. You wrote a letter to a Louisiana State Senator because you believed that the use of the word “nurturing” in criteria for state teaching evaluations was sexist language that perpetuated a majority female occupation and simultaneously perpetuated a stereotypical expectation of how women should act. AND DIDN’T STOP until you were listened to. AND GOT THE LANGUAGE changed.

AND TAUGHT YOUR NINE AND SEVEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTERS ABOUT WHAT YOU WERE DOING AND WHY AND HOW. 

You modeled this for me the time I was 14 and came home to school and repeated a “funny joke” I had heard that day. “A woman just can’t be President, because then once a month the whole nation would come crashing down”. You didn’t fucking laugh. You shamed me for my ignorance, for laughing, for not realizing the offensive nature of what this boy had said. You taught me how to combat this statement next time and why it was important.

Mom, when did you get so passive?

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This is an example of how I am increasingly feeling isolated from my own family. Different paths, different pages.

HELP!

XOXO,

Sara Wildes