On To Friday...

I am often asked why in the name of all that is good and holy I would ever want to be a high school teacher. I am mostly asked this by my students and then, it is mostly the ones who would turn you right off teaching who ask. I'm guessing that they have difficulty working out why anyone would voluntarily try to wrangle them into writing poetry.

My general response to the quizzical looks and blunt questions is that, for some odd reason, I actually enjoy working with teenagers. I'm not sure, but this may be one of the first warning signs of dementia. It's not so much the poetry wrangling I enjoy (because I don't), rather it's the bit about helping greasy, snarky, vile teenagers turn into real human beings that gets me in. Although that is rather a long process

For all the screaming, spitting and swearing (me, sometimes the kids) I generally like what I do. Except for the times when what I do is relief teaching. Remember what you were like with a relief teacher? Yeah. At least once you get on the other side of it, you are smart enough to realise how stupid you were. The old answer to the wrong name on the role trick? I don't really care. First, I'm lucky if can remember the names I just called out, let alone which person they belong to. Second, I really couldn't care less who answers to what name as long as I've marked all the people who are here as here and all the people who are absent as absent so I don't get my arse sued off if someone robs a bank while they're meant to be in my class. Third, your trick is stupid anyway. Your teacher is smart enough to work out that the white kid responding to Than Nuoc Tran and the Asian kid responding to Habib Habibi might just be lying.

On Monday I start a contract. One that lasts for the rest of the year. Where I get to be a real teacher with my own classes and students whose names I know and everything. I'm looking forward to having Year 7s who worship the ground I walk on (because that's just what Year 7s do) and students who actually think that I KNOW something. Only two days left of being asked "are you a real teacher". Of course not, I'm an imposter, your real teacher is tied up in the bookroom and stuffed between ancient copies of Macbeth and Catcher In the Rye. This week, I am especially looking forward to Friday