PTCF

Parent Teacher ConFerences

Please Take Children Far

Possibly Time to Create Fear

Pretty Tough Children Freak

No, wait...I've got it...

Parent Teacher Cluster F--k

Here's the thing about conferences:

I don't really mind them.  

Ha.  Bet that's not what you thought I was going to say.  Bet you thought I was going to launch straight into a rant about long days, overworked teachers, and rude parents.

Nah.

I'll save the rant for later.

It's just that I'm slightly old-fashioned.  As great as I think technology is, and as insanely happy as it makes me to be able to shoot home a quick email about student progress rather than having to call and get sucked into a fifteen minute conversation about little Suzie's inability to complete her classwork due to incessant flirting with her classmates, I like face-to-face communication.  I can read a lying teenager easier than Dick and Jane Go To School and I can pick out the slightest undercurrent of defiance in the smallest of gestures.  With my back turned.

So one would think it would be handy to meet the parents of the children I teach, useful to get a vibe for the people who produced the offspring I spend my days with. I might discover if the snooty kids have snooty parents, and the sweet kids have sweet ones, or if biology just decided to play Russian roulette with the parental DNA. It should provide a whole new understanding of my demographic.

But most of the time, it's just a clusterf--k.

Everywhere I have taught, PTCFs have been organized in one way:  three to four hours of teacher meetings after a full day of teaching school.

So a quick question for you parents of teenagers:  when was the last time you spent seven hours straight with your child(ren)?  And I don't mean seven hours sleeping, or you making dinner in the kitchen while they madly text away on their phone.  I mean seven.straight.hours. Of teenage face-to-face, quality-time interaction.

Exhausting to think about, isn't it?

Now up the ante.  When was the last time you hosted a teenage event?  Five to ten teenagers in your house, having fun, wreaking havoc, leaving a trail of adolscent mayhem in their wake...
Yup.  So now do that for seven hours, non-stop, with 120-150 (maybe even 170 or more, depending on your school) teenagers who aren't even your offsping and who, in the perfect world, you will also somehow make smarter before they leave your room.

I'm supposed to be coherent after this?  Not just coherent, but pleasant, informative, helpful and charming?

Good luck with that.

"Hi, I'm Kaitlyn's mother..." one woman introduced herself at conferences some years ago.
"Oh, I'm SO glad to see you!"  I gushed.  (At least I had the "pleasant" part of the job description going for me.)  "I don't always see the parents I need to talk to, but I was hoping you would come because Kaitlyn currently has an F in my class."

Her mother stared at me in shock.

"She does?  But she loves your class!  In that case, I'm glad I came, too.  We need to talk!"

Halfway through the delivery of Kaitlyn's poor homework habits, reluctance to participate and failing test scores, I realized with a sinking stomach that I taught two Kaitlyn's that year.

Whoopsie.

"Wait..." I interrupted myself.  "Your daughter is Kaitlyn...who?"

Awkward.  But I still count that as one of my finer PTCF moments.  At least I caught and corrected myself.  What's one of my less finer moments, you wonder?  Why, I'm so glad you asked!   Staring at boobs would be the unequivocal answer.

I once taught a student of whom I have absolutely no memory.  If you asked, I couldn't tell you her name, the level of Spanish she was in, or the tiniest personal detail about her.  But I remember the parent teacher conference.  Her mother had some knockers.  I mean, those suckers were HUGE.  And, so far as I could tell, completely natural.  (And no, I didn't grab them to find out...though the thought crossed my mind.)

"Hi, Teach!" she greeted me kindly.  "How's Abigail (name obviously invented since I don't have a flippin' clue as to who her daughter was) doing?"
"Great!" I answered.  Holy POO those are some boobies!   "Ummm..." Ignore boobies.  Do not stare at boobies.  Weird to stare at parents' boobies.  Especially when you're a straight female. "She's a delight in class.  Pulling a solid grade..." Boobs!  "I'm really glad to have gotten to know her this year."  How does she even hold those things up?  


That was one of my more painful conferences.  But not, I'm sure, any more painful than trying to jog with those melons.  Wrapped up in four different sports bras.

150 kids this year.  Which means I am the proud teacher of around 300 parents who, of course, I share with other teachers, but still...

Let's take a reasonably average American high school.  1,800 students.  Which means around 3,600 parents.  (We'll figure that the single parents average out with the blended family parents.)  Not all attend, so let's shoot for only 30% attendance and assume that only one parent per student shows.  (Both are kind of ridiculous assumptions, but I don't teach math, nor do I have any desire to do so, you weird number-people freaks.)  That still means you have 540 parents, 190 teachers, a handful of students and full administration crammed into your school's cafeteria.  Which, of course, has amazing acoustics (because the government spares no cost in building the public schools which will educate the future government of America) so that when, after a full day of teaching, (which involves multiple repetitions of "Bobby stop that.  Johnny knock it off, Jane are you even listening to what I am saying?") you get to shout things like "WELL, YOUR CHILD HAS A 97% SO I'M NOT REALLY SURE WHAT THE EFF YOU'RE DOING HERE...WHY DON'T YOU JUST TAKE THE KID OUT TO EAT AS A CELEBRATION INSTEAD?"

C'mon, peeps,  I've just spent seven hours using my authoritative voice to teach your kids.  Cut me a break and don't make me talk for another three hours if your child has above a 90%.

Nearly two hundred teachers and six hundred parents all talking loudly in a concrete room at one time?  Say it with me now...

Cluster-what?

And then there's that one kid.  That cute little freshman who plops himself down at my table with a happy "Hi, Sra.!"

"Hi, Owen," I reply.  "You holding a place in line for your mom?"

"Oh, no," he says.  "My parents are busy with my sister's conferences, so I decided to do my own."

"Really?"  I say, trying to hide the little sweet catch I always feel at one of my teens talking to me frankly.  "You're visiting all your teachers to check up on your progress?"

"Well, no..." he replies.  "I prioritized.  I went through my grades and decided that I most needed to go to just the classes where I have a borderline grade.  In yours I have a 90% so I'd like you to tell me what I need to do in the upcoming weeks to put myself in a better position."

"In that case, Owen, I'm very glad you stopped by..." and we have a serious talk about challenges and goals.

So, no.  I don't really mind conferences.

But it never hurts to toss a Starbucks card my way as a "Thanks."  That's right.  I'm looking at you, overachieving parent who makes me shout about how your kid can get from a 97 to a 98%.  And for the love of god...

If you have huge balongas, please don't wear thin cotton T's.

See you in the spring.

A Conversation with "That Kid"

I was a total nerd in high school.

Actually, let's back up.

I was always a total nerd.  So much so, that I sucked all the nerd genes out of the pool leaving none for my little brother who unconcernedly shrugged off worries about grades and set his academic sights on the much more entertaining endeavor of being That Kid.

All teachers know who I'm talking about.  That Kid that tries every last shred of your patience.  That Kid that asks a stupid question simply for the sake of asking a stupid question.   That Kid that arrives late every day and seems oblivious to any consequence you can dream up.  That Kid that lies, skips, annoys, irritates, distracts, sleeps...

You get the idea.

We're only beginning the school year, but I bet you're already well on your way to figuring out this year's "That Kid."  Quick - if you had to name a name, who would it be?

See.  Told you teachers know what I'm talking about.

In the interest of trying to figure out why, when I buy letter magnets so that students can practice Spanish in a new and unique way, I find phrases such as

I is big ribbed duck man

Communist sexo

I pee now

and, perhaps most inexplicably,

peanut Fred

on my whiteboard, I decided to interview That Kid.  If I could discover what makes him (or her) tick,  maybe I would be a better teacher.  Or at least I might reduce the number of times I say things like, "Cory.  Kindly remove your crotch from Mark's face," in my classroom.

Figuring there might be legal issues with walking up to my current That Kid and saying "Hey, you're obnoxious.  Can I interview you and then publish it online?" I decided to settle for the safer, less sue-able option of interviewing my brother.

"I have a kid this year that reminds me of you," I tell him frequently.

"You have a kid every year that reminds you of me," he responds, unimpressed.

Yep.  Sure do.  It's That One.

So for what it's worth in improving student/teacher relations, welcome to That Kid's Brain.

* * * * * * *

Me:  Okay, first and foremost, what qualities do you look for in a teacher?

Bro:  Tig ol' bitties.

Me:  I see.  We're jumping out of the gate with boobs.  Nice.  Anything else?

Bro:  A short attention span.  Smart-assery.

Me:  A short attention span?

Bro: Yeah.  So you can totally get them off topic and do nothing.  

Me:  Wonderful. Let's try some scenarios instead.  Your teacher has been lecturing too long.  What do you do?

Bro:  Silently pray for death.

Me:  Yours or theirs?

Bro: Mine.

Me:  Why not the teacher's?

Bro:  I'm not vengeful. 

 But I do also like to wait for a quiet pause in the lecture, then rip a big one.

Me:  Isn't it embarrassing to fart in front of your peers?

Bro: Isn't it embarrassing to be that teacher everybody hates?

Me:  Touché.

Me:  Moving on.  You don't know the answer to a question on an essay test.  What do you do?

Bro:  This is what I did on an actual music test for which I did NO studying.  I answered the entire test in rhyming iambic pentameter.  And I got a D instead of outright failing.

Me:  And what was your teacher's justification for passing you?

Bro:  She said I put a lot of work into it.  I also once answered a calculus proof with a sketch of a math textbook burning in a trashcan.

Bro:  That one I did fail.

Me:  Didn't you also draw family trees of random animals mating with celebrities, then write essays describing their offspring?

Bro:  That was your other brother.

Me:  Oh, right.  Mixing up the family overachievers.

Me:  Next scenario.  Your teacher drank too much coffee and has to pee.  She begs you to behave for 3 minutes so she can run to the bathroom.  She leaves the room and you...

Bro:  ...shout CARPE DIEM and flip my desk over triumphantly.

Me:  Why would you flip your desk over?

Bro:  Why not?

Me:  Actually...that explains a lot of what goes on in my classroom.

Bro:  It's also symbolic of the struggle against an oppressive regime, turning the establishment on its head.  Besides, f--k that desk.

Me:  What did that desk ever do to you?

Bro:  Sat there all hoity-toity with its uppity chair attachment.

Me:  Right...

*Cricket chirp*

Me:  Describe your thought process during any given class.

Bro:  1st period:  So tired.  Wonder if there is any way to sleep without the teacher caring.

2nd period.  Still tired.  Refreshed from first period nap.  Exhausted by boredom.  

3rd period: Hungry.  Wonder what's for lunch?  Better not be Salisbury steak again.  That's yesterday's meat in last week's gravy.  You're not fooling anyone, cafeteria lady.

4th period:  SO hungry.  Must eat now.  Stare at boobs.  Rate girls in class on a scale of 1 -10 in a chauvinistic, misogynistic way.  

5th period:  Late to class because I waited until the bell rang to go to the nurse for my Ritalin.  Score.  Doubly late because I forgot to get a pass from nurse back to class, so waste time returning to nurse for pass, then returning to class.

6th period:  My favorite teacher, so I actually pay attention...for about 25 minutes.  Then I doodle genitals and random lyrics from songs on my work.

7th period:  Dream about every wonderful aspect of the bus ride home; the muggy pungent bus air, the cracked pleather seats leaving imprints on sweaty things.  Mmmmmmm. Freedom.  Go home and furiously masturbate.

Me:  Aw, bro!  Too much information.

Bro:  You asked.

Me:  If that's your general thought process, describe a quality day in a high school class.

Bro:  a good high school class is like real estate:  location, location location.  Not all the way at the back where you'll be perceived as a slacker, not all the way at the front where you're a suck up. Middle-back, and your seat neighbors are crucial.  Get a good seat and good neighbors and any class is acceptable.

Me:  So what you're saying is that the class has a big fat diddly and squat to do with the material or the teacher?

Bro:  Mostly diddly.  Just a little squat.  

Me:  And what did you do when you sat in prime real estate with friends?

Bro: Talked with complete disregard for the teacher.  Or frequently we would write one sentence of a story and pass the paper to each other, each person writing the next line to the story...

Me:  That's actually a very academic undertaking.  I've used that structure in my classes.

Bro:...usually culminating in a profane adventure featuring the teacher in an uncomfortable and/or sexually deviant situation.

Me:  You made it a point to torture your teachers, then?

Bro:  That wasn't torture.  When we wanted to torture them, we intentionally answered questions wrong with sexual double entendres.  Or we answered them right with obscene over-enthusiasm.

Me:  So taking you and your buddies into consideration, what advice would you offer folks going into the teaching career?

Bro:  Don't.   
But if you must, carry a taser.

Me: Or...?

Bro:  Or a very sharp wit.

Job Description - Developing a Cooperative Relationship With Parents and Students

Students, unfortunately, come equipped with parents.


Most parents, to be fair, are alright.  In fact, I go most of the year without hearing from most parents.  Trouble is, I spend the rest of my year hearing from the crazies who have mistaken the Right to a Free Public Education for the Right to Be An Absolute Looney.  


"What is the difference," you ask?  Weeeeelllll......back to the ol' JD (Job Description, for those of you a few blog posts behind...)


1.  Teacher will develop with parents and students a cooperative partnership based on mutual respect and objectivity*.
*  NOTE: for Job Description Purposes, "mutual respect and objectivity" is hereby defined as respect and objectivity on the part of the teacher, and, apparently, only the teacher.


As a teacher (or an employee of the public education sector in any capacity,) one must relationship-build.  Conscious relationships provoke trust and through trust comes cooperation, thus allowing all parties involved to work toward productive plans for the student.  Still, relationship building can be tricky.  Teachers navigate an unpredictable world of race, religion, and political views.  We must encourage  students to think while simultaneously walking the fine line of respecting an infinite number of worldviews and life circumstances.


A reasonably good teacher will find it easy to relationship-build with students.  Walk in classroom, act like idiot, know the material, crack poop jokes, maintain control, give high fives.  You have now earned student respect.  Those little squirts (poop pun totally intended) will do whatever you ask.


Parents, however, are a tad trickier.  And as they come in a number of shapes. sizes, and levels of looney,  the ideal candidate for teaching will rate "highly qualified" in the skill set of Parental Winging It.


2.   Teacher will effectively deal with the clincally Balls to the Wall Crazy.


In reality, this subset of parents could be divided into sub-subsets.  You have your drunken crazies, mentally ill crazies, your wealthy entitled crazies, creepy crazies and your We Don't Know What the Hell is the Matter With You But You Are Crazy as Hell crazies. For JD purposes, however (and in the interest of saving myself material for a future blog post on types of crazies) all severely crazy parents receive the Balls to the Wall designation.


Cooperative Relationship Skill Set #1:  Avoidance


Nobody can change crazy, so in most circumstances the best weapon is simple Avoidance.  The difficulty with Avoidance, however, is that a parent first must be identified as crazy which is easy only at the highest levels of crazy.  At parent-teacher conferences one year, my principal booted a parent before she could even get in the door.  Imagine, if you will, the level of insanity you must exude in order to actually be kicked out before you get in.  Hell, your crazy just defied the laws of physics.


But those crazies are rare.  


Most parents can mask the crazy in order to slip into contact with a teacher, then scare the bejeesus out of everyone involved.


Take the Crazy Bitch crazy (another Ball to the Wall sub-designation.)  In my case, this was the mother who, when I  ran into her in the hall after school seemed quite pleasant, thanking me for giving her daughter make-up work after being ill for a few days.  


"No worries," I told her.  "I just hope Isabel is feeling better."


"Oh, she'll be fine," the mother told me.  "I told her she should be glad to have the stomach flu.  At least she'll loose a few pounds."


The fatty in question wore maybe a size 4.  On a good day.  Which allowed me to easily designate this mother as nutso and begin my avoidance.  Apparently, however, her daughter had the same idea, which complicated things a bit, thus forcing me to rely on the second essential skill of the teacher dealing with Crazies:  


Cooperative Relationship Skill Set #2:  Passing the Buck


The beauty of being a classroom teacher and not an administrator is that at some point, your crazy quota expires.


"Hey, Sra," Isabel greeted me after school one day.  


"Hey Isabel, how's it going?"


"Oh, alright."  she hung around my desk awkwardly.  Then my door banged open.  Isabel's mother barged in with a small boy of maybe four in tow.


"There you are you stupid little...Where the hell have you been?!"


"Um.  I told you I'd be at office hours today.  And it's earlier that you usually pick me up anyway..."  


Mom didn't hear.


" I've been calling you for an hour!  What do you think I have nothing better to do than chase you around all day? What the hell  were you thinking??  You are such a pathetic student! Don't pretend you care about your work becauseyourgradessuckAndyou'reaprettylousydaughtertoo!!"  the tongue lashing reached epic proportions before I could a) avoid the situation or b) indicate to Crazy Bitch that while she was busy ripping her perfectly sweet high school daughter a new one, her hellion of a son had already torn papers off my bulletin boards, knocked my dictionaries off the front table and was now making a move for the markers and a white wall, all the while shouting "mom, mom, mom, mom, MOM!"  


At that moment, the Dean of Students entered having, apparently, heard the ruckus.  He stared.


"Ma'am.  Is there a problem I can help you with?"  I asked in hopes of diffusing the situation, as my skill set of Avoidance was no longer an option.  


"And YOU!"  Crazy Mom turned on me.  "Didn't it occur to YOU that I might be looking for my daughter?  YOU should know..."


In the spirit of mutual respect and objectivity, I interrupted her.  "I generally hold office hours on Tuesdays after school.  It's perfectly normal for students to show up at this time."


"Yeah but not MY student.  If she showed up to actually work she wouldn't have the HORRIBLE GRADES SHE HAS AND YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT IF YOU WERE ANY KIND OF TEACHER!"


Hellion Boy threw a marker across the room.  Isabel cowered.


Years of teaching make one a master of subtlety.  I cocked my eyebrow ever-so-slightly, which my Dean (also a Master Teacher) immediately recognized as the international sign for "Get this Crazy Bitch out of here or I'm going to punch her in the face, then explain to her why she shouldn't be allowed to reproduce." 


"C'mon, Ms. X," he said calmly.  "Let's take this conversation in the hallway."  


Mission accomplished.  I was successfully able to 1)  objectively identify mom as a Looney 2)  treat said Looney with objectively undeserved respect 3)  Maintain future cooperative relations by effectively Passing the Buck before punching mom in face (the key here, truly, is the timing of the buck-passing) and, most importantly, 4) Maintain respectful and cooperative relations with Isabel who, as my student, is really the person I'm meant for in the first place.  


"Hey, Iz!" I told her the next day, "Good to see you!  I'm glad you've been working so hard in this class. I'm really proud of your B.  And you look so nice today.  You're such a pretty person, inside and out!"  


Take that, Crazy Bitch.  


Even if, in the end, you won.  


Because as any good teacher knows, Crazy is contagious.  So when, after being a perfectly normal freshman year, Isabel ended her high school career with an eating disorder, short skirts, stiletto heels and slipping grades I relied entirely upon Cooperative Relationship Skill Set # 3 in order to maintain my own personal sanity.


3.  Teacher will take no student or parent interactions personally realizing that, in some cases,  respect and objectivity will not change the world.


But in a few cases, it might.  


So let's see what you've got, Crazies.  Because I'll make a bet that I've got more faith in your kid than you've got Crazy in your head.  But in the interest of both of our personal welfare, I'm keeping my Dean on standby.


Just in case.