knowing

i should probably start this off by saying i don't encourage my students to make fun of people who are different although we talk about humor as a way to manage things that make them feel uncomfortable. and i encourage them to be honest. it's a fine line. sometimes we fall off.

it's friday the 13th, which, inherently, also means friday. the day before valentine's day. the day before a week long vacation. so i was pretty much expecting almost anything. and yet, what i got managed to be even more unlikely than that.

the second 9th grade class, my last on fridays, arrived in full wild fashion. loud. grabby. unable to locate their books. the other two teachers in the room were already beginning to consider which child to strangle and i had a few i wanted to add to the list. they finally got settled in their desks, all arranged in a big u shape, with one lone desk sitting in the middle toward the front. the precious baby sits here. by choice. precious baby of the rap sheet and the gang membership. precious baby of the knife. that one. this child manages to bring out mothering instincts in almost anyone. even me. and today he was in rare form.

precious baby flung himself into his chair, howling. he was in pain. incredible pain. pain like no human had ever experienced before. he was clutching his shoulder. gun shot? stabbing? cramp? he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his left shoulder to reveal and angry red pimple. he was clearly dying. some kind soul had given him an alcohol prep pad and he was tearing it open while moaning and wailing. "miss!" he screamed. "it hurts too much! what am i gonna do if my bone pops out?" really? seriously? how likely is it his bone will just randomly pop out of his skin? maybe he thinks the dreadful pain will frighten his bone out of his shoulder. now, this is not a child who has never had a pimple. perhaps it is the non-face location that has so unsettled his little self. his wailing sets off other children who howl about their own brands of suffering. "i don't waaaaaaaaant to read!" "somebody took my boooooooook!" "i have to peeeeeeeee!" yes, this is what high school children sound like on fridays. the thirteenths, especially.

the precious baby is now pressing the alcohol pad to his pimple/wound and is whimpering in agony. i stare at him a long time. i offer him lemon oil if he'll shut up long enough for me to get him something to put on is shoulder. he nods and reaches for the tiny bottle. i keep this stuff on hand. lemon oil. grapefruit oil. peppermint oil. rosewater. it's good for when someone smells. it's good for when someone is upset. he unscrews the cap and breathes deeply. i can smell the lemon from where i'm standing. while i am digging through my bag for neosporin + pain relief and a bandage, another child does something annoying i can't even remember. but i remember stomping up to the front of the room to deal with it. first i squished out neosporin on precious baby's finger and told him to put it on his wound/pimple. fifteen or so seconds later i had to tell him to stop smearing it around and let it dry. i offered him two bandage colors. pink or purple. he chose purple and i explained he should wait for the ointment to dry and should read his book, then put the purple bandage on his terrifying wound.

i dragged the other child out into the hall where he admitted having cocoa puffs for breakfast along with possibly a half bag of candy. we talked about opportunities for leadership or at least something other than total losership while he rocked back and forth on his feet, sometimes accidentally flinging himself against the wall. and then i heard the chicken noises. rooster noises, actually. so i opened the door and beckoned to the child i suspected would be most likely to tell me who was crowing in my classroom. he did. precious baby. of course. i sent the first child back in, sent the second child back in and called for precious baby. he was struggling with the bandage. a girl sitting near him said, "you never listen. you put it on too early, idiot." he glared at her. there he sat, jeans belted just above his knees, plaid boy panties hanging out all over the chair, long sleeved shirt unbuttoned to the chest with one side pulled off and wrapped, sling style, around him, white undershirt emphasizing his small childness, holding a bright purple bandage onto his shoulder, smiling sheepishly. he looked ridiculous. but he came outside and when i asked him about the rooster noises he giggled because the one thing he doesn't do is say no when i've caught him. he was roostering and he would stop. he sat back down and let the bandage rest on his shoulder. he held his book in one hand and the open bottle of lemon oil in the other, ignoring sporadic whispers to pass it over coming from behind other books at other tables. "it doesn't do anything," one girl muttered, "it just keeps you occupied is all." "that's not true!" he growled back at her and then returned to his book, breathing in lemon.

after class one of the new teachers came up to me and told me the kids were getting ready for a talent show. this is how you know she's new. things like school talent shows make my eyes bleed. if someone gave me one of those choices between seeing a high school talent show and, say, removing all my skin with a belt sander, i'd ask some questions about the sander. it's just not my thing. this is because i'm an adult. but the kids love this stuff so i feigned interest until i realized she was actually asking me a question. she looked uncomfortable, like she'd had some sort of accident and was hoping i wouldn't notice. "the kids," she was saying, "are doing impressions of some of the teachers...." she was actually squirming. "they want to do you and..." i smiled at her.

i should probably tell you now in case i haven't mentioned it before that i have a facial tic. blinking. mostly a mild annoyance but something that occasionally borders on violent twitching when i am very tired or sick. so at the beginning of every year, in every class, when i introduce myself i mention it. i tell the kids that students at my last school called me blinky. they are always horrified at the cruelty of students from other schools and a little uncomfortable with the fact that they want to laugh. because it is funny. so i laugh. i want them to know there's nothing wrong except an overactive brain to muscle connection. "i'm not flirting with you," i tell them, "and i'm not contacting aliens with coded blinks." they giggle. they ask questions. usually, does it hurt? sometimes. mostly it doesn't. we go back to more important things.

we return you to your regularly scheduled stammering new teacher- they want to do an impression of me. "and they want to do blinking?" i said to the very uncomfortable new teacher, smiling, because that's what i hoped they'd go for and not my tendency to hitch up my ever sagging pants when i pace the room or the fact that i can't get the attendance forms in on time or how i make faces and pretend to die after the forty seventh announcement interrupts our class or even how they think i think i'm cool. which i don't. or how i have crushes on way too many authors and they don't think adult married women should have crushes and especially not on geeky authors and certainly even if those crushes exist they should never, never have to hear about them. blinking is one of my mildest and most endearing oddnesses, i think. when i ask the new teacher about the blinking her eyes get big and she nods her head. "yes," she says, "are you okay with that? they said you would be but i..." she is confused. my blinking makes her a little uncomfortable. talking about it isn't helping. i try to explain a little but she is so relieved i'm not upset i don't think she really hears me. i offer to get a pack of crickets if they need those for props.

so now i have to go to this ridiculous talent show. because i owe them. i told them something and i said it was true. this thing makes me different and that's okay. it's okay to notice it, too. pretending not to notice it would be silly. it's okay to ask questions, even. for me, it's okay to joke about it if that gets us to talk and helps them understand. and they believed what i said enough to act on it. now i'm sure someone in the audience will be horrified when a student standing on stage starts to blink dramatically while waving around poems or something. but that's just fine. i will be laughing if the impression is good, and probably even if it isn't. because i will recognize the me they see every single day- a slightly unhinged blinking woman who throws words at them. unless the child pretending to be me starts hitching up her pants and raving about the dreaminess of john scieszka. then we'll have a problem.