Oh, boy. It’s painfully obvious why very few people
are willing to sit near me during professional development activities. But first, let me tell you a story.
It all starts Sunday. I spend the entire day correcting
papers. It’s my own fault – I’ve been
assigning a lot of work that needs to be graded because we lost so many days to
snow and because we are up against a bunch of homework-free evenings and
weekends, some at the necessity of state-mandated testing and some at the whim
of administration. Term #3 is all but a
giant semi-melted slush pile. This all
puts me in the start of a pissy mood.
Tuesday I lose my mind at
a lacrosse game when lousy reffing contributes to the loss of one of my son’s
teammates to a broken collarbone. I have
not behaved that outrageous badly at a game in years. I am semi-ashamed of myself and semi-relieved
to have partially released the stress valve on zebras (refs) I don’t know and
hopefully will never see again.
Wednesday I am up against a
district-wide battle in which I have somehow become an unwilling and unwitting
pawn. This wonderful experience gives me
a massive headache, bordering on a full-blown migraine. I suck down acetaminophen tablets like they’re
juju beans.
Thursday is going well
until I intercept yet another battle-laden email. Who am I kidding? Thursday sucks all day long, and the email is
just the straw that snaps my already semi-busted back. I cancel all plans to stay late and catch up
on work and/or go grocery shopping.
Bullshit. I’m hitting the
medicine cabinet again, maybe even the liquor cabinet. Yup.
Definitely the liquor cabinet.
So, you see, by Friday, I
have totally set myself up for failure and bad behavior, which brings me to
today’s professional development activities.
A few weeks ago we have a
presenter come in who is about as communicative as Charlie Brown’s
teacher. Today he is back! Oh, frabjous
day! Callooh! Callay!
Personally, I think Charlie Brown’s teacher is leaps and bounds more
enriching than this guy, but he has a job to present, and by present I actually mean read wicked slowly off his own power point
word for word until we are all drooling mindlessly and waiting for the nurses
aides to feed us strained peas. I am
contemplating taking a nap until I realize that the principal and
superintendent are standing behind me, so I bumble along, pretending to take
notes while passing them to my coworker instead.
Suddenly, the presenter
perks up and starts scanning the room with his beady eyes. “Who remembers what was written on the board
the last time I was here?”
Uh … bullshit?
Stupid crap? Um … your
resignation? While all of these things sound good inside my head, I
doubt very much that I should voice them publicly.
“It’s like stabbing in me
in the heart,” he laments. “You’re
killing me.”
So, if I remember what you wrote or if I don't, that is like
stabbing you in the heart? Killing you? “Write
it again!” I say, hoping this alone will do him in because I don't know what he's talking about.
“Oh, come on. It’s the F-word!”
It’s the … what the … did he just say F-word? I
clamp my hand over my mouth. I’m not
going to laugh, I’m not going to laugh, I’m not going to …
 |
| (Not my hands ... Don't start with me!) |
You know that sound a
giant balloon makes when you hold the opening of its neck, pull it apart a bit,
and the air rushes out with a giant wet-fart sound? Well, I try, I tell you, I really and truly
try. Suddenly a noise erupts from my
mouth across the silent cafeteria where we are all gathered, a sound that
starts as a snort and ends up a stifled but incredibly loud guffaw. It sounds like the air rushing out of a giant
balloon neck.
And then, well, then I
start laughing. So do several other
people. I am fully aware the
superintendent is behind me, but, christalmighty, I can’t make this shit
up. One of the teachers on the other
side of the cafeteria pipes in, “You shouldn’t say ‘f-word’ in a room full of
middle school teachers.”
Truth.
Apparently the correct
answer is fidelity. Who knew?
The coworker next to me
shakes her head. “This guy isn’t saying
anything. Any of us could say the same
thing. He might as well be saying ‘spoon,
brick, coffee pot… dialysis.’”
Another coworker a few
tables over starts questioning the presenter’s fallacious statistics and
data. The coworker next to me also
chimes in. A few points later, I get
involved. Before anyone realizes it and
long past the point of no return nor hope for the principal to rein it back in
for the poor presenter, the three of us form the Devil’s Triangle of
Professional Development Days. If we
keep at it long enough, we’ll be victorious and emerge with the gorgon’s head.
The show goes on, mwuuuhhhhhaaaahhh mwuuuuhaaahaaahaaa
mwuuuuuuuuwah… Any moment Charlie
Brown is going to come and sit next to me in class.
“Flower pot,” my neighbor
says. “Feather. Lipstick.”
She’s right. There is nothing but
a series of disconnected words streaming out of this guy’s mouth. “Candle.
Gypsum.”
Finally, hours later, the
shtick wraps up, and the principal delivers the benediction with all the subtlety of Jonathan Edwards’ Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. She glares at me. “Well, weren’t we an ornery bunch today?”
Oh, fidelity my life.
This, folks,
this is why people won’t sit near me
at professional development activities.
I try to behave, I really and honestly do, but there’s only so much bullshit
a person can tolerate, especially on a Friday afternoon. If my superiors want me to behave, we should
probably have professional development on Monday mornings when I’m still
semi-comatose. I blame it all on
Sunday. If I hadn’t had to correct
papers in the first place, none of this would have started.
That’s my story, and I’m
sticking to it. Unless, of course, the
union intercedes; in that case, I was with you guys the entire time. Right?
