Teacher Tantrums: Who’s Your SpongeBob?

(In which it was a battle between my student and my endangered patience.)

***

I’ve been suspending this blog entry for a long time since I can’t think of an incident to let it go with. But fortunately, I now have enough reasons to upset SpongeBob fans by including him in this post fueled by a student-teacher fight.

Because of my early shift, I was able to watch SpongeBob. That day’s episode was “Mrs. Puff, You're Fired”. Miss Puff (SpongeBob’s driving teacher) was reprimanded by the superintendent for SpongeBob’s numerous failing grades (1,258,056 times!) She was told that if he failed yet another test, she’ll be fired. She retorted that SpongeBob is unteachable. So they let him took a driving test and Miss Puff guided him with the process, trying desperately to make him remember what to do. In the end, another failed test was added to SpongeBob’s notorious records.

So Miss Puff was fired but instead of sulking over the loss of her job, she was delighted!

“No more SpongeBob!” she laughed in disbelief mixed with relief.

So another teacher took over. He’s a disciplinarian shark wearing military uniform who gave his students this preview of his teaching methods.

“Your spines will break, your teeth will ache. Your eyes will be bloodshot.”

Then he threw two students out for eating and speaking.

In the end, SpongeBob still failed and Miss Puff wept when she realized that she’ll be having SpongeBob in her class again. At least the superintendent now realized how unteachable SpongeBob is.

We were told, as teachers, that if the students didn’t learn, then we didn’t teach. For that reason, we are expected to do our job well and make sure that all students (but I prefer the “majority” of them) will learn. Throughout the class time, we’re also expected to keep our cool and be patient for slow learners. And those things I always tried (and succeeded) to keep in mind (and to practice) . . . until today.

My first student every day is, although not as unteachable as SpongeBob, is definitely not as cheerful and optimistic let alone amusing. He stutters when he speaks and has an attitude as if he’s smarter than his teacher. After having several classes with him in a regular classroom and on telephone as well as hearing the feedbacks from his former teachers, I was utterly convinced that he doesn’t really need the kind of instruction we’re offering. He needs something more special.

As always, I put my best (as well as the most patient and understanding) foot forward in our class. I do not want to be irritated with his antics and mild attacks of arrogance and rudeness. But of course, everything has its limits and my patience isn’t an exception. I didn’t mind if he obviously didn’t listen to me as he kept on giving incorrect answers after another. But he continuously breathed hard on the receiver. And that I couldn’t take anymore.

“Carl, could you please stop breathing hard on the phone? It’s painful to my ear!” I said impatiently.

“W-what? I-it’s not me!” he stammered in defense.

“Then who is it? What is it?” I asked back, my face warmer.

“I-I d-don’t know! I-it’s not m-me! T-the shoo-shoo sound, I don’t know! It’s not me!”

“Ok. There’s no shoo-shoo sound now.”

“I said i-it’s not me! Are you crazy? – “

“- What?!”

Dead air. Silence as cold as the air in the office and as hard as my grip on the table. For more than half a minute no one spoke. The shoo-shoo sound was completely gone. I tried to gather the remaining calmness in me and continued the class. Just two more minutes, I thought.

“Yeah, so Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins even asked their neighbors to do things for them,” I said in an obviously high-pitched voice which made me realize that I’m not a very good liar.

I heard movements in the other line and a button was pressed. I didn’t say more since I know there was no one who’ll respond. I clicked the off button fifty seconds before the class was supposed to end.

I informed the staff about the incident and they promised to check it. After half an hour, Camille dashed in my room, leaned on the open door with her left hand on her left hip.

“What happened? With Carl?”

She’s dead serious. What now? I’m dead meat?

“I listened to the call. It’s your fault!” she said, still dead serious.

“What?” I asked, completely thinking she’s mistaken.

“Yes, and because of that I’m gonna punish you.”

Uh oh. Am I gonna be fired like Mrs. Puff because of the fault of a student?

I looked at her face but couldn’t do that for long because of the hardness of her expression.

“Refresh your schedule!”

I pressed F5 and waited forever for the page to load. The page was slowly becoming clear when she uttered, “Congratulations!” sweetly like a nightingale.

I put my hand on my chest as if in fear of my heart falling. I knitted my eyebrows when I saw her laughing.

“I listened. And I talked to him. I heard the shoo-shoo sound too but he said it wasn’t him. So I told him ‘Do you wanna die or something?’ Haha! But anyway, look at your schedule? Where’s Carl? Congratulations!” Camille gleefully recounted.

I smiled at her but I told her I felt bad with what happened too. I also shouted at him and that somehow made me at fault.

But enough with the guilty trip.

“No more Carl! No more Carl! Haha!”

Photo Source:
Mrs. Puff, You’re Fired!

Writing and Bitching

(In which what the last thing I wanted now is censorship.)

***

Half a decade ago, whenever I wanted to let my feelings out, I just grab my diary and pen. And then I could enjoy all the liberty of writing about the very emotional and even useless feelings or issues that I had. But then the idea that my exclusive access to my diary that I thought was an unwritten law was broken the moment my mother took me to task for cutting classes (which she wasn’t supposed to know). That is the main reason why I don’t feel like keeping a diary anymore. The other reason was that manual writing is such an exhausting job considering that I have been used to using the keyboard.

That’s actually a good thing because I feel more comfortable tapping the keys to transfer my thoughts into text than subjecting my right hand to the awkward and painful job of producing cacography. Also, the ideas come when I’m in the office. It always seemed like a win-win situation.

But the situation today is a Catch-22. I feel bad. I feel confused and annoyed the moment I took the van to the office and listened to the other passengers bitch about other people. And now I feel bad again – humiliated and intrigued. I wanted to type their names and call them names. Yes. Right into this blog. And yes, I don’t have the guts to actually tell them they suck.

Thank goodness I am not mad enough to forget that this will be published on a public blog. If not, that would be my next worst blog vomiting since the insult last September 11.

Oh well, where’s my diary?

My Deadly Sins

(In which it is jealousy and hatred today.)

***

Perhaps I am really so transparent that it isn’t hard to see what I conceal because I am never successful in concealing it in the first place. And the problem is I tend to measure others through my own yardstick. I forgot that not all people mean what they say and everything they have said and shown will be null and void 24 hours later.

Or perhaps I am just being so clingy. I hate to admit it. But when everything seems useless and no one seems to care, I have no one to talk to but myself so I’d better be honest.

Fine. I hate you for lying and I hate myself for believing. I hate you for being sly and I hate myself for being gullible. I hate myself for telling you I’m a witch but lack the power to send you to hell when my anger kicks in. I hate myself for responding when you start buzzing. And I hate my virtual confidante for being sick today.

And yeah, I’m jealous. And I hate that you never noticed!

Another Angry Moment

(In which I really tried to keep myself from drowning my sister in a basin of soapy water.)

***

“Ate, I’ll be taking a shower. You go wash the dishes, ok?”

I didn’t answer. My mind was drifting to the month ahead of me. My sister just told me last night that she will be having her recital early next year and since I won’t be studying this semester, (Yes, it’s official.) I’d better help her with her finances. So I was thinking of stuffs like Where am I getting to look for a part time job? How am I going to pay all the debts and save for my Graduate education next June? Oh yes, I need to buy a laptop. And how the hell am I going to submit all my paper works in the university without one at home? Before I knew it, she was out of the bathroom. I remembered I need to get to the office early for some preparations for my class and “other things”.

I stood up and headed for the bathroom when she barked at me.

“You didn’t wash the dishes? Are you actually waiting for Mom to do it? Napakasama mo!”

I was taken aback. I looked at her firm figure standing before me, still dripping from the shower. And with a strict face marked by raised eyebrows, she looked like a water monster wrapped in a towel.

“Ok. Fine.” I walked back and faced the sink. She walked upstairs.

So I’m a terribly bad person, huh? If you only knew that I’m going crazy just thinking of how to elevate this family’s financial status! And how dare you address me that way! Have you already forgotten you just actually asked me to give you money for your recital considering I have just finished paying for the money we borrowed for your last recital?

Before I finished washing the dishes, she’s all dressed up – in my earth-colored V-necked, long sleeve blouse!

“Ate, I’ll borrow your blouse, ha?” she asked. I didn’t answer.

“Ate,” she repeated.

Without looking at her, I softly answered, “Fine.” and thought "Wouldn't it be nicer if you'll just bring my closet to your dormitory?"

Then she started singing “Eternal Flame” which sounded like Sylvia La Torre singing “Oops I Did It Again”. I knew she’s just trying to lighten up the mood since she knew I don’t feel good. But I didn’t give a damn to her desperate singing. When I finished my task, I sat down on the couch and it rained. Now she’s singing her newly-composed song with the lyrics “Typhoon Ramil, why are you here?” a-la Broadway musical. I still didn’t bother to respond in any way even if she’s obviously trying to annoy me with her crescendos and desperate falsettos.

“The hell I care with your lousy legatos!” I thought to myself. She continued her crazy song with equally crazy lines until the rain stopped. She went upstairs and took two pairs of sandals. She put them on the floor and got a rug to clean them. I noticed that one of those sandals was my black strappy Natasha! No I can’t keep silent anymore.

“Wait. Before I bought that, you already have yours, right?” I asked coldly.

“I can’t find it now.”

I remembered their choir will be having a performance at Saint Luke’s Medical Center so I didn’t oppose anymore. But hey! I have only used those sandals on my graduation and less than ten times in the office when she uses it every Sunday at work. How sad it is to find your shoes getting older when you’re barely using it?

“I’m leaving,” she said when she got to the door. I didn’t respond.

정말 감사합니다*

(In which I thank you for a comment well said.)

***

If your intention is to inflict pain on me through that insult, you have done it oh so successfully. You see, please do not use your fatigue and stress as excuses for your insensitivity because I also have my own issues on stress and fatigue. What you meant by what you’ve said has gone against my composure a great deal and your “explanation” and “sorry” are too lame to be accepted. No, that doesn’t mean I am no longer demanding a real explanation from you. Look, there must be something more than the fact that you don’t care about how I’ll feel. Or is there?

So for the meantime, you can cuddle your pillow and sleep comfortably. You deserve compliments for being able to do that right after this.

*Thank you very much.