Wednesday, September 30, 2009

So Glad I Went to College For This

The reason there have been no posts is that Ms. Cranky has been fighting quite the fit of pique over the summer. For the most part, my days have been filled with activities of no social, economical, moral, or spiritual value. There's been nothing going on. My facility has been about as jam-packed as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. The center of the Gobe at high noon has more activity. So, there really hasn't been anything to write about. I have done a lot of very, very frustrating make-work. During this time, I have been able to ruminate on my position in the education industry, and indeed in my life, and I've decided that I'm getting out. Out of the whole thing. My poor little blog, a terminal case before it leaves infancy. A moment of silence, please?

...wait for it....

Ok, thanks for that. Anyway, this post is simply a kvetch about my boss, and bosses in general. They are silly, aren't they?
I rather like Paul Graham's essay entitled You Weren't Meant to Have a Boss. We can all identify with the sentiment, I think. Note that he didn't say "Leader," he said "Boss." Back in the day, way way back, "Boss" meant the guy who knew what the plan was, who told folks how high to build the wall, how deep to dig the trench, things like that. He knew what was going on and he was the conductor of the group, making sure that the men who worked under him were doing the RIGHT things and doing them the RIGHT way. Now, the average boss seems more concerned with things LOOKING like they're being done than actually getting done.
My boss thinks nothing of having his highly trained staff do work that would be done faster and better by machine, simply because it LOOKS cheaper. And since I and the other person of whom I speak are salaried, we are simply given more things to do without any extra time. We must now gather our own straw for the bricks we must make without falling behind in production. When we fall behind, in classic Pointy-Haired Boss style, our boss chews us out for being inefficient and/or unwilling to spend large amounts of extra hours at work.

How do people come up with these kinds of things? How does a person lose their grip on reality so thoroughly that they can't see that a person forced into an untenable position will eventually revolt?

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Logical Fallacy, Meet Suburban Soccer Moms

There is a "Martial Arts Studio" near my work, in the same shopping center I do most of my grocery procurement in, and in the window, in big bold letters, is a sign that says "Defeat the bully without fighting." Do-whaa-huh?! was my intelligent and well-reasoned response to that, followed closely by a sudden understanding and a patronizing chuckle. After seeing this sign a while back, I started looking for others. I realized that there were an awful lot of kid-oriented martial arts places, and they all have some variation on this theme plastered over their windows, vans, brochures, fliers, billboards, and custom t-shirts.
I think I understand where this insanity comes from, and it's not pretty. It comes from that whole "violence never solved anything" mantra that is so popular, especially these days. All evidence to the contrary, Suburbanite moms really want to believe they can talk their way out of conflicts, and that their children can, too! To them, there is nothing martial about "martial arts." It's just about exercise and discipline and white uniforms that have to be bleached every week.
Anyone who's been bullied knows that the best way to deal with said bully is to fight the hell back. Fight hard, and make it not worth the little snot's pain and energy to keep coming after you. Honestly, I just think most women don't really understand kids, certainly not boy children. Yes, yes I did just say that. Bring it.
When girls start to become teenagers, they stop physically fighting (most of the time, anyway), and start going psychological. And since psychological bullying is fought with words, they sort of assume that ALL bullying can be fought the same way.
Men are at least honest. They know they don't understand girls and don't pretend to, but women seem to think that the ability to successfully gestate and expel small, screaming balls of flesh imbues with special powers which allow them to understand and relate to all children. Sorry...no, it does not. You do not have special powers. You do not understand boys any better than men understand girls. Deal with it.
Anyway, back to the whole bully thing. Suburban mommies want their little boys to have a safe place to work off all that pesky energy, preferably near a nail or hair salon and a Starbucks. But they do not want their little boys to be all rough and violent the way little boys are. They certainly don't want to see their children learning how to fight. That's just...uncivilized. Then they wonder why their teenage boys are whiny little wimps.

To make a very long-winded post very short, I will end this by saying that I believe that over-protective soccer moms are the reason "Emo" exists. Emo is not the product of manly men, at least.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Good Kids

I realized I haven't talked about any of my good kids. And there have been many. One student in particular, Reginald, is probably my favorite student. You know you're not supposed to have favorites, but you always do.

Reginald looks like a young, sober Eric Clapton. He is a sweet, kind, quiet kid who loves music. He is a big fan of classic rock. He and I have had many time-wasting discussions on bands that most of his contemporaries have never even heard of. Great kid. The only negative thing I can say about young Reginald is that he never remembers to bring pencil or paper. But it's almost a joke at this point.
The problem is that good people just aren't that interesting to talk about. All of the really interesting stuff is BAD. Good kids don't cause conflicts that make you sit forward in your chair and mutter "you gotta be KIDDING me!" as you read.
Good kids are good in a thousand tiny ways. They show up on time with a smile and ask you how YOU are after you ask them. They care. They remember that you're a human being. And those are things that are hard to describe. It's a vibe.
Bad kids are easy to talk about. You can tell someone about the outrageous things they do. You can talk about the snide remarks and rude faces. It's a lot harder to describe the calm, sweet face of a good girl pulling her book towards her, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she tries to understand a particularly difficult passage. It's harder to explain the satisfaction you draw from a teen like Reginald saying "wait, don't tell me. I think I can...I got it!" And then you get to see that yes, he DOES got it. And good for him for not wanting help. That's harder to explain. As is evidenced by how hard it is for me to find the words to write this post.
Good is not the absence of bad. Good is the intentional application of principles. Good isn't avoiding causing pain, hurt, or frustration. Good is about TRYING to cause happiness, peace, and harmony. Good is not a default position.
Most of us want to believe that humans are basically good. We want to believe that only a few outliers are cruel, heartless, mean-spirited, or just thoughtless. We know this isn't true. We know that most people are all of those things, but we don't want to believe it. It's a hard thing to accept. Especially if good is your default mode now. But that wasn't the way you were born. It's the way you were MADE. Your mind was molded, intentionally or otherwise, into one that believes in being good. We're all born selfish, greedy, and thoughtless. We're born bad. Good takes work.
I am grateful for the good kids. They make this job doable. They keep you coming back. I am grateful most of all to their parents, who taught them to be good. Who molded the hearts and minds of their children with an understanding of right and wrong. I think it's easy to dismiss small things, and I'm grateful to the parents who didn't. To the parents who see their child angrily hit something--however ineffectually--and recognize the seeds of rage in their child. I am grateful to them that train those impulses out of their kids. They are good parents, and their children do not annoy me. They give me hope for the future.

I stumbled across something today that gave me pause. Ok, that's the wrong word. The creeping horrors is better. Retching dry heaves and sobs also work. It was a description of the WWII-era Unit 731. I will not describe it in detail, because I don't think I could handle it myself, and would not subject my gentle readers to it, either. But know that the Nazis had nothing on Japan's 731. The horrors described in the two paragraphs I read made me weep. I cannot imagine the kind of upbringing necessary to make someone think it is OK to torture, truly torture, people. I cannot fathom it.
I am generally non-political here, but I will tell you that when I read the descriptions of torture instruments and methods used by 731, the Nazis, the Inquisitors, and others, I can tell you that the interrogation techniques allowed by the Geneva Conventions which have been used by the US, the UK, and others doesn't come close, and to equate the kinds of things done true torture to that is just...well, it's at once laughable and tragic.
I fear for the fate of people who were raised in a culture that would allow true torture. I fear for them and I wonder what has to happen to create that kind of depravity of soul such that the monsters of Unit 731 were never considered criminals or monsters, and were left to live their lives, even to profit from their government-sanctioned work of horror and terror. Did those people go on to have and raise children? What were those children like? Were they raised to be polite? Were they monsters hiding behind placid faces and nice words? Or were they somehow able to become good despite being borne of monsters? It's a conundrum, to be sure.

No matter what, I am glad for the children that I work with here who were raised well, and are good, sweet children in their souls. I am much less concerned with whether they are smart or well-prepared for the day than I am with whether or not they exude love or hate.

Monday, June 1, 2009

How To Not Get Hired

So, you're being required to look for a job, but you really don't want one? You looking for a good way to make damn sure no one hires you? Here are some helpful hints:

1. Smell Funny.
Seriously! Nothing will drive away potential bosses faster than you coming in smelling like you've been snuggling with pissed off skunks in a pile of pig manure while burning patchouli.

2. Be Uninformed.
You're looking for a job as a daycare teacher, so of course you're going to come to a by-the-hour private pay tutoring center! Good job!

3. Dress Badly.
Please, come in to meet the people you don't want to hire you in booty shorts, a dirty tank top, and sporting plenty of facial jewelry. Bonus points on the booty shorts if you're male and...excited. That will definitely send off those "don't hire me, I'm a pedophile" vibes you want.

4. Slang It Up.
If your goal is to avoid getting a job teaching children to read and write English, make sure to drop all of your definite articles, use lots of bad language, and talk like you've got oatmeal in your mouth!

5. Ignore the Needs of the Boss.
So, the boss tells you that she'd love to talk to you, but she only has five minutes right now? No problem! Take a nice deep breath and go for that ten-minute soliloquy. It works like a charm. Make sure you avoid eye contact, talk over the Boss when she tries to interrupt you, and remember that nervous body language is what you really want.

6. Encroach on Personal Space.
Nothing says "Do Not Hire" quite like sidling up to someone who is doing everything up to screaming "STRANGER DANGER!" Those steps backwards and crossed arms really mean "break through my walls, it's sexy!"

7. Insult the Boss.
When everything else fails, make sure that you say rude things to the person who might be inclined to hire you. Make sure she knows that YOU are the world's authority on every subject and that you will not bow to lesser intellects.


That's a good start, I think. Just remember, these seven simple steps can keep you safely out of the workforce and collecting unemployment benefits, where you know you want to be.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Getting Stood Up

Back to the things that piss me off.

Do you remember what it felt like when you had a date with someone, and you go to the spot where you're supposed to meet them, and you wait, and wait, and wait some more? You sit there for what feels like an eternity, waiting for someone who never comes. Do you recall how painful that is? How embarrassing? How frustrating?
Ok, now imagine that you took time off of work for your date, and now not only did you not get a date, but you lost money. That's what happens when people make appointments and don't show for them.

Sometimes it's unavoidable, and I understand that. But sometimes, OFTEN, people just decide not to come and then decide I don't rate a freakin' phone call. I will call these people, and leave messages. I will hear from them the next day, and they will say "Yeah, I know. We decided to do [fun activity] and we need to schedule a make up." These people get very indignant if you tell them that no, they can't schedule a make up because it's an unexcused absence. You wasted my time, and I'm going to charge you for it. This almost never sticks, because they threaten and badger and I'm not allowed to say things like "Ok, then DON'T bring your business back!" to customers because that's "bad customer service." Likewise, saying "I'm a reflection of what I must deal with: they're bad customers" wouldn't go over well, either. BB is very much stuck in the 'the customer is always right' mindset. I could tell you stories about how very wrong the customer has been, but let's just use a simple analogy:
Your child is rushed to the hospital after a heavy thing falls on it. The child has broken two ribs and a leg, and has a concussion. Would you look at the doctor and say "go ahead and give him the pain medicine and stitch him up, but he don't need a cast or anything," and expect the doctor to listen to you? I would hope the answer is a resounding NO because you're not the damn expert. The doctor is. The doctor understands this stuff because she went to school and did her internship and all that. She has experience and expertise.
SO DO I, DAMMIT! Don't tell me what your child doesn't need when you have no clue. You didn't even know that precious was still counting on her fingers in math! And precious is in 6th grade! I know what's going on with your kid because I was educated, and I do know what I'm talking about, and if you don't believe me, then fine. But don't tell me that you think that despite the testings that you CLAIM to agree with, you don't want to do X because it "sounds silly." So does a CAT scan if you don't know that CAT is an acronym.

There, it's more fun when I'm cranky, isn't it?

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Breathe In, Breathe Out

This weekend we had some wonderful rain. Big fat drops of rain coming in at a slight angle, not quite pounding rain, but not drizzling either. It was perfect. And as I am wont to do, I went and sat in the rain.

I am not a particularly "spiritual" person. I don't do warm fuzzy religiosity at all. Don't think I'm knocking people who do, I'm just not one of those people. Until it rains.
The rain is the only thing that can calm me down; it's the only sound, the only feeling, that I can describe as serenity. When it rains the way it did this weekend, I go out to meditate and pray in the rain. I put on a sleeveless shirt and a long skirt, and I go sit in the grass and I breathe the way they tell you to for meditation. I can never meditate any other time. I just can't and I don't know why.
I can feel the rain wash away the frustrations, the irritations, the pain and the discord.
I feel my shoulders drop, my hands fall to my knees, open and soft and relaxed.
I feel my thoughts slip away.
I breathe in.
The raindrops fall.
I breathe out.
The rain runs down my face.
I breathe in.
I lift my face, eyes closed to the sky.
I breathe out.
I slips away.
Breathe in.
Hands raise up.
Breathe out.
Rain falls.
Breathe in.
Body relaxes.
Breathe out.
Mind is empty.
Breathe in.
Birth.
Breathe out.
Death.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.

I don't know how I come back to myself. I don't know when I slip away, and I don't know when I return. I don't know how long it's been, but I don't really care either. The clock says ten minutes. My body says a moment, and my spirit says eternity. I go onto the screened in back porch, and Teddy gives me a towel to dry off with. I go back to living my life. But the peace of letting go stays for a while, and I can remember it now, and feel the rain fall on my face, smell the clean world.

In Japanese, there is a word "wa." This word means many things, but when I first learned it, the definition I was given is "harmony." I looked it up in a Japanese-English dictionary and found that it also means "sum" and "ring." A ring is a harmonious thing. It doesn't change no matter how you turn it. It's perfect and smooth and soft. That one's easy. But the sum part of it, that's what I find interesting, especially as a math teacher.
If you think about it, a math equation has no wa. When you find the answer, the sum, you have harmony. A sum is taking all these bits and pieces and fitting them together into one thing. Life often has no harmony. It is complicated, confusing and frustrating. Wa is taking all of those things and figuring out how they fit together into one whole, cohesive unit. My wa has been disturbed of late, and I have not felt that I could write about what's going on, because it's personal. But my wa and I have not been close these last few weeks. My wa, to be perfectly frank, is generally not close to me.

Until it rains.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Ever Get A Song STUCK In Your Head?

Way back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I went to college. I went to a college out on the West Virginia/Ohio border, and in a little town called Parkersburg there was a tiny little punk 'club' called Caffeine Kelli's. One night when my friends and I went there, we saw a band that did a song that's been stuck in my head for ages. I can't remember the name of the band, or any of their other songs, but the song Gasoline is stuck in my head. No, it's not the Seether one. It's different. I remember a good bit of the lyrics, too. The song was about a young man remembering the death of a girlfriend, and I think it was his fault. It was not a happy song, but it was well-done and it gave me goosebumps. But I cannot remember the whole song, and I can't remember the band's name. What I do remember is below.

He rests his head upon the wheel
Tells himself that it's ok but he
Doesn't know just how to feel
....
Lonely nights he cried
Bottle by his side
The same drink that took her life
And you-ou-ou are tearing out my eye-eye-eyes
....
You gave me your disease
Pushed me again
And you fit me so tight
Just like a second skin
And I know somewhere in between
You know the smell of
Gasoline-line-line
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Gasoline-line-line


SO, if anyone reads this blog and happens to know about this band, which I know is a real long shot, I would really, really appreciate it if you could tell me the name of the band, or link me to their website, or something, anything. This is going to impact my productivity today. I just know it.

Monday, May 4, 2009

An Old Anecdote That Has NOTHING To Do With Tutoring

I had a nice lunch with my family yesterday, specifically Teddy and I met up with my grandmother and aunt (who had flown in for a week of visiting and sightseeing in the area), my brother and his wife, and my mother at a very large (intimidatingly large, in fact) buffet restaurant. We wound up telling the most ridiculous stories, and when I told mine, I was told I had the best story of the day. I hadn't thought about this particular event in just YEARS, but it seems like the sort of story that belongs on a blog.
I went to go see Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers at midnight the day it opened. Yes, yes I am a dork. I went with my two good friends, who for the purposes of this story shall be called Imelda and Marcos. There is an extended battle sequence in the movie, the battle for Helmsdeep, I believe, and during this battle, the fire alarm went off. When the fire alarm goes off in a theater, the movie stops apparently. However, the soundtrack doesn't necessarily stop as well. Now, because we've all been to school and were trained in the fine arts of not actually leaving when the alarm goes off without being told to by an authority figure, everyone just sort of sat there. When no authority figure was forthcoming to shoo us out, it was decided by the rabid geekboys that the alarm was false, and that the movie should be rewound to the appropriate point and continued. Imelda, Marcos, and I were less concerned with the movie than dying a painful, fiery death in a polyester and plastic-"wood"-panel fueled fire.
Marcos, being the take-charge kind of young man, said "follow me, ladies" in his best John Wayne voice. We followed, since we weren't entirely sure what to do either. We'd been publicly edumacated, too, you know. Marcos leads us out into the lobby, where the late night management all-star team is having a conversation about what to do. Marcos marches up and asks what the situation is. The apparent leader of this little group of mental midgets responds, "there's like...fire alarms? And they're like going off in the ducts? Above the theater?" You know this voice. I won't type it anymore. Marcos asks if they plan to evacuate the theater. Superstar manager asks if he thinks they should. Marcos, suppressing the understandable urge to slap her silly, gum-smacking face, says "if I were in charge, I would evacuate." The manager looks at him, doe-eyed and trusting, "so we should?" "Yes, yes you should." We are impressed with Marcos's inner fortitude, because he managed to do this without eye rolls or biting sarcasm.
Because it was a weekend evening, there were several theaters still showing movies, and so the management team splits up to send everyone out. We follow the girl assigned to our theater, mostly because we have purses in there. The girl is about 5 feet tall, and has the body type of a gymnast. She is a petite, quiet little thing. And they sent her in to deal with the angry geeks. I got the feeling management didn't like her much.
If you've ever seen the movie Police Academy and are familiar with the adorable young black woman with the perfectly round afro who spoke in near-whispers, you will have a good idea of what this girl sounded like. I could barely hear her, and I was standing next to her. She stood at the back of the theater whisper-shouting "Excuse me? Excuse me?"
I rolled my eyes at Imelda and Marcos, who looked at me, and gestured in an "after you" sort of way. Because I do not have a quiet voice. I have a deep alto voice that resonates across football fields when necessary. I threw up my hands in a gesture of frustration, and marched down the aisle to the front of the theater. And then, in a moment of inspiration, filled my lungs and shouted at the top of my considerable voice:
"YO, GEEKS!"
The theater was suddenly quiet. Amazing, isn't it?
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, in a not-quite ear-shattering tone, "the fire alarm we all hear is going off in the ducts above the theaters," and I gesture, open-handed, upwards. There is muttered distress. "Do not panic. We are going to vacate this theater through the clearly marked exits," and gesture to them. "Now, first row, get UP," lifting hands, "and move OUT!" sweeping them towards the exit behind my left shoulder. After letting the first row get about halfway out, I shouted, "Second row, up and OUT!" gesturing to the exit behind my right. It took a couple of rows for them to get the pattern, but after about four rows total, the group was now moving in a nice, orderly fashion. I sent Imelda and Marcos to fetch our belongings, including my Milk Duds, thankyouverymuch, and we left.
When we got outside, the madness had continued. This theaters exits both led into the same alleyway, which was flanked on three sides by the building. And people were just milling about. You could almost hear cud-chewing and the low "moooo" of the pasture. Imelda, Marcos and I all exchanged another significant glance. I again get to move to the front of the group and give them directions.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if there is an actual fire, where do you think it will go? Move into the parking lot, please," and then I start walking. They follow me. Gooooood little herd. The stupid, it hurts us, precious.
Marcos decided it would be a good time to get his hands on some freebie tickets because, well, we should get a refund, dammit! (I learned later that the moment at which the movie cut off was right before Legolas surfs down the stairs on a shield. I felt so robbed.) Marcos gets into the area of the mall to which this theater is attached, and it is an utter madhouse. He manages to grab someone (I wasn't there, so I don't know how he did it) and gets them to come out and hand out their vouchers to the people milling about in the parking lot.
The vouchers are taken care of. We get ours, and decide to just wait for a few minutes until the madness has stopped. And then we realize that there is a HUGE group of people crowded around us, all pretending like they're NOT following us. Little family groups, huddled together, casting occasional glances our direction. Imelda, this time, decides it's her turn to be Ms. In-Charge. Go for it, my dear. Go for it.
"Did you get your vouchers?"
"Yeah."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Huh?"
"You have your vouchers. Go home. Go. Away." They look hurt. "Get in your car," Imelda says, pointing helpfully at one of the metal and fiberglass rocks near which a small group of the herd has gathered, "and go home. You're not going to get to see the movie tonight."
So help me, they turn to look at me. I shake my head in amazement. "You heard the woman. Gooooo hoooooooome."

My goodness. I fear for the future.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Assholes

Let me tell you about Jack. Jack is the center of the universe. I know he's the absolute center of the universe because he says he is, and Jack wouldn't lie. He is also a seventeen-year-old boy who comes to me for help in a difficult subject.
I do most of the tutoring at this small facility in which I am an administrator, a manager, if you will, and it is my great pleasure to tutor Jack in the esoterica that he must learn in order to pass this particular class, graduate, and go off to his college at which I am certain he will do great and wonderful things. Jack knows--for Jack knows all--that the school teacher from whence he learns Esoterica is an evil woman, and must be punished. Jack has decided that the appropriate punishment for his evil school teacher is to treat her with contempt and disrespect, explaining to her in a myriad of ways why she is unworthy to kiss his feet, much less teach him anything.
Jack's evil teacher, for she is truly evil, does not recognize Jack's status as the center of the universe and refuses to give him extra time to complete his assignments when his social life interferes with his schoolwork. She also does not give him half-credit when the only reason he got a particular question wrong is that he could not carve out time for this insignificant woman to correctly read the material she so rudely demands he understand.
Jack also refuses to show respect to people who have not earned it, most certainly not to the woman from whose womb he sprang, who has fed and clothed him for all of his seventeen years, because she has recently fallen from grace and now refuses to recognize him as the ruler of all creation as well. Jack does not respect me, for I am obviously incompetent, else I would not be tutoring him. I would certainly not be so bold as to pretend I know more than him were I a proper woman.

Seriously folks, he's an asshole. This boy came into the facility a few days ago, nearly an hour late for his appointment. I expressed surprise as I was no longer expecting him to be there, and he said "I've got to call that woman." At which point he stormed out into the lobby, called his mother on his cellphone and proceeded to hurl epithets and obscenities at her. He also lied to his mother and told her I had canceled his appointment without telling anyone. He came back into the center and muttered something, the only word of which I understood was "moron."
I said, "excuse me?!"
Jack's reply: "I'm sorry, but she IS a moron."
"Are you talking about your mother?"
"Yeah. She's a mooooorrrooon!"
At this point, Cranky did indeed lose her temper. I spoke quite sharply to him, saying that he was never to insult his mother in my presence. He shrugged, laughing it off.
"No," I said, "I'm quite serious. You DO NOT ever say that in my hearing again. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yeah," Jack said, somewhat cowed.
Jack and I worked past his appointment time, as I did not want to punish his mother, but rather him. I wanted him to understand that coming in late did not excuse him. I am rather close to telling Jack that he will not be welcome back, and advising his mother to let him fail, and force him to pay for summer school himself, or else repeat this grade.
I blame his mother for this, in part, because she obviously allowed this narcissus to take root and bloom in her child young. It's easier to let them have their way when they are younger, because they are still cute. However, this boy seems to believe that the entire world should change for him. I see this a lot, but I have never met a child so blatant about it. He has no charm, no sophistication, about it. He, wielding his unpleasant disposition and nasally voice as a club, requires sycophants. When one is unwilling to give him what he desires, he responds by telling one that one is stupid, or rude, or something equally untrue and unpleasant.
I wish I could be there the first time he tries his arrogance on a college professor. I would enjoy watching the professor tear him to pieces (metaphorically speaking, of course) and his learning that perhaps the universe does not exist only for his amusement.
The seeds of such behavior are planted young. The little child who pats his mother's leg repeatedly while chanting "mom-mom-mom-mom-mom-mom!" is not going to suddenly grow out of it. He will find different way to express his self-absorption, but it will not diminish. To reward this behavior is to allow it to grow. Giving into bullying never helped anyone stop the bully. It only encourages the activity. I wish I could feel sorry for him, knowing that he will never be successful or happy as long as he is so unpleasant and whining, but I don't. I feel no pity or sympathy, because this is a horrible young man. He is rude, selfish, self-centered, self-important, and treats me as a chamber maid. I don't respond well to such treatment, and I dread seeing him. I truly dread it.
Have I mentioned that Jack will be here tonight? He will. And I dread his appearance.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Are You A Tutoring Center?

I had a bit of a surreal moment just now. A man of indeterminable age called me. I answered with "XXXX Learning Center, how can I help you?" To which he responded "Are you a tutoring center?"
No, but I work in one, I thought as I responded in the affirmative.
"Ok, how much is it?" the disembodied voice asks.
Well, the tutoring center costs about $20,000 a month to run. "That depends on the program," I say. "Our prices can range from $30 to $100 an hour. Can you tell me what the student needs help with?"
"Math."
Well, that narrows it down. "Ok, can you be more speci--"
"Multiplication." Now the voice sounds angry....
"Right," I can't help it. I chuckle a little. "Well, that covers a pretty wide area. Can you tell me anything else? What grade level are we looking at? Are we talking about multiplication tables or binomials or what? Can you be any more specific?"
"No." Now the voice sounds disappointed.
"You don't know how old the student is?"
"18," barks the impatient voice. I now know that this is the voice of a young man who needs help for himself. Understanding achieved.
"Well, if you're just looking for the really basic stuff, like multiplication tables, then you're probably going to want to look online for flashcards and the like. If you just googled 'multiplication help' you'd probably find what you needed for free, as opposed to $50+ here."
"Ok." Click.

This happens way more often than you can imagine.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

A Day In The Life

Somewhere in the fevered recesses of my caffeine-addled brain, there are mythical readers of my blog just dying to know what a day at the Tutoring Center is like. This post is for them.

My contract, for I am salaried employee and not an hourly-wage earner, requires that my hours are from 10:30 in the morning until 7:00 in the evening. As long as I have worked here, these have never been my hours. The Big Boss requests, nay demands, that I am here no later than 9:30. He would prefer 9:00, but he is a lenient man. Occasionally, I do not arrive until 9:45, and if the Big Boss is at this location today, he will mention my tardiness then magnanimously state that it shall be overlooked. So, in the interests of not having someone angry at me every day, I arrive between 9:00 and 9:30 nearly every morning.
I disarm the security system, turn on the lights, sit at my desk, and boot up the computer. If BB is around, he and I will have a discussion in which he asks my opinions about a subject in which I am an expert, and then he will tell me why my opinions and relevant training and/or life experiences are inconsequential, because he has already decided on a course of action that will be sure to cause money to rain down from the sky. His plans are very often flawed, and depend on human nature changing suddenly overnight. His most recent plan involved attempting to get companies to do away with their own training systems to hire us, unproven and unknown, for just slightly less than they are currently paying for their training systems. Oh, what a brave and noble leader I have.
If BB is not around, I am able to immediately check messages and emails. If he is around, this process is delayed for approximately two hours. Regardless, once I am able to process all of my messages, I return phone calls, respond to emails, and make the appropriate changes to my daily schedule. Sometimes, these changes involve sick children, or children who want to sneak in an extra session due to an upcoming test or project. We are always as accommodating as possible. On the rare occasions I have had to tell a parent "no" because of an absolute impossibility, they always treat me with respect and dignity. These parents would never complain because their own planning failures meant that all of my time slots are booked for the day, and they would certainly not expect me to reschedule other students whose families were selfish enough to plan in advance. (I do hope you have detected the sarcasm in which this paragraph was marinated. My sarcasm marinade is the envy of all who taste it.) Typically, these schedule adjustments and message responses take an hour or two of my time. I type very quickly and I do not waste time chatting on the phone if I can possibly avoid it.
After all of the "brush fires" as they are amusingly called are put out, I begin to check over my students' lesson plans and materials for the day. I make sure that all of my facility's clients are taken care of as best I can. The industry calls this a "Binder Check" as the student lesson plans and records are kept in--drum roll, please--binders. Once I have completed the Binder Checks, at an average of 15 minutes per binder times the number of students for the day, it usually lunch time. If I have a particularly slow day, I have about an hour to kill before lunch.
During this time, I like to have some "me time." You may think this terrible of me, but I feel that I have earned it by arriving at work an hour early and being very, very good at what I do. (I am an incredibly modest educator. Aren't we all?) Plus, what else am I going to do? Stare at the phone and wait for it to ring? I can multi-task. I am perfectly capable of looking at pictures of domesticated animals with poorly-spelled captions AND waiting for the phone to ring concurrently.
At this point, it is approximately 1:00 and I take my lunch. I do not eat in peace if I stay in the center.
Someone always calls, wanders into the facility to look at my marketing materials, tell me about their child's life, and then act quite horrified when I tell them we do actually charge money for our services, and we charge a lot of money. That's another thing! Do not be surprised if a tutoring facility (or "Learning Center" as they are so often called these days) charges $40 or more per hour. We have to pay qualified tutors enough that they actually want to work for us, we must pay for the facility, its heat, light, water, internet access, phones, learning materials, etc. We must do all of this and turn enough of a profit that our owners do not despair and turn to some other endeavor. We are not free. If you cannot accept that, then you must at least learn to quietly fume. I am not in charge of this facility, I just run it. And I do not set our prices. If I did, I would not make them cheaper. I would make them MORE expensive and I would post those figures in 3-foot-high letters on our windows, just to make sure you know how much we charge before you walk in, because I am sick to death of being accused of price gouging by middle-aged harridans with professionally coiffed hair and nail salon claws, tailored designer-label clothing, and a $5 cup of foul-smelling coffee. I do not begrudge you those things if you have them. By all means, keep it up! You are stimulating the economy when it needs to be stimulated most, but do not pay for all of that frippery and then tell me that my services are not good enough to justify the cost. If you feel that way, then by all means leave. But do not lecture me on my "greed." I make less here than I would teaching public school, but that's all right because the hours are fantastic.
Where was I? Oh yes, lunch. After lunch I have nothing to do. Occasionally there is a project to work on, but for the most part, there is absolutely nothing to do until the students arrive. Nothing at all. I could do some of the instructors' jobs for them, but then if something happened to me, my instructors would have long forgotten how to complete the portions of their jobs that I had been attending to. So we authority figures in the facilities are banned by company policy from helping our subordinates unless there is a dire need.
I have taken it upon myself to do projects simply because I felt they needed doing, and I do not like sitting idle. I do want to feel as though I am earning my paycheck. I do not enjoy feeling like an indolent employee. Yet I often do. I feel rather shiftless as I sit here and write, despite the fact that I have completed every task assigned to me for the week and, even after asking for more things to do, am left to my own devices, which are apparently limited to surfing the internet and reviewing my Pre-Calculus skills. I am rather rusty, but there are only so many hours one can stare at those long-hand problems before one considers a swan dive off the nearest office building. If only my employer would let me write new material for us, that would be pure heaven, but alas, here I sit, underutilized.
Once the students begin to trickle in, close on the heels of their tutors, things get better. I do all of the advanced math tutoring here, because it saves us money, I enjoy it, and it gives me some time to interact with human beings. Also, because it's very difficult to hire advanced math tutors at our rates. They can charge $60/hr on their own getting children to come to their houses. Why someone would come work here instead of hanging out a shingle for the hours they would get is beyond me. Plus, there is the very tangible bonus that if I am tutoring students, the Helicopters can't get me. [insert Renfieldian laughter here]
The evening passes quickly from 3:00 to 7:00. Those four hours are pleasant, most of the time. The children, really, are the least frustrating part of this job. I do like children and I enjoy watching them learn. Working with children is never boring, and that is a relief from my very dull morning.
When I am not actively working with children, I deal with other possible conflicts, behavior issues with the students, questions from the instructors about a lesson that looked like a good idea at the time, but isn't quite working. I also play the role of Prize Fairy, in which I give students little trinkets for being good. I enjoy that part of my job the most, I think. I spend a good portion of my interaction with the younger students playing the hard-ass, and I do like to remind them I can be fun. When I am actively tutoring students, I still have to answer questions, but my instructors are careful to not interrupt me as I am explaining a concept. The instructors know how to keep these little issues from disrupting the students' work much, and we keep things running smoothly. I don't work with people I can't get along with, which is nice.
At the end of the day, the tutors and I clean up after our students, disinfect everything, and try to make sure our students records are in good order. We tell each other stories, and I learn about what's going on in their lives. I tell them amusing anecdotes and advise them on our students' home lives and special circumstances as needed. That doesn't happen often. Usually, the students tell their tutors before I have a chance to. My subordinates are good people, and I enjoy working with them.
I am the last to leave. I make sure things are ready for tomorrow, I turn out the lights, and reactivate the security. And then, around 7:30, sometimes 8:00, I see my husband, my pets, my home, for the first time in 11 hours. Teddy asks me how my day was, and I tell him that it was just another day, because how do you explain the tiny joys and sorrows to someone who wasn't there?
How can I explain, even now, with unlimited time to sort it out, and unlimited words to write it with, the tiny joys and sorrows, the aggravations and frustrations that turn a good day into a horrible one in the space of just one or two minutes? We all live that way, so perhaps no explanation is necessary, but I work in an industry that pre-supposes monkey wrenches thrown into our carefully built machines. I'm not sure if there is anything, short of emergency medicine, that is less reliable. At least in an ER, you don't expect calm or quiet. We are teachers first, and business people a distant second. We teachers are accustomed to order in our classrooms, to bells and schedules and routine. The move from that to the barely-controlled chaos of the tutoring facility is why your local tutor shop management changes so much. The part-timers can deal with an occasional "your student's not going to be here" or "can you fill in for Joe today?" but those of us who are here day in and day out, it starts to wear.
We all go back to the classroom eventually, or we get out of the front-of-house part of the job and retreat to our company's corporate centers, where we can interact with adults who we understand. We bounce from one tutoring place to another for a while, settling someplace "forever." Until, of course, the burn out starts. Then we toy with the idea of opening our own facility and not putting up with any of this nonsense! But it's just a toy. Like opening a restaurant in Albuquerque, taking up organic farming, or opening a Bed & Breakfast in some small, historic town that the tourists flock to.
We don't mean these things when we say them, but they're our anchors when we start to feel overwhelmed. They push the burnout back just a few more days, or weeks, or even months. We can tell ourselves that these jobs are temporary, and someday we'll be able to go live that dream. But the joy of the dream is in the imagining, not the doing. We choose to ignore all the frustrations we know come with any job and focus on that nebulous, distant, near-unattainable goal, much like we focused on our dreams of teaching rooms filled with bright, eager, fresh-scrubbed young faces which stood before equally bright and eager young minds waiting to drink in knowledge. We told ourselves that our classrooms wouldn't be filled with the kind of foolishness we'd seen in our tenure as smug overachieving hall monitors and teachers' pets.

This is a day in my life. It's filled with the complex dance of elation and exasperation, like anyone else's, over things that I should probably not worry about at all, let alone base my feelings of my own worth on. But there it is, as clear as I can make it, which in the re-reading, doesn't seem clear at all.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Consensual Living

It's probably not what you think. It's certainly not what I thought. What "Consensual Living" is, is a parenting "technique" that damn near guarantees that the children "raised" with it will turn out to be hellions. An excerpt:
In the consensual living model, father doesn't know best. Neither does mom. Instead, parents and children are equal partners in family life, according to the principles laid out at consensual-living.com.
...
Devotees study books such as Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn and Marshall Rosenberg's Nonviolent Communication, and they consider parenting based on punishment and reward structures to be "coercive."

In contrast, "consensual" parenting is non-hierarchical.


The article, which I trust you can read without me continuing to blockquote it, goes on to discuss how the mommy and daddy of this little family negotiate with their toddlers, asking them for feedback on the rules with questions like "will that work for you?" and so on. I cannot even begin to describe all the ways this makes me angry.
But I'll try.

Let's start with the obvious: Consensual implies consent on the part of all people involved, and the way this reads to me, mommy and daddy are doing all of the bending. The children are certainly not mature enough to understand the need to compromise. They're still thoroughly planted in the "MINE MINE MINE!" phase of life and need to be taught how to act like good, selfless people. They do not need to be given the impression from birth that they can demand their way and that the people in authority over them actually aren't.

Let's also consider that our parents are our models for dealing with anyone else "bigger" than we are (older, more powerful, authority figures). Do we honestly believe that little Johnny's teacher or boss is going to give half a rat's ass about his feelings and "need to be validated?" (What does this mean, anyway? To me, "validation" is something they do with parking. But, I digress.)

Parents are responsible for giving their children the tools they need to survive in their world. Which means these children need to know that they are not the axis upon which the Earth spins. This is the absolute worst in lazy parenting, in psychobabble nonsense that makes parents feel that their job is to be the child's friend.

Another excerpt, this time from Consensual Living. This is from the section entitled "Principles of Consensual Living":
* Equality

The thoughts, feelings, wants, needs and/or solutions, of each individual involved, are equally valued, and equally considered. Everyone has thoughts, feelings, opinions, wants, needs, and/or solutions. We all must see those and the individual as equal regardless of our differences. It is more than just treating everyone as equal, each member of the family must be equal. If all family members do not truly feel equal, the process will be less than successful.


Doesn't that sound nice? Doesn't it sound like butterflies and rainbows and happiness? The problem here is that in point of fact, it never works this way. The parent demonstrates patience and spinelessness, whilst the child grows into an unholy terror. This is somewhat akin to the Tragedy of the Commons, the concept of a Miracle occurring and causing humans to not act like humans. Humans are selfish creatures. Young ones especially, for their instincts towards preservation of the species exist only inasmuch as they feel the need for survival.

The infant quickly learns that if it performs certain actions, others will respond in predictable ways. The parents of babies who pick baby up whenever it cries will create babies who cry when they want to be picked up. (Not to say that parents should not pick up their babies when they cry, but that parents should learn the difference between "I need something" cries and "I demand attention!" cries.)
The child who learns that saying things like "I feel hurt and rejected when you won't let me X" will get the parent to let him/her do X will fall back on those buzzwords. And what's worse, the child will not respect the parent, or itself. The child will loathe itself because deep down, it knows what it is doing is wrong. And that's the best case scenario. The worst case is one I've seen far too often: the sociopath.

This is just...UGH. I can't even begin to describe how angry I am about this. Parents are responsible for their children, but they are also responsible TO them, and as parents you have a real responsibility to make sure your child turns out as well-educated, well-socialized, and well-adjusted as possible. Some kids will go bad no matter what, but it's YOUR JOB to make sure that your child is given the best possible chance at becoming a decent human being. And this is NOT the way it's done.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Your Child, The Common Cold, and Your Friendly Neighborhood Tutor

We all know that children are susceptible to all manner of nasty little viruses (virii?) and bacteria. We all know that children, not fully aware of how icky it is to forget to wash their little hands after using the facilities, or to wipe their runny little noses on the backs of their cartoon-character-festooned shirt sleeves, or to cough in the faces of those they hold dear, are prone to catching lots of curable, but highly annoying diseases. If I had a child, I would probably be more tolerant of my child's inability to understand Universal Precautions. But I do not have a child. I have cats and they do not sneeze, cough, puke, bleed, piss, or crap on me. Your children do.
I have had nearly every bodily fluid sprayed on me during the course of my job, and it's disgusting. For the most part, these children do horrible things to me because their parents are not cognizant of my status as a human being. I am, according to these people, a machine which does not succumb to illness. Unfortunately for all of us, I am not a Stepford Tutor and I have a very weak immune system. All this means that if your little plague rat enters my facility with even the barest whisper of a cough, I get bronchitis. If your child has an upset tummy, I get the kind of intestinal infection that makes one pray for the sweet kiss of death.
My facility has a very liberal policy regarding illness. If the child is sick, keep it at home and we will happily schedule a make-up hour for it when it is no longer a possible Patient Zero for a tutoring facility epidemic. Since we do have such a nice, easy, liberal policy regarding sickness, I cannot imagine why a parent would send their ill child to be tutored. Do they think that precious will learn anything while hacking, coughing, sneezing, or barfing? Do they think anything will be retained? Or possibly, should we let little precious stay home, drink some ginger ale, and watch Spongebob reruns?
I bring all of this up because today I am running a fever and coughing my lungs out thanks to a plague rat child. It's not the child's fault, of course, because the child did not choose to be sick nor did the child choose to come to see me. I blame the parent. I blame the inconsiderate parent who didn't want to upset his/her routine. So now, the child is still sick, and still being sent to before-school care, school, after-school care, and then finally to me. Apparently the child is less important that mommy and daddy's day planner.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Charisma

It's something a person like me needs to guard against. I'm not exactly sure that I do a good job of it. Allow me to explain.
I am well-educated, and I am well-read, but I am not a genius. I can appear to be smarter than I really am, because I have learned that the trick to looking smart is to ape smart people. I get an awful lot of credit for seeming really smart and really on top of things because I can retain information and, when the need arises, discuss the information passionately, with great dramatic voice and captivating gestures that my audience feel what I want them to feel. Reagan had it, Obama has it. George W. Bush had it more than either of his serious opponents (Gore and Kerry). This is why actors get paid so much, because they can lie convincingly.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting it's a bad thing to be able to do. It's a good thing. People like being lied to. They like believing that their Hollywood heroes are real people. We like that. It's not bad or good. It's a neutral thing. The bad stuff only happens when people don't separate the fantastic from the real.
There's a book called Double Star, written by a man named Robert Heinlein, whose early work is the stuff on which I was weaned. (My parents, as far as I can remember, didn't really buy us kids "children's literature." Instead, we read stories we couldn't fully understand, but could at least get the surface plot of, and were never subjected to your average child's diet of morality plays.) The book, Double Star, is about an actor who has to play the part, to truly become, a kidnapped politician. I don't mean politician as we mean it today. Think Churchill. A good man, and an honest politician. As the story is written as a first-person narrative, an extended journal entry almost, the actor discusses his beliefs and his ability to take on the role he is required to play. He suggests that he could come to love and understand Jack the Ripper if required to play him. Jack Nicholson has said similar things about the baddest of baddies he plays so well.
In a favorite movie of mine, The Jackal starring Bruce Willis, Richard Gere, and Sidney Poitier, Bruce plays the title character, a cold-blooded monster of an assassin. But he has charisma, and as you watch the movie, during the scenes in which it's The Jackal versus other bad guys, you want The Jackal to make it. You want him to win. He's a sympathetic character. This is the danger of charisma. Charismatic people can make you believe what they want you to. They can make you love what they love, and fear what they fear. This is how people have been convinced throughout history to do terrible, terrible things. And I'm good at it.
A couple of my friends and I were discussing a mutual acquaintance the other night. I was assuming the pose of the lecturer, and waxing philosophic about the acquaintance's failings, chiefly his need to be the Arbiter of Cool in our circle of friends and acquaintances. I find him incredibly annoying because of his need to be smarter and cooler than other people. As I was driving home that night, it struck me how much like him I am. And I felt ashamed. I felt suddenly how much I need to be the smart one. I wear my nerd-status proudly. I want people to believe I know more than they do, and that I am smarter than they are. I talk about subjects that people find difficult and painful to work with as if they are easy. For me, they are. I routinely tell my students that something difficult isn't "that hard." I have told myself in the past that I say this because I want to inspire self-confidence instead of fear. Now I'm not so sure. Do I, perhaps, say these things more so that the child will be confident in himself, or in me? Does my need to be the smart one override what's best for the child? I hope not.
As I think about the way that we approach our students and their parents, I am stunned by how fake we are, how much of an act we put on. We can fake sincerity like no one else. We can sit and listen, make the right noises at the right times, fix a face of concerned sympathy, and finish the sentences for you as if we understand exactly what you're going through when in fact we are just remembering the last twenty parents who said this same thing. But we can pretend as though your situation is unique and different, that your child is special and important to us personally. And when our meeting is concluded, we will bad-mouth you and your child. We can't seem to help ourselves. We belittle your beliefs and your stupid kid and your inability to deal with reality.
What does all this mean? Why did I write this post? I think to warn you. As much as parents can be unpleasant and obnoxious, teachers can be more so. Do not assume that all teachers who claim to care actually do. Teachers, tutors, administrators and managers of teaching facilities are not to be trusted without good cause. Don't trust us just because we have our sheepskins. We don't always know what's best, and sometimes we don't really care. We're just trying to make you think we do so we can get our jobs done.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Lack of Planning On Your Part...

does not constitute an emergency on mine.

I wouldn't think this would be hard to understand, but apparently it is. We are not drop-off sites. Tutors get paid by the hour. Tutoring centers charge by the hour. This is not the gym, it's not the rec center, the Boys & Girls Club, or your mother's house. We have calendars and schedules that are more important to us than your child. Some of us even have friends and spouses, maybe we have children, too! We certainly have lives. So, if your precious little baby has not gotten something done in a timely manner, it is not our fault and it is not our responsibility. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone has come into this facility, and asked--nay, demanded--that we work with their child immediately! They don't care if we don't actually have any tutors fluent in the K'thvalgean dialect of Klingon. (Yes, I just made that up.) The fact that we can't help their child is proof that we are racist/bigots/Trekkie-phobes/mean/baby-eaters/seal-clubbers. Riiiiiight, because we don't like making money. We'd rather turn you away for no good reason than squeeze a couple hundred bucks out of you.
Most of the people who do this to us are not clients. They walk in off the street, look around the facility, make snarky comments about our decor, prices, and/or policies, and then act as though they are being magnanimous for deigning to speak to us without holding a lace perfumed handkerchief over their noses and mouths. When we tell them that we are unable to accommodate their requests, they begin their tirade.
Just this past week I had a couple come barging into the lobby, snapping their fingers and trying to talk to me through the (closed) receptionists' window. I am not the receptionist. I was just in the receptionist's office. Nevertheless, I did my best to discuss the lay of the land with these parents. As I do have administrative duties, and as I have been working here almost since the doors opened, I do know a thing or two about the rates, policies, procedures, and programs. Like your average gym, we do not simply let people walk in off the street. We have paperwork. We have managers with whom one must meet prior to service. There are agreements to make, schedules to consider, and so forth.
When I explained to these parents that while I understood that their child had a test tomorrow, and that young Master Bates most certainly needed some assistance with the History of Cauliflower, there were no Vegetable History tutors scheduled that night and I didn't know of any who were available on this short notice. Mr. and Mrs. Bates were incensed and explained to me that this was unacceptable and if I weren't an incompetent nitwit, I would get on the deleted phone and call some censored people and make sure that someone got his or her redacted into our penny-ante unprintable facility immediately to help their precious baby boy.
Anyone who works in customer service knows how irritating "That's unacceptable!" is. In all honesty, this phrase is more likely to damn you in the eyes of the service people than a steady stream of profanity. These days, vulgar language is like litter: it's everywhere and no one really notices anymore. However, sayings gleaned from '90's management philosophy books are the same trite nonsense we've been hearing for many, many years and we're frankly damn well sick and tired of it. We've heard it enough from our bosses, many of us left the corporate world to get away from that silliness, and hearing it infect the everyday world is enough to send us all running for the hills. So, please believe me when I tell you that if you tell a customer service representative in any store, restaurant, or business "that's unacceptable!" or "failure is not an option!" or "mistakes are not tolerated!" or reference the moving of cheese in anyway, you will only succeed in making a highly negative impression on the person to whom you speak. We will remember you, your image and your whining, angry voice branded into our minds, and we will remember that you believe that you are above not only the rules of etiquette and common decency, but the laws of thermodynamics as well, specifically the one about creating something from nothing. So, please for the love of whatever you hold holy or sacred, just stop.
And, shockingly enough for those of you who fall into the above category, regardless of the feelings of the person in question, the truth does not care if it is acceptable, printable, convenient, or likeable. And none of us in the customer service enjoys telling a potential customer or client that we can't help them. It's lost revenue, and no one likes this. We lose bonuses, we lose scheduled hours, and we lose the chance to make a difference. We are genuinely unhappy when we have to turn someone away. We don't do it lightly. We don't do it when we can possibly avoid it. We are greedy capitalist pigs and we like money. We want to be Tutor of the Month, because we want that $100 bonus.
Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Bates had nothing but rude things to say to me, as I stood there with the fake Customer-Service smile plastered on my face, one part of my brain thinking about what it would feel like to--just once!--fight back while another part repeated the Litany Against Rage (lesser-known than the Bene Gesserit's Litany Against Fear) while a third part said, bemused and slightly bewildered "I'm so glad I went to college for this." My reptilian brain just wanted a Twinky and my creative side considered if the National Endowment for the Arts would endorse a mural made of blood and brain matter. Eventually Mr. and Mrs. Bates stormed off, saying we shall never hold their custom! Never! They would go to the Swanky Overpriced Tutoring Center instead.
Oh, heavens no. Please don't go! We'll do anything! We didn't mean to drive you away! Look, we'll cancel all our other appointments and go kidnap an appropriate tutor and force them, at gunpoint if necessary, to tutor your precious baby if only you'll promise not to go! is what I did not shout as I watched them struggle to open the door that's always locked. (Why do we do this? Why is one door only for show?) They eventually figured out their error, cursed the door and suggested it do something utterly impossible with itself (as it lacks the motive power, flexibility, and requisite anatomy) before storming off in search of someone else who would be willing to endure hell for the sake of $100 or so.

God help the child these people have conceived. He never had a chance.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Helicopters and Hellions

I'm sure you've all heard the term "Helicopter Parent." Maybe you are one. I certainly hope not. But just in case someone out there has never become acquainted with this term, a Helicopter Parent is the kind of parent who buzzes over their child, like a toy helicopter with no safety guard around its blades. What this means for we tutors is, in the midst of hovering about their children, making sure nothing damages the little tyke's self-esteem, we often incur serious injury at their blades. Metaphorical, of course, but the fear of a real attack is sometimes lurking in our minds. Call it the reptilian brain assuming that any threat is a physical one. The Helicopter Parent's biggest flaw, in my so-very-humble opinion, is that she does not realize the damage she is doing to her child.
I have never seen a Helicopter Parent create a lovely or even likable child. Their children are, by definition, obnoxious, entitled, demanding, rude, selfish, evil little hellions. You've seen them in the supermarket, the theater, and the park. They're the ones screaming, screwing their faces up into gargoyle-esque pouts, crying crocodile tears, or decrying the unfairness of life because they can't have a treat, can't run through the aisles of the store, were forced to sit in a "baby chair," or couldn't climb the monkey bars because some "big mean kids" had taken it over.
The Helicopter Parent, when not the cause of the temper tantrum, buzzes in with automatic weapons firing devastating barrages of accusations. "What happened? Who hurt you, precious? Show mommy your boo-boo! Did that big mean kid do something?" Then the Helicopter Parent will turn on the "big mean kid" who is usually all of seven years old, and begin to berate the child for not sharing a toy (that belongs to the child being castigated, usually) or not being careful enough of her little baby, or some other ridiculous imagined crime.
I had one student in particular who is a Spawn of the Damned, and his mother is an Apache model Helicopter. She gets a particular look on her face whenever Spawn is unhappy, and I know I'm about to catch it. Her face always makes me think, first and foremost, of this:
Her son was just the most precious little thing ever, and he was important and special and needed to be treated that way. We needed to make sure that we took extra special care of Spawn, because he's very, very SPECIAL. He has ADHD (no, he doesn't, but that's another story). He has learning "differences" (we're not allowed to call it a disability). He has emotional issues (No shit!). He is in all ways very, very special. Did I metion he is special? Because he IS.
Yes, there are children out there with real problems and real issues, but this is not one of them. This is a spoiled-rotten little bastard whose mother is enabling his entitlement attitude, and turning him into a sociopathic misfit who will wind up euthanizing puppies or cleaning crematoriums for a living. If he doesn't go serial killer.
The reason I think this child is going to go bad is that I've seen it before. I had a similar child, the youngest of four and the only son, who was spoiled by his mother and three older sisters. He used to take off his belt and hit people with the buckle. When he was about twelve, he attacked someone with a hammer but no charges were filed. He started abusing his sisters at 14, his mother at 16. Spawn is way too much like that kid. Just way too much like him. He gets that dead-eyed look, and I just want to run screaming. I don't like working with this kid. And I wonder how many parents do this kind of thing. How many of them create sociopaths without realizing it? How many more of these little monsters, and I mean that quite seriously, will I have pass through my life before one of them takes a swing at me?

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

First!

Is this the obligatory first blog post in which I say things I'll regret later? I've been reading blogs long enough to know that yes, yes it is. So, in an attempt to avoid saying too many embarrassing things, I'll just give you the basics, the rundown, if you will. And until I can figure out how to do things in the fancypants way that most blog-aficianados are accustomed to, you'll have to deal with my little "About" section being rye-cheer:

I live on the East Coast of the United States. I'm a registered independent with few political leanings and less desire to talk about them. This is not a political blog. I'm a Christian and will reference my church occasionally, I'm sure. But this is also not a religious blog. I have three cats, and may say something about them from time to time, but this is not a cat blog. I promise. The cats' names will, for the purposes of this blog, be 1) Lazy, 2) Spaz, and 3) Runt. These are not their real names. I also have a husband, whom I will refer to as Teddy, which is definitely not his name. This will not be a marriage blog.

I am a math teacher who does not teach school. I tutor. I tutor all manner of things, from reading to math to test preparation. This is a blog about that. Mostly, it is about the things that annoy me. I will refer to myself as Cranky, or some variation thereof. None of the children or parents will be referred to by their real names. If you can't figure out why, then please leave my property.

I do cuss. A lot. I will try not to do it here, as it's usually just filler. If I do use a naughty word that offends you, please retire to your fainting couch, have a restorative adult beverage of your choice, have the maid cool you with an inordinately large lacy fan, and when you feel able, have your houseboy block access to my blog. Alternatively, put your big girl/boy britches on and get over it.

A blogger whom I respect and enjoy reading has a wonderful little bit about how his blog is a dinner party amongst friends, not a public forum. I'll not steal it directly, but I will say that you are on my property, as it's my blog, and if you annoy me too much, I'll probably stop letting you clutter up my little internet home. Deal with that in the same manner as you would for a naughty word. Seriously, are there people out there who spend their lives reading blogs they hate just so they can post rude and unclever things? That's just...sad.

So, I think I've covered all the bases one should cover in a first post, and I'll leave it at that. Tomorrow, if I am able to pry myself away from my other duties, I shall tell the internet The Dreadful Story of Harriet and the Variables. Maybe.

Oh, and thanks for playing along!