The Secret Life of Printers

Years ago we named our team printer "Christine" after the car in Stephen King's novel of the same name. Christine the printer was temperamental in some of the same ways, favoring me when it came to her somewhat capricious performance, just as the car showed fierce loyalty to Arnie.

When other teachers got error messages, I got fast, clean copies. When Christine jammed, which became increasingly common, I could usually fix her in a jiffy. Perhaps it helped that she was located in my classroom, and maybe it was that the irritation of constant interruptions never bothered me much, but although I put in many help desk tickets for attention to Christine over the years, I was never frustrated by the printer situation.

Oh, she was never murderous, although there were many who wanted to beat on her, but then again, I was never threatened in her presence either. Who can say what she might have done to protect me?

And now, we'll never know. After 10 years of inconsistent service, Christine was unceremoniously replaced this afternoon while I was at a meeting. The new printer seems nice-- much smaller and faster and quieter and hopefully more reliable to all who use it-- but I have to confess to a bit of twinge when I walked in and found Christine had left the building.

Tough Love

I have a student this year who is openly struggling with her family's mixed acceptance of her sexuality. At 11, she identifies as gay, and the response at home has been mixed. The issue is complicated by the fact that her biological dad is estranged from the family, and she has had no contact with him for several years. Even though she is pretty sure he would reject her even more than he already has, she longs to come out to him.

Emotionally, all of that would be a very full plate for anyone, never mind such a young person, and my heart goes out to her. But it's tough for me, as a teacher, when time and again, she uses her struggle as the reason she is doing zero school work. She has a lot of support from adults at our school, but she has never reached out to me personally. Last week, I kept her for lunch detention so she could complete a few assignments.

Right away, there were some tears. "You don't understand!" she said.

I raised my eyebrow and listened with sympathy.

"I think I do understand," I told her, "and I'm really sorry that you are having such a hard time." I paused and made eye contact. "But I also know that gay people can get their work done."

Perfect Combo

Movie in the morning and hike in the afternoon?

Yes, please!

Consider my Sunday complete.

Ingredients

One of our good friends has the sweetest dog you will ever meet. Lady was rescued from West Virginia and arrived with one eye, buck shot in her leg, fleas, and heart worm. Over the years she has been The best of buddies to both of our dogs— idolizing Isabel and then passing on the lessons she learned from her to our new puppy, Lucy.

In addition to all her nicknames, Ladybug, Bug, and Buggy, Heidi also likes to call her Nanny, because of the good care she has shown Lucy. When conversations turn to Lady, there is often a lot of speculation about her heritage. She is jet black, sleek and squat, with floppy, fringy ears and strange wisps growing from her belly. She has a square head with that one deep-set eye, a fireplug shaped body and skinny little legs.

Is she Pitty? Rottie? Chow? She must have a little Lab, but that fringe? Is she Setter? Borzoi? Terrier?

Well, perhaps all our speculation will be satisfied shortly, because Lady’s owner Lauren’s Birthday is this week, and we got her a dog DNA kit. I confess that I am really excited; it is seriously like a gift to us all. I just can’t wait to see the results, and at last to know the recipe for one sweet puppy. 

The End

Part of the deal between me and my boys book group was that we would choose a book none of us had read and read it together. I liked the opportunity that our pact gave me to react as I read aloud-- I often asked questions and made predictions as we went, and the boys could see the model of how a pretty good reader interacts with a text in real time.

This morning when we gathered for our last session though, I had to make a confession. "Guys," I started as I poured the hot chocolate, "I have to be honest. I read to the end of the book yesterday."

They were a little outraged, but the cocoa made it somewhat better. "I know, I know," I said, "but let me tell you why I did it. I was afraid I was going to cry at the end, and I wanted to be prepared."

"Oh no!" cried one. "Are you prepared?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted, "but I'm really glad I know what's coming."

With that, they were silent, until they, too, knew what was coming.

And, yes, there were a few tears.

Situation Well in Hand

Even in sixth grade, some kids have

total
meltdowns
at school.

So this morning when I heard high-pitched screaming down the hall and around the corner, I wasn't alarmed, but I knew I should investigate. I had only taken a few steps when I heard the principal's calm voice trying to talk the banshee down. I stopped and listened; I couldn't see them, but I could clearly hear the exchange.

"Get out of my face!" the student cried.

"I'm all the way over here," the principal said evenly, "far away from your face."

The student continued his outburst, though, getting so worked up that at last he dropped his voice to a menacing growl. "I will find you!" he threatened in words he had clearly heard elsewhere. "You'll see! If it's the last thing I do, I'll find you."

"And it won't be hard, either," the principal replied. "My office is right over there, and I'm here every day."

Tantrum?
Over.

Undercover

Because of the parking situation at our school, many mornings I find myself bobbing along in a stream of middle schoolers on the quarter mile journey from car to building. I'm not super tall; I carry a backpack and a lunch bag; I wear jeans to school almost every day. That pretty much makes me invisible, and as such, I am often witness to unadulterated kid culture.

Sometimes I intervene, Drop the snow and walk away!

Sometimes I initiate conversation: Evan! Look how tall you are! I probably won't even recognize you the next time I see you!

And sometimes I just listen: I was processing what she said all night. I am still processing. It seems like all I do is process, process, process!

I feel you, kid.