I went to elementary school with a boy named Jesse. I never met him. I never spoke to him. I'll never forget him. It was early one morning in our school's library that Jesse crossed my path. Historically low performing, Please Please Fund Us Elementary School adopted a rigorous language arts program that pitted students in competition to read the most books and earn the most points on comprehension quizes. At the end of each report card period our points could be cashed in for foil wrapped pencils or erasers that smelled faugely of fruit. The finest remuneration, earned only by the most bibliophile fifthgraders, included full-size stale candy bars and a Babysitter's Club calendar only 2 years out of date. Pursuits of such wonders, and desire to meet the minimum point requirements to avoid "silent lunch" brought many students to the library to find books and take their quizzes. Brought a few more to find trouble. On a rainy day in 1994, I was browsing the Judy Blume's when the trouble began. Jesse was in a huddle around a Where's Waldo.
I'm tellin ya. One of'ums nekkid.
Ain't niether! They wont put a nekkid lady is a kids book
Whatcher on the mountain page fer. The nekkid lady gone be on tha beach one.
I giggled overhearing them because I knew the pornographic picture book had been removed from the shelves long ago, and I had found the offending illustration on a dogeared page in a pediatrician's office. Our librarian was having none of it. Deftly she scattered the boys with scoldings and threats of silent lunch and they slunk in different directions. Jesse, DJ and Bubba (I wish I was kidding) Made their way to a bank of Apple 2Es to pad their foil pencil savings accounts.
Taking the quiz on the computer required logging in with our "real actual names." In a Southern farm town that couldn't fill the visitors side of a football stadium, getting kids to spell their "real actual names" was difficult. Bethanne logged in as Elizabeth Anne and Maybeth typed Mary Elizabeth. DJ became Daniel James, and JD was John David. Bubba had Robert E Lee Foote written on the inside band of his Fruit of the Looms. Jesse typed Jesus Lopez Junior. Billy Ray / William saw Jesse' s real actual name on the screen and called another huddle.
Billy Ray/William -- Whatcha type JeeZus for, Jesse?
Jesse / HaySoos -- That's my name. That's what they call me Jesse for.
DJ/Daniel James -- Lemme see that! Jesse! Yer name aint JeeZus! Ain't nobody named JeeZus but JeeZus!
JD / John David -- Only the devil call hisself JeeZus and not be JeZus.
Bubba / Robert E Lee Foote -- You gone go to the devil, Jesse
Jesse/HaySoos was eight. He was third generation in our shitty backwoods town, and ate far more boiled peanuts than black beans. He couldn't explain the distinct cultural differences between his family from Mexico and their families from South Carolina dirt farms. They didn't give him time to try.
A hand grasped a shirt collar.
A shirt collar ripped as Jesse/Jesus was pulled up from his chair.
A chair tumbled and hit the floor sideways.
So did Jesse.
Fists and feet and slurs fell from all directions. I ran farther into the stacks to hide and felt guilty for not knowing how to help him. Maybe it was a couple of minutes, or maybe it was 2000 years, but eventually the double-named Judases were pulled off.
"He says he's JeeZus! He caint just call hisself JeeZus! He's going to the devil sayin his Jeezus!"
Billy Ray/William, DJ / Daniel James, and Bubba / Robert E Lee Foote, howled in chorus.
I saw the blood on Jesse/Jesus's face. I shrank further and prayed I'd become invisible as he walked passed to the nurse.
The passion played before me in my school's library sat in my stomach like stale bread and sour grape juice. I'd seen boys beat each other up before. I'd seen them turn on their own. But I never saw a boy beat that badly unprovoked. I never saw a boy named Jesus. I was grappling to understand how a literacy quiz became a hate crime that I watched from behind Tales of a Fourthgrade Nothing. After school I asked my mama, "Why would somebody name their baby Jesus?"
"That's silly,"she told me. "Nobody names their baby Jesus. "
Showing posts with label Kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kids. Show all posts
Monday, October 21, 2013
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
I'm a Belieber!
At least a couple times a week, a pink rubber bracelet adorns my right wrist. Written in huge green letters is the name of my favorite tiny-tot pop star, Justin Bieber. Though this middle school millionaire doesn’t need any of my money, I shelled out the three dollars and fifty cents to support his work. I have obviously gotten a lot of guff for it, but I really don’t care. I love the Biebs.
For years before returning to college, I worked in preschools. If you have never spent forty hours a week surrounded by four-year-olds, you might not know that pre-schoolers love to sing, and they sing, ad infinitum, whatever they heard on mom or dad’s iPod on the way to school. Imagine if you will, the following lyrics from the mouths of students who have only recently graduated from toddler-hood.
“I kissed a girl and I liked it. Hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”
“How’d I turn my shirt inside out? … we’re all gettin’ hosed tonight”
“I see you drivin round town … and I’m like ‘forget you’” (If you’re lucky. Some kids' parents have the unedited version, and most four-year-olds are only just learning the concept of “cuss words”)
“Girl look at that body … I’m sexy and I know it”
“Last Friday night We went streaking in the park Skinny dipping in the dark Then had a ménage à trois”
“And I was like,“Baby baby baby Oh! Baby Baby Baby NO!” these songs are inappropriate for you! People who were recently three years old should not be singing about threesomes!
About this time, a friend dared me to create The Bieber Day Tweets, a project in which I created a Justin Bieber station on Pandora, listened to it straight for 12 hours and tweeted the experience live. Given that half the space on my iPod is taken up with Marilyn Manson and Nirvana, (what can i say? I love the 90s) I have to say that this was torture, but when one doesn’t drink, interesting bar-bets are hard to come by. I did get 4 new followers out of the ordeal so, I guess that’s a win. What I discovered during this aural assault, was that Bieber’s lyrics, though sometimes with a misogynist bent (referring to a girl as a prized possession) were largely family friendly. Annoying and repetitive as it was, I could listen to my class singing ‘Baby, baby baby” and “One less lonely girl” without my stomach turning. I quickly added the songs to the Center Time Playlist, along with the discovery of Taylor Swift’s song about short skirts and t-shirts and other karo-syrupy teeny-bopper love songs. There’s really not much that makes a stressful day in kinder-land brighter than a chorus of boys, decked out in their dramatic play center finest, belting Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” In honor of taking my classroom from a pint sized musicall orgy to a place I was not disgusted to work, I support the Bieber. Baby baby baby, Oh Thank You!
For years before returning to college, I worked in preschools. If you have never spent forty hours a week surrounded by four-year-olds, you might not know that pre-schoolers love to sing, and they sing, ad infinitum, whatever they heard on mom or dad’s iPod on the way to school. Imagine if you will, the following lyrics from the mouths of students who have only recently graduated from toddler-hood.
“I kissed a girl and I liked it. Hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”
“How’d I turn my shirt inside out? … we’re all gettin’ hosed tonight”
“I see you drivin round town … and I’m like ‘forget you’” (If you’re lucky. Some kids' parents have the unedited version, and most four-year-olds are only just learning the concept of “cuss words”)
“Girl look at that body … I’m sexy and I know it”
“Last Friday night We went streaking in the park Skinny dipping in the dark Then had a ménage à trois”
“And I was like,“Baby baby baby Oh! Baby Baby Baby NO!” these songs are inappropriate for you! People who were recently three years old should not be singing about threesomes!
About this time, a friend dared me to create The Bieber Day Tweets, a project in which I created a Justin Bieber station on Pandora, listened to it straight for 12 hours and tweeted the experience live. Given that half the space on my iPod is taken up with Marilyn Manson and Nirvana, (what can i say? I love the 90s) I have to say that this was torture, but when one doesn’t drink, interesting bar-bets are hard to come by. I did get 4 new followers out of the ordeal so, I guess that’s a win. What I discovered during this aural assault, was that Bieber’s lyrics, though sometimes with a misogynist bent (referring to a girl as a prized possession) were largely family friendly. Annoying and repetitive as it was, I could listen to my class singing ‘Baby, baby baby” and “One less lonely girl” without my stomach turning. I quickly added the songs to the Center Time Playlist, along with the discovery of Taylor Swift’s song about short skirts and t-shirts and other karo-syrupy teeny-bopper love songs. There’s really not much that makes a stressful day in kinder-land brighter than a chorus of boys, decked out in their dramatic play center finest, belting Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me” In honor of taking my classroom from a pint sized musicall orgy to a place I was not disgusted to work, I support the Bieber. Baby baby baby, Oh Thank You!
Friday, April 13, 2012
Adventures in Pre-K, Stopped in his Bullying Tracks
Children can be cruel. It is difficult to witness kid-on-kid bullying and equally difficult to squelch it in your classroom. Picking on others is in the DNA of the grade-school set, and often it is not grown out of even in high school, even in adulthood. The seeds of meanness are sown early.
At one point ,while I was teaching pre-k, a snooty little five year old was practicing being a bully in my classroom. I called him on the carpet every time I heard and insult fly from his asshole-in-training mouth, and it was clear he was getting tired of it. One day this boy, sweetly said to me “Miss Becky?” And then, with all the I’m-the-Director’s-son-and-thusly-incorrigible attitude he could muster, proudly proclaimed, “You’re FAT!”
I looked down at his bespectacled grin and calmly said, “Yes, C*****, and you have blue eyes. What’s your point?” The smile ran away from his face and he looked confused. Wasn’t I supposed to be upset? Wasn’t I supposed to yell, or to cry? Why didn’t his words hurt me?
The truth is, they did.
As a result of bad genetics, permissive parenting, and growing up in the American South, I was a chubby kid, and am a chubby adult. I was actually very slim as a teen, but that was mostly due to Adderall and an eating disorder. This preschooler’s words jolted me back to my own grade-school existance and the constant taunts of my classmates. Still, I couldn't let on, and I refused to let this bully in the making have any satisfaction off of me. To keep my own pride intact, and more important, teach this kid something, I got down on his level, and stared him right through his coke bottle lenses. “Why would you say that, C*****? Were you trying to hurt my feelings?”He stared at the floor. I could tell he wanted to run away, but my authority figure status glued his Tom’s slip-ons to the floor. “Is it any fun when someone else hurts your feelings? What if a friend said your glasses look stupid” He pushed the lenses back up on his nose, without looking up.
“I wouldn’t like it” came his meek response.
“No, I bet you wouldn’t. Why do we try a little ‘treat our friends like we want to be treated’ for the rest of the day?” When he saw that a time-out wasn’t headed his way, he looked up, eyes brightening. “But, C*****, “ I asked. (I always say the kid’s name a lot when I’m trying to make a point) “What do we do when we hurt somebody’s feelings?”
“Say Sorry.” came his rote response. then he paused, as though trying to figure out if hurting a teacher’s feeling was a worse crime than hurting a friend’s, and if it would be repaired by the same phrase. He then quoted chapter and verse the lines I had taught all my students to recite when they are in the wrong. “I’m sorry I called you fat. Do you still want to play with me?” Knowing I had the right, like I had taught the kids, to say “no, I am still upset,” and walk away, I considered it, but I smiled as I stood up and ruffled his blonde curls.
“Sure, “C*****, let’s go play some Legos”
At one point ,while I was teaching pre-k, a snooty little five year old was practicing being a bully in my classroom. I called him on the carpet every time I heard and insult fly from his asshole-in-training mouth, and it was clear he was getting tired of it. One day this boy, sweetly said to me “Miss Becky?” And then, with all the I’m-the-Director’s-son-and-thusly-incorrigible attitude he could muster, proudly proclaimed, “You’re FAT!”
I looked down at his bespectacled grin and calmly said, “Yes, C*****, and you have blue eyes. What’s your point?” The smile ran away from his face and he looked confused. Wasn’t I supposed to be upset? Wasn’t I supposed to yell, or to cry? Why didn’t his words hurt me?
The truth is, they did.
As a result of bad genetics, permissive parenting, and growing up in the American South, I was a chubby kid, and am a chubby adult. I was actually very slim as a teen, but that was mostly due to Adderall and an eating disorder. This preschooler’s words jolted me back to my own grade-school existance and the constant taunts of my classmates. Still, I couldn't let on, and I refused to let this bully in the making have any satisfaction off of me. To keep my own pride intact, and more important, teach this kid something, I got down on his level, and stared him right through his coke bottle lenses. “Why would you say that, C*****? Were you trying to hurt my feelings?”He stared at the floor. I could tell he wanted to run away, but my authority figure status glued his Tom’s slip-ons to the floor. “Is it any fun when someone else hurts your feelings? What if a friend said your glasses look stupid” He pushed the lenses back up on his nose, without looking up.
“I wouldn’t like it” came his meek response.
“No, I bet you wouldn’t. Why do we try a little ‘treat our friends like we want to be treated’ for the rest of the day?” When he saw that a time-out wasn’t headed his way, he looked up, eyes brightening. “But, C*****, “ I asked. (I always say the kid’s name a lot when I’m trying to make a point) “What do we do when we hurt somebody’s feelings?”
“Say Sorry.” came his rote response. then he paused, as though trying to figure out if hurting a teacher’s feeling was a worse crime than hurting a friend’s, and if it would be repaired by the same phrase. He then quoted chapter and verse the lines I had taught all my students to recite when they are in the wrong. “I’m sorry I called you fat. Do you still want to play with me?” Knowing I had the right, like I had taught the kids, to say “no, I am still upset,” and walk away, I considered it, but I smiled as I stood up and ruffled his blonde curls.
“Sure, “C*****, let’s go play some Legos”
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