Learn Me Gooder

Flo B. Woodson



Date: Thursday, September 10, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: Another one bites the plus





Hey buddy,



Like I said, I’m amazed that this was the first time I’d had to send Lance to the clinic. FYI, I’m pretty sure I can’t just duct tape him to his seat to keep him out of harm’s way, as you suggested. Not everybody appreciates the full spectrum of uses for duct tape.

You’re right, Ron Philby would not qualify as a hemophiliac, but he definitely is a hair-o-philiac. And here I thought enough time had passed for people to forget that I didn’t start using hair gel until I had been at Heat Pumps for a few years, and that my first couple of attempts were less than smooth. Please inform Latya that my student, Chassany, merely stares at my hair. She doesn’t constantly point at it and shout, “There’s something about Mary!” like HE did.

Today, I just wanted to pull all of my hair out. My kids this year seem exceptionally low. Maybe I’m practicing selective amnesia and choosing to forget that I ALWAYS have this opinion in September, but I don’t think so. It feels awfully early for me to already be weighing the option of a career in online marketing.

I gave a math test today, and the subject was addition. There were several computation problems that allowed the kids to show (or disprove) their mastery of basic facts and regrouping (what we used to call carrying), a couple of word problems, and one short answer question.

There weren’t many issues with the computation problems, as these were pretty simple, and most of the kids understand regrouping when it comes to addition. Several kids are still counting on their fingers, but at least they are coming up with the right answers. Even Priya, who goes out of her way to be a time sink in class – she once stopped the class after I wrote 15 + 7 = ? to ask, “What are those two lines?” – understands regrouping and even got both word problems correct. (“Those two lines” were the equal sign, by the way.)

The word problems were very basic, and it was obvious that the entire test was over the topic of addition. Still, that didn’t stop Franco from subtracting on one of them, even though the question asked for a total. Two other students added numbers that weren’t even in the problem. That’s just sloppy.

Word problems, even simple ones, are always sticky with my kids because they either can’t, won’t, or don’t want to read them carefully. However, reading looks like their strong suit when you compare it to their writing.

The last question on the test was free response, and it said, “What is the math word that means ‘the answer to an addition problem?’”

Before the kids began the test, I talked about this question, hoping there wouldn’t be so much confusion. I told them that I just wanted ONE WORD that is the special math name for the answer we get when we add. This is a word that we have spoken nearly every day in class.

Out of both classes combined, I had 15 kids that wrote the correct word, “sum.”

Here are some of the wrong answers I received:



Add (so obvious, yet so wrong)

Math addition (as opposed to social studies addition?)

Altogether (a helpful clue word, but not the answer)

Forty thousand ninety three (only for a very specific addition problem)

OGO (guess who wrote THAT one!)

The plus sign (the ANSWER is not called the plus sign!!)

Mr. Woodson (kiss butt much?)

Shug you whorek (at first, I thought I had been insulted in Klingon, but then I realized Joaqim meant “show your work”)



Really, this is just laziness. As far as vocabulary words go, “sum” is certainly one of the easier ones. I can’t wait until we get into the subtraction words. Subtrahend and minuend – those sound like words straight out of a horror movie.

On an unrelated note, I just saw that I could be making $12,000 a month selling real estate from the comfort of my office chair. It’s something to consider.

Talk to you later,



Add ‘em Ant



Date: Monday, September 14, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: Identity Crisis





Hey bud,



That’s right, I called Priya a time sink. Heat sinks, which we are intimately familiar with, draw away heat from a source. Time sinks, like certain children I know, draw away valuable minutes from a lesson, dispersing them to the four winds, never to be reclaimed again. My time sinks are highly efficient, too!

Once again, it’s Monday, and as some people my parents’ age once sang – Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day. As opposed to Friday, which I would trust with my life, my banking password, and my vintage Star Wars action figure collection.

Still, the Mondays of this year, as well as most every day, have been made brighter by a certain ray of sunshine in my class. Her name is Katie, and she always seems to have a smile on her face. There have been several mornings when I have been ticked off well before 8:15 am – kids not having their homework, kids somehow needing to trade pencils ten times in ten minutes, kids insisting a triangle has four sides – and when I’ve walked around the room like a sourpuss. On these occasions, Katie always has a way of looking up from her morning work, catching my eye, flashing her brilliant smile, and then going right back to work.

After that, there’s just no way I can remain angry. At least not until Lakeisha opens her mouth again.

If Katie is the ray of sunshine, then the new kid I got today is the flashlight beam through murky water.

Ever since school started, I’ve been hearing about this new kid that I was supposed to get named Kevin. He’s a special ed kid, so Ms. Hamm and Miss Knox have been coordinating things and heralding his arrival.

First, it was, “Kev will be here on Thursday.” Then, “Kevin will be here next Tuesday.” Finally, “We’re really not sure why Kev isn’t here yet.”

At long last, Kevin showed up today. I saw the new kid in my line this morning, and I greeted him warmly with the name I had heard most often. “Hi! You must be Kev!”

DaQuayvius immediately corrected me – “It’s Kevin!”

I sometimes think DaQuayvius must have thirty fingers, because he seems to have a finger in everyone’s business. No doubt he knows Kevin’s entire life story after spending a mere twenty minutes with him in the gym.

I gave DaQuayvius a quick stink eye then asked the new boy, “What do you prefer to be called, Kevin or Kev?”

He mulled it over then answered, “Well, sometimes people call me Kevin, and some people call me Kev. But my real name is Anferny. My mom just likes how Kevin sounds.”

Not once had I heard the name “Anferny” mentioned in any discussions about this kid, so I had my suspicions. I asked him, “So what should I call you – Kevin or Kev?”

He replied, “Anferny.”

OK, we have a winner. For the next thirty minutes, I called him Anferny. “Anferny, do you have a pencil?” “Anferny, come and get a math journal.” “Did you learn how many cents are in a dollar at your old school, Anferny?”

At about half past eight, Miss Knox dropped by to see how the new kid was doing. When I told her about the name change, her mouth dropped, and she took “Anferny” out into the hallway to speak with him. A couple of minutes later, they came back into my classroom, and the little boy said to me with a sheepish grin, “You can call me Kev now.”

Oooooookay...

If this happens again tomorrow, I’m going to make an executive decision and start calling him Doofenshmirtz.

After helping “Kev” with his identity crisis this morning, it seemed a little anti-climactic that our after school staff meeting would be all about the Campus Crisis Plan. Back in mid-August, we were each given a document roughly the size of the Greater Chicago Area phone directory and told to memorize it. This document was the Crisis Plan, and in brief, it tells us what to do in the case that a crazed gunman or bomb-toting maniac wanders into our school. Basically, we lock the doors, pull the blinds, and cower beneath our desks. Oh, and we are also supposed to slide a special green laminated card under our door into the hallway, telling everyone that we are A-OK.

Not surprisingly, many of us were wondering just who was going to see that sign, if we were all locked in our rooms. Are we putting out the sign for the benefit of the maniac stalking the halls? If so, should it really be the green sign, or the red “All is NOT OK” card? Or do we slide out the green one, and then once the maniac starts trying to break down our door, slide out the red one – real subtle-like?

In order to test our new knowledge, we played a mock version of Jeopardy. Hopefully, I am not the only one who saw the irony in this.

Not that it’s a bad idea to have a crisis plan on hand. It might have been nice to have one at HPU that time the guy crashed his cocaine-laden SUV into the corner of our offices and then ran off into the sand pit next door. Though it was exciting for all of us to stand around on the delivery dock in back watching the police search the area with dogs and helicopters, I think that if there had been a crisis plan in place, you never would have dared me to rip my shirt off and run wildly across the parking lot. Of course, if I had taken your dare, I doubt I would be here writing you this email right now.

I might instead be trying to convince some scary person that my name really is Anferny as I subtly slide a red laminated card under the door.

See ya later,



Dan Jerzone



Date: Wednesday, September 16, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: Clothing arguments





Hey man,



Absolutely, I hope and pray that nothing of the sort ever happens here at my school. But there are whackjobs all around us, and it doesn’t hurt to be aware of such things. Just to clarify, though, the crisis plan is meant to deal with major incidents at the school. Antonio disappearing in the bathroom for half an hour, while challenging, doesn’t really qualify as a crisis.

A different type of problem is the clothing crisis I see going on around me. I had to ask Mrs. Fitzgerald today why she clearly has not yet had a discussion with her students about acceptable and unacceptable attire. One of her kids was wearing a sweatshirt today, and what bothered me wasn’t just the fact that he was wearing it outside, even though the temperature hasn’t dipped below 95 degrees yet. By now, I’m used to seeing kids run around the playground on a 100 degree day bundled up like they’re shoplifting from Burlington Coat Factory.

What irritated me was that this was a University of North Carolina sweatshirt.

I’ve never really understood why UNC gear is so universally popular. Maybe it’s because Michael Jordan went there? Or Vince Carter for the younger generation? I’m guessing it’s not for love of Ed Cota or Serge Zwikker. But whatever the reason, I used to see kids wearing UNC’s baby blue all the time before the district implemented a dress code.

Whenever I saw a child wearing UNC apparel, I said a silent prayer for the child’s soul, but I generally let it go at that. I don’t want to scar any kids’ psyches after all. I remember all too well a disturbing incident from when I was a child myself.

I’m originally from the Washington, DC area, and I was raised as a Redskins fan. When I was around seven years old, I was at a bowling alley here in Texas with my parents, proudly wearing my burgundy Redskins jacket. I remember this big guy, obviously a Cowboys fan, walking by and saying, “Hey kid! Com’ere and gimme that jacket so I can flush it down the toilet!”

If I had been five or six years older, I might have pointed out to him the finer points of fluid dynamics and plumbing, in order to make him aware that his proposed action was not completely practical. However, as a seven-year-old, I was too concerned with his size, the inherent threat of his slurred statement, and the odd aroma of old bread and raisins arising from his personage.

I’m not ever going to threaten to flush a kid’s sweatshirt. But I AM glad that I’m tempted far less often since the dress code was implemented this year. All elementary students now wear a white collared shirt and navy or tan slacks, shorts, or skirt. The white shirt looks nice in the morning but then winds up looking like a Twister mat after lunch, with Hot Cheeto stains, fruit juice spills, and nacho cheese flavor pockets.

At first, I didn’t really think a dress code was necessary. It’s certainly possible that having to wear identical outfits has narrowed the gap between the haves and the have-nots, but probably not, since there really aren’t many haves at my school. I don’t remember anyone flaunting their Versace, their Dolce and Gabbana, or even their LeTigre in the past.

I don’t recall any insults or arguments relating to clothing back then, either. I would have remembered hearing a child taunt a classmate with, “Ha! Your T-shirt is an unflattering shade of red!”

Maybe the problem was more rampant at other schools throughout the district, and that’s what necessitated the change.

Kids can still find ways to insult each other even within the confines of a dress code, though. When I was in elementary school, we had a uniform, and even though we were all wearing basically the same thing, I guess my pants were a little too short. The other kids called them “high waters.” I can still remember classmates pointing at me and jeering, “You expecting a flood?”

I should have just waited until I saw one of those kids wearing a T-shirt in February and retorted, “Oh yeah? You expecting unseasonably warm temperatures before Spring?”

Again, I’m not aware of these specific problems at my school. I will say, though, one great thing about having a dress code is that I don’t have to worry about my students coming in wearing sweatpants with the word, “Juicy” stitched across their rear end. I never understood why any parent would let their child go to school wearing something like that (why not save it for Grandma’s 80th birthday party?), but then I’m amazed by a lot that kids encounter at home, including their own parents’ personal dress code.

Miss Rooker, our school counselor, told me a story several years ago about a visit she made to a student’s home. The mother of the student answered the door wearing a T-shirt and flip-flops – and nothing else. The woman was not wearing anything from the waist down!

I told Miss Rooker that would have been the perfect time to use the phrase, “I find your lack of pants disturbing.”

But I ask you, how can a child NOT be majorly screwed up when there is such blatant “Porky Pigging” going on at home?

Having a dress code does create a brand new set of rules to enforce. Occasionally, kids have been sent home for being out of uniform, but that usually only happens if the principal spots it. Every once in a while, one of my kids will show up in a white T-shirt or non-regulation pants, but I’m not planning on sending anyone home for it. I’ve heard priests say that they’re not going to dismiss anyone from Mass for their clothing because they would rather have them there at church, regardless of wardrobe. I feel the same way about the kids and school. With a few notable exceptions, I’d rather have them in class than make them miss a day just because of their outfit.

My biggest challenge now is the rule that all students must have their shirts tucked in. Most kids think that a tucked-in shirt makes them look dorky, while I happen to feel that a kid wearing a shirt that goes down to his knees looks like he should be carrying a cleaver and a freshly cut slab of beef.

Quite often, when I ask a child to tuck his shirt in, he only tucks it in in the front, leaving the back and sides hanging out. THAT doesn’t look dorky?

The Battle of the Tuck is an uphill struggle because somehow these shirts always manage to untuck themselves about five minutes after being tucked in. Last week, I made up a couple of names to go with the shirt status. A kid with his shirttail out is now “Slobby McSlopslop,” while one with his shirttail in is “Spiffy McNeato.” I can go down the line in my class and say, “Hi, Spiffy!” or, “Hey, Slobby!” and the kids know exactly what I’m talking about.

Truth be told, I can’t say that this has caused the kids to tuck in their shirts any more than they did before. But it does add a little humor to the situation, and the children laugh as they tuck their shirts in (and then untuck them as soon as my back is turned). Now I just have to deal with the Talky McBlabbermouths, the Snitchy McTattletales, and the Burpy McFlatulents.

Later,



The Shirttail Vigilante



Date: Friday, September 18, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: Mutual Mastication





Hey bud,



I really don’t see how you can say you don’t understand my gag-factor with Carolina blue. You know how Carol’s cubicle is all decorated in Aggie swag (Swaggie?), and how she always wears maroon tops? You know how that always annoys you because you don’t like A&M? Yeah, that’s it exactly.

Oh, and if you could get a picture of Larry wearing “Juicy” sweatpants, I would pay good money for that. The Photoshop possibilities are virtually limitless.

This morning, I was checking the backs of the kids’ homeworks to make sure they had shown their work. We’ve been doing place value charts – ones, tens, hundreds – for every problem. Most of the kids had done this as they were supposed to. “Most” unfortunately would not include Franco.

Glancing at the back of his paper, I saw no work whatsoever. Before I could even ask him where his place value charts were, he excitedly pronounced, “I did it a different way!”

He was really proud of himself, too, as if he had just discovered particle theory on his own.

I might not have been as gentle as I could have been when I pointed out to him that merely filling in an answer bubble was not really considered a “way,” per se.

I did teach the kids “the way” to do a science experiment this week. We did a project called the Bubble Gum Lab, and we finished it today. In addition to the fact that it was listed on our curriculum planning guide, I thought it was important to conduct this experiment because of this question that popped up on last year’s science benchmark test:



“Mrs. Cassidy’s class was conducting a bubble gum experiment. They wanted to see what would happen to the mass of a piece of bubble gum when it is chewed. What is the best hypothesis for this experiment?

A) the mass of the bubble gum will increase.

B) the mass of the bubble gum will decrease.

C) the mass of the bubble gum will stay the same.

D) the mass of the bubble gum will change color.”



I might not have gotten the wording of the question exactly right, but it did basically boil down to, “Which of these is the best hypothesis?”

Now, help me out here, buddy – check my science – but I’m pretty sure that when it comes to hypotheses, there are no better or worse. A hypothesis is merely a prediction that you hope to prove or disprove over the course of your experiment. If you already knew what was going to happen, you wouldn’t be making a hypothesis – you would be stating a conclusion or a fact.

For example, “Five kids will ask to use the restroom within the next 20 minutes” – hypothesis.

“Chicks dig calculator watches” – fact.

So tell me if you disagree, but it seems to me that this is a horrendous question. Since I am merely a commonplace third grade teacher (i.e., lowly peon), no one who actually writes these tests listens or responds when I bring this up.

Therefore, I decided that my kids should definitely have the experience and know the conclusion, just in case this awful question rears its head once again on this year’s benchmark. Teaching to the test? Absolutely guilty. At least the kids got some hands-on experience, though.

Yesterday, we wrote out all of the introductory sections – Problem, Hypothesis, Materials, and Procedure. The hypothesis was, “I think that the mass of the bubble gum will _____________ when it is chewed.” I wrote the four choices on the board and let each kid fill in the blank with his or her own opinion.

Thankfully, no one chose “change color.” When I took a quick poll in each class, the other three options all had takers, and there was no overwhelming favorite.

Today, we carried out the experiment. I’m sure that the intention of the original writers of this lab was to have each individual child weigh their unchewed piece of gum, then again weigh their piece of gum after each minute of chewing. I calculated that if we did it that way, it would take us roughly 217,089 minutes of class time. Figuring we didn’t really have that much time, I decided that all of the kids would be able to do the chewing part, but that everyone could watch as I weighed MY piece of gum each time.

When I pulled the packs of Orbitz gum out of my desk and started to unwrap them, several kids called out, “What flavor did you get?”

I replied, “Lemon-lime,” and suddenly there was a unified chorus of gasps and cheers.

You would have thought that I had just parachuted out of a helicopter and into the classroom, holding a ginormous bag of cash in one hand and a dragon’s egg in the other.

I had somebody pass out a piece of gum to everyone while I set up the balance on a table in the front of the classroom. The first step of our procedure was to unwrap the piece of gum, so we all did that, and no less than eight kids in each class held the wrapper up to their noses, inhaled deeply, and then shuddered with satisfaction. I know it sounds vulgar, but it really did remind me of Booger from Revenge of the Nerds, sniffing a pair of unmentionables after the panty raid on the girls’ dormitory.

Moving on from that disturbing image, the kids held onto their gum while I weighed my piece on the balance in front of them. I called out the measurement, and everybody wrote the number down in the Results table in their science journals. Then we started chewing. We used the red second hand on the wall clock to chew for exactly one minute. At the end of one minute, everyone took the piece back out of their mouth, and the kids held their own pieces of gum while I weighed mine.

During this time, many of the kids commented on the flavor of the gum. There was one or two comments along the lines of, “Thanks, Mr. Woodson – this gum tastes great!” But most of the comments were more like, “This tastes SOOOOOOO good!” – spoken in a tone of voice that I would more commonly relate to a nicotine addict who, having involuntarily gone an entire weekend without access to his smokes, has just taken his first drag.

After the first minute, we chewed for another minute and weighed again. Chew, weigh, record. Chew, weigh, record. Lather, rinse, repeat. We did this until we had officially chewed the gum for five minutes. At the end of it all, the results were clear-cut. The mass of the gum had decreased by about half of its original mass.

This lead to cheers and taunting from the kids who had chosen that as their hypothesis. Meanwhile, the kids who had chosen another option either cried or secretly changed their journal entry so they could join in the cheering.

With my morning class, I let the kids continue to chew their gum until it was time to switch to Mrs. Bird’s class. Then I held the trash can for them to spit out their gum as they filed past me out the door. However, my afternoon class finished the experiment at about 2:55, so there was a mad rush to get everything ready to go home, and I forgot to have them spit out their gum before they left.

As we were walking down the hall to go outside, Coach Keys, our PE teacher, noticed and asked one of the kids, “So they’re letting you chew gum now?”

I heard him and replied, “Yeah, it’s for science.”

As if that was the world’s greatest blanket explanation for everything.

If my kids picked up on that, I can imagine hearing about this conversation next week:



Teacher: “Did you just spit water on him and throw his pudding across the room?”

Student X: “Yeah, it’s for science.”

Teacher: “Oh, OK then. Carry on.”



Have a great weekend, man. Do a little science. Chew a little gum. Get down tonight. Get down tonight.

Have a good one,



Forest Gum



Date: Tuesday, September 22, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: New Kids on the Clock





Hey Fred,



I would not recommend using the “It’s for science” argument to explain a poor heat pump design at a production meeting. Paul and Reggie are both way more “science” than you or I could ever hope to be, so that phrase might come across as something close to blasphemy.

Thanks for telling me that Steve Potts is having surgery tomorrow. I’ll be sure to keep my old boss in my prayers. If you see him today, tell him it’s okay to have his appendix removed, and maybe even his index, but nobody better lay a hand on his glossary.

Now that a few weeks have passed, I’ve had more of a chance to get to know my kids and their quirks.

There’s a boy named Eddie in my morning class that I may as well call Simon. This is because if I ever want him to do anything, I have to actually address him by name. If I don’t, it’s like he doesn’t even hear me.

So I find myself forced to play Simon Says. If I say to the class, “Boys and girls, please take out your science books,” then nearly everyone will take out their science books, EXCEPT for Eddie. He’ll just sit there at his desk, totally oblivious to the actions going on around him.

However, if I say, “Eddie, please take out your science book,” THEN he’ll immediately do as he’s asked.

He’s very consistent about this. It’s not a once or twice occurrence. So I’ve started making requests in the following manner.



“Eddie, and everyone else, please take out your science books.”

“Eddie, and boys and girls, please stop writing, and take out something to grade with.”

“Be sure to tuck your shirt in all the way around, Eddie – and everyone else.”



Another little boy, Amir, is very friendly and intelligent, but he has some pretty odd characteristics. For one thing, he doesn’t like to touch paper. I’m not just saying this as something I’ve observed. Amir actually told me that he can’t stand the way paper feels, and it makes him want to throw up sometimes.

Remind me to look into printing up my homework on lambskin.

Amir works around this obstacle pretty well. He WILL occasionally touch paper (and really, in this environment, how could he not?), but for the most part, he uses a couple of pencils like tweezers or chopsticks to move the paper where he wants it on his desk. Then as he’s writing, he doesn’t touch that paper again. It’s oddly fascinating to watch, but it explains why I can barely read what he writes.

Oh, and did I mention that he also carries a wet stick in his backpack?

Franco, the discoverer of a DIFFERENT way to do his homework (one that involved no work whatsoever), has another quirk. When called upon, he begins many of his answers with a chipmunk-quick, “Oh yeah, what’s it called?” Just today, I asked him if 37 was odd or even. “Odd!” he shouted.

“Why is it odd?” I persisted.

“Oh yeah, what’s it called, cuz the 7 doesn’t have a partner?”

Then there’s Big Jack. He and I share a name and a gender, but not much else. He lives up to his nickname in that he’s about 4’10”, which is big for a third grader. Also, he weighs around 150 lbs.

Big Jack has some Big ADHD. He is distracted by the merest thing, sometimes just the twitching of an ant’s legs in the front office. To him, pencils are rocket ships, meant to blast off (loudly) and fly around and often crash into each other. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he drinks three Red Bulls for breakfast every day, because he fidgets non-stop, and he throws out rapid-fire questions. He’s always asking me if I like to perform various actions.



“Mr. Woodson, do you like to go bowling?”

“Mr. Woodson, do you like to go swimming?”

“Mr. Woodson, do you like to go Porky Pigging?”



I wouldn’t mind so much, if he didn’t ask these questions in the middle of class. I usually just respond, “I really like teaching and being listened to.”

Also, I can expect to be asked, “Did I do good?” at least once a day from Big Jack. It doesn’t matter whether he buckled down and focused (as much as he’s able) or whether he floated breezily through Shiny Object Land, he never leaves without asking, “Mr. Woodson, did I do good today?”

I visited Mrs. Bird’s room this morning to ask her something, and Big Jack had just contributed a verb to the list on the board. As he walked back to his seat, I was not at all surprised to hear him ask, “Did I do good, Mrs. Bird?”

I was tempted to say, “Eddie – and everyone else – please tell Big Jack that he did good.”

Later,



Joe Kerse



Date: Friday, September 25, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: Wine us, dine us, learn to minus





Hey bud,



How did I know that it would be Nancy who asked about the stick? Her skills as a customer service representative demand that she gets all the details.

I certainly can’t explain WHY Amir carries a wet stick in his backpack, or even why it has to be wet. I can only tell you that it is about ten inches long, with a fork at one end. Maybe it’s a dowsing rod, in case he needs to find the nearest water fountain? His mother advised me not to ask him about it when she dropped him off one morning. As long as it stays in the backpack, I’m honoring her request.

I think it’s hilarious that you and Tiffany are going to start asking Larry, “Did I do good?” every time you give him a project update. I totally support that. Be sure to ignore him every time he doesn’t address you by name as well.

It’s nice that you’re having fun at work, but once again, I am feeling majorly frustrated with these kids. There are a few very enthusiastic kids in my class, like Jessie and Jacob, but overall, the kids are really low, and they don’t seem to care about improving that condition.

I’ve always understood (while simultaneously despising the fact) that a kid’s brain over summer vacation is like a beach ball with a slow leak. They always come back acting like they’ve never heard of concepts like symmetry and perimeter. But what frustrates me most about this year is that my kids don’t even know their basic facts. When most of the class needs to stop and count on their fingers for a question like “10 minus 9,” I start to get worried!

Still, I prefer the counting on fingers to the random guessing. The kids this year are low on knowledge but high on competitiveness, and in their minds, being first completely outweighs being right.

For instance, last Wednesday in my afternoon class, I asked, “What is 8 minus 6?”

There was a low collective, “ummmmmmmmmm” for about a second, and then the wild guessing began.

“SIX!”

“THREE!”

“EIGHT!”

“GREEN!”

OK, so no one said, “green.” Thankfully. And Tyler DID shout out the right answer amidst all the others. But this was not a difficult question!

Regrouping, or borrowing, on the other hand is not an issue for them – since most of them don’t do it!

“What is 12 minus 8?” I ask.

“SIXTEEN!!” the kids shout, as the high fives begin and the party favors get passed out.

Never mind that this is a totally unreasonable answer, since 16 is larger than the number they started with. 104 minus 98 apparently equals 194, 23 minus 7 is 24, and 200 minus 89 is, naturally, 289.

Even a lot of the high kids missed the problems that required borrowing on the pre-test I gave Monday. This is something they should have mastered in second grade, and it should be a quick review this year. Instead, I find myself having to teach it from scratch.

My Sir Mixalot approach to subtraction – “I like Big Bottoms with a Tiny Top!” – which worked fantastically last year, just has not stuck with the kids this year.

Recently, a teacher at another school passed on a little rhyme to me, so I’ve been giving that a try. It’s a mantra that goes, “If there’s more on the top, no need to stop. If there’s more on the floor, let’s go next door and get ten more. If the numbers are the same, then zero is the game.”

I thought it was super cheesy when I first heard it, but when I recited it in front of the class on Tuesday, the kids loved it! It really seems to be sticking, too, because more of them are remembering more frequently to regroup. Getting them to actually recite the rhyme has been a little bit more of a challenge, though. When I try to get them to explain why they need to regroup, I’ve heard a few mishmashes like, “If there’s more on the bottom, let’s go next door. And get another ten!”

I should make a note to ask Mrs. Bird to work on what makes a rhyme.

Still, they are slowly beginning to get the concept, and that is making a world of difference. Now if I could just get them to learn the WORD difference.

Remember that free response question on the addition test? Since it went over so well then, coupled with the fact that I’m a glutton for punishment, I put a similar question on today’s test. “What is the math word that means, ‘the answer to a subtraction problem?’”

Thirteen kids wrote, “Sum.”

I think I would have been happier if they had written “GREEN.” Culinary school is starting to look better and better. Just saying.

Talk to you later,



Tay Quay



Date: Thursday, October 1, 2009





To: Fred Bommerson



From: Jack Woodson



Subject: All I really need to know I learned from fast food





Hey Fred,



Tom Winter sent me a note on Monday with a slightly modified version of my subtraction rhyme. I’m not sure if he’s shared it with you yet, so here it is:



“He’s got more on the top, so his gut will flop. If he’s down on the floor, he’ll continue to snore, and get mocked some more. If zero is his game, then Bommerson is the name.”