Not a murder in the night

My youngest came downstairs to get ready for school, and she was covered in blood.  It was wiped across her forehead and cheek, crusted on her nose, and splotched and splattered all down the front of her shirt.  It was all over her hands and under her fingernails.  It seriously looked like there had been a murder in the night.  I said, “What happened?!”

She said, “Nothing, I just got up.”

I said,  “Uh- are you okay?”
She said, “Yeah, why?”

I said, “Well, you’ve got something on your shirt.”

She looked at her shirt and said, “Huh.”

Like waking up covered in blood is totally normal.

I told her to go wash her face and hands.

I said, “Well, let's change you out of that shirt.”  While I got her dressed for school, she had put her “Long Cat” down. Long Cat is a long - well- cat.  It’s about 3 feet long and it is a nice soft fabric and cylindrical pillow form. After she was dressed, I handed Long Cat back, and she noticed that he, too, had blood spots, and she said, “Oh man!  Long Cat has blood on him!” 

Clearly, waking up inexplicably covered in blood oneself is perfectly acceptable, but getting a few spots on Long Cat- NOT OK!

I said, “How do you think you got all this blood on your shirt and Long Cat?”
She said, “I don’t know!” Not at all concerted about the situation, but lasar focused on the fate of Long Cat.

I said, “Well, I think you must have had a bloody nose in the night, so get some tissue and blow to make sure there’s not more up there.”

"But Long Cat!"

"Okay, go put him and your shirt in the laundry; I'll try to get all the blood out."

Adventures with Fart Face

 Here’s a little story from yesterday-

My middle daughter wants a doll called a Fuggler.  It is as ugly as it sounds.  They come in all different designs of ugly- she showed me three designs she would be pleased with.  So- I went fuggler hunting yesterday.  I went to two Five Belows and Walmart. The first Five Below was a bust.  Walmart had some fugglers, but not the exact ones she had pointed out.  I considered it for a while, and since one of them was somewhat similar, and its name was “Fart Face,” I thought maybe this would be a good alternative.  I threw it in the cart. 

The toy section is in the back of the store, so as I walked all the way to the front to check out, I kept hearing some strange noises.  It was pretty consistent and seemingly loud since I could hear it over the music in my earbuds.  I stopped pushing my wonky-wheeled cart to take my earbud out and listen for the strange noise.  It turned out to be a steady stream of fart noises coming from my cart- coming- more specifically from “Fart Face.” 

I didn’t know why Fart Face was farting, but I guessed he was motion-activated and the wonky wheel going round- and bumpity-round was triggering for him.  What could I do, though?  Farters gotta fart. 

So I put my earbuds back in and continued on.  I needed some  milk, so all through the dairy aisle I could tell other people could hear it and were doing their best to NOT LOOK at me.  I wondered if I buried him under my other purchases if it would muffle him- but then I wondered if it would be even worse if they couldn’t see the ugly fart-face doll to know it wasn’t me! 

My face and my butt got tighter and tighter as I made my way to the front of the store, all the time thinking that my crazy kid better appreciate this.  I got to the front and threw that little turd on the belt and said, “This thing has been farting all through the store!”  The cashier looked at it and said, “Oh yeah- Fart Face, that’s a good one.”  

Ugh

Dear Kerrie, do you remember?

 September 17, 2025

Dear Kerrie,

Do you remember going to the recreation center to go swimming when you were little?  We were like 6 or 7.  I don’t know what happened in your family, but my mom would drop me and my brother off and say, “Watch your little sister, and don’t drown.  I’ll pick you up at 6:00, be out front.”  Then we would go into the building, and my brother would say, “Don’t drown, get out of the pool at 5:30, I’ll meet you out front.” And I was on my own for the rest of the afternoon.  Just little-ole-6-year-old-me with a bunch of strangers in a giant public pool.  I would monkey crawl around the edges, I’d stand on my hands in the shallows, I’d jump off the diving board in the deep end, and doggie paddle over to the ladder.  I’d push myself off the side wall and see how far I could swim underwater before coming up for a breath- but then one time you came up to me and said, “Hey, Shannon.”

I said, “Hi!”

You said, “You want to play?”

And I said, “Yeah!”

And we talked about all the things!  

We talked about our first-grade teacher- I don’t remember her name, but how she used to walk around with a metal-barreled permanent marker and whack us on our heads if we weren’t behaving appropriately.  We remembered that boy who had peed his pants in class- and how the pee got all over the floor.  

I moved to Gill Village that summer before second grade.  I started going to First District Elementary School.  I met and played with all the Jones ’ sisters and cousins.   My second-grade teacher’s name started with an ‘H,’ it was hard to spell, as were her ridiculous spelling words- how is a second grader supposed to remember how to spell “ornament?”  :) Apparently, I was not as “Hooked on Phonics” as I was supposed to be by that time in my academic career. She sent me off to a special reading class with Mr. Miller, who was a nice man, but I resented being in the “special reading class.” My only recourse was to get up to level in reading, then surpass the required level, and spend the rest of my public school education with an above-average reading level. Nobody cared, especially Mrs. Habakkuk, or whoever she was.  

My most magical teacher was Mrs. Richmond in third grade.  She must have been near retirement by the time I met her.  She had salt-and-pepper hair and orthopedic shoes, but she rivaled Mrs. Frizzle in my opinion. She took us everywhere- and some places twice.  We walked around town like we owned the streets (always with a buddy.)  That was probably the year Justin decided he liked me- (liked-liked me) and I was not down for it. I wonder what became of him.   

When did you move to Gill Village?  Was it in fourth grade?  My homeroom teacher was pregnant, but she thought we didn’t notice, like we didn’t know where babies came from.  She didn’t know where WE came from.  I don’t remember the rest of the year with the substitute, but who could forget Mrs. Moon?  She was a character from Scooby-Doo.  She seemed to be well past retirement with silver hair, and a skeletal frame.  Her shrill voice calling us to attention and her exaggerated gestures are etched in my mind. Was that the year we watched “Tron” in class?  I hated it.  Is that the year we read “Old Yeller?”  I also hated it.

I don’t remember much from fifth grade. Was that the year we were in class together?  There were two Shannons and two Carrie/Kerries.  One time the teacher was surprised I couldn’t hear the difference in pronunciation between Kerrie and Carrie.  I thought she was Crazy. Remember how we used to walk to the Friends of Youth building after school? It was down by the Jr. High behind Diamond Park.  We would go bowling once a week and then to Friday night movies. They tried to keep us in line- but everyone knew about those Gill Village kids.                                 

Do you remember all the winter days we spent on the kitchen floor playing jax? Do you remember our brothers being friends, so whatever house they went to- we went to the other house?  Can you even imagine how many hours we spent connected to our corded phones gossiping the news of all 10-12 year olds in small towns?  Girl, we wore out the pavement running between your lot and my lot. RUNNING, because who knows what was in those (very thin) woods just behind the fence.  

Whatever was in those woods did not bother us in the least when we were together, in the daytime because how much trouble would we be in if our moms knew how many hours we spent in the woods exploring and picking berries?  Do you remember the F*CK Rock in the woods just behind the park shed?  I remember that there was a sweet little wild blueberry bush growing near it.  That bush was probably stunted by spray paint and insinuation.

In sixth grade, we wore stirrup pants and roll-on lip gloss.  Remember how we would bite the rollerball casing so that the gloss would practically pour out onto our lips?   I’m sure we blinded our teachers under those fluorescent light bulbs. 

When we started seventh grade, we were grown, weren’t we?  We rode the bus with the high schoolers.  Did you ride the bus with me?  I remember watching a guy smoke a joint as he walked up

to the bus.  Then, even though there were plenty of empty seats, he’d sit next to me, and I would wonder if I could get high from secondhand smoke or if I was going to smell like weed for the rest of the day. Girl, where were you on those days?  I know you rode the bus with me sometimes, because I remember getting off the bus and immediately scanning the courtyard for Josh Estes.  (Josh Estes, the recipient of our mad love in 7th grade, do you remember? and how we terrorized him with our prank calls?) Scanning the courtyard became much easier when I got my first pair of glasses that winter.  

We had one class together in 7th grade.  It was a reading class, and it was only for one semester.  That was probably good for us because I remember we drove the teacher crazy.  I got so many detentions from that teacher (because we were talking or not paying attention) that my mother wrote a note to the teacher to tell her to find another way to punish me because she was tired of having to go pick me up after detention. In the fall of 1987, we listened to “Faith” by George Michael on the radio, and we were hooked.  George Michael was everything, and I would sit on the floor in my room with my tape recorder and my radio trying to catch his songs to record. 

In the summer of 1988, I moved away- and soon we were teens- no longer with little girl gossip and problems, but more sophisticated and unrelenting gossip and problems.  We grew up and made allies and friends, we had boyfriends, and adventures, jobs, careers, husbands, children, and watched our girls go through the same things on a different, more dramatic set.  Now we are grown; now we are old. How did that happen?  Were we in seventh grade just a few years ago?

We were the children of the 1980s.  We didn’t laugh at the kids who couldn’t afford the next best thing- because we were those kids.  We didn’t let those kids laugh at us either.  We got our free lunches at school, and accepted the  label “one of those Gill Village kids.” It was like a badge of shame and honor and a threat all at the same time.  We should have had T-shirts made. 

The "Great" Salt Lake

 I had done a lot of research about The Great Salt Lake.  I was kind of looking at it like my substitute Dead Sea.  I would like to go to the Dead Sea, but with the current political climate and my current economic deficiencies, chances look slim.  But the Great Salt Lake?  That was do-able.  It is like our own continental Dead Sea.  

Only two animals live in The Great Salt Lake.  Salt flies and brine shrimp (aka sea monkeys) are the only two creatures you will find in the water, but there are many birds and other creatures around the area.  I wanted to get in the water- so I researched the best place to get in.  The clear answer was Bridger Bay Beach on Antelope Island State Park.  According to my research, the salt flies could get pretty bothersome, but the place to go to avoid them was Bridger Bay Beach- and the beach has restrooms with showers for when you are finished with the salty water.  

It was a perfect plan.  I had elected to skip other interesting things in favor of this plan.  I had also considered going into Salt Lake City for a look around- or going up to the north arm of the lake to see the salt formations and the potentially pink water- but no- this was the plan- take a little float in the Great Salt Lake, play on the beach for a while and be on our way.

There were signs.

I did not understand the signs.

On the way into the park:

One sign said, “No water at park facilities.”  

One sign said, “No refunds for weather or insects.”  

I even scoffed at the second one- “Duh- like I should get my money back because there is weather and insects in nature!  Ha!”

We drove up to the beach.  The water was far- far away from the parking lot and the facilities.  

No problem.

“I’m going to change in the restroom,” on the way to the restroom I pointed out a lizard to the person behind me, whom I thought was my daughter, but was in fact a stranger who rather uncomfortably said, “Um- yeah there is a lizard.” Then scooted past me like I was going to throw the lizard at her.  Other than the lizard woman who was not my daughter the place is completely deserted.  There is not a soul in sight on the beach, in the parking lot- nobody nowhere (that should have been another sign)

The restroom was locked.  “No water at park facilities.”

It was fine, fine- I saw the sign- fine-  we changed in the trailer.  When D took off his sock he pulled a scab off and it started bleeding.  He put a blob of vaseline on it so the salt water wouldn’t sting it.  (This becomes important later) Everyone was excited, and they started walking to the water.  I gathered up bottles of water for everyone and towels for me and the youngest girl, and she and I followed the others.  

Do you remember when you used to play 'The Floor Is Lava'?  The sand was lava-but for real this time- sandy, blistering hot on our feet and getting into our shoes with every step lava- and even though I had seen that the water was pretty far out there- I at that point realized that it was farther than really far- it was really really- ridiculously far.  So we’re walking, our feet are blistering, the sun is lava, the sand is lava I’m dragging the 7 year old who is having a breakdown about the lava sand in her shoes-  and I’m watching the husband and the other two children draw closer to the water.  The middle girl was the most excited and the most adventurous so she got there first.  

Curiously, she didn’t get in the water.  She paced back and forth along the shore for a while.  Then the hubby and the oldest girl get here.  I still have a football field of lava sand to go- I saw them start flailing and swatting -and they all started running away from the water.  So I stopped and said to the little girl, “Something is terribly wrong.”  I pulled a bottle of water out of my bag.  The oldest one runs toward me at full speed  yelling “They are everywhere!  There are millions of them!  I hate it!”  I hand her a bottle of water as she runs past me.  The second one runs up to me and yells “Don’t touch the water!  Are they following me?!” I handed her a bottle of water as she ran by.  My husband runs up to me and says, “It’s terrible!” I hand him a bottle of water.  He says, “There are millions of flies on the water. You can’t even see the water because it is black with flies!”  I said to the little one, “I don’t think we are going swimming here.” and I hand her a water- she starts trugging back to the parking lot through the lava sand.

I said, “I came here to get in the Great Salt Lake, and I’m going to touch it!”  My husband says, “Good luck.”  I take my water bottle, my towel and my phone and walk up to the shore.  As I got closer the cloud of tiny gnat size flies got denser.  As I got up to the water I saw what all the commotion was about.  The number of flies on the water was like a biblical plague.  The water was black from the place it touches the sand to about a foot out, then you could see through the blackness, but just in spots.  There were tiny salt flies everywhere and they started sticking to my sweaty arms and legs as I stood there deliberating what should happen next.  I mean- I was there I came to touch the Great Salt Lake, but the Great Salt Lake was DISGUSTING!  There were also biting horseflies, so I had to make a choice- and quickly- so I went up to the water and I stepped my right foot into the blackness of flies and the water felt warm and fetid as my foot sank into the black plauge and I wanted to gag when I pulled my foot out and it was completely covered in tiny black flies.  I poured half of my water bottle on my foot to get the flies off and I started the wild flailing and swatting dance just like the others because I felt like I was in a low-budget, poorly written horror movie.  I started walking back and I saw my hubby had stayed in the same spot, a football field away from the infestation.  I thought to myself I should document this horrid situation.  So I pulled out my phone to take a picture of the plagued lake and then of how far away I still was from the parking lot.  The biting flies were biting and the tiny flies are still getting stuck to my sweaty arms and legs and neck and face again, so I hurried back to my husband.  We started walking back to the parking lot.  Back through the deep sand, through the weeds, through the packed sand, through more deep lava sand- when we got closer, we saw and heard the little one had not made it back to the parking lot.  She had wandered off course and was just standing in the lava sand screaming.  

The other two are standing in the shade of the trailer on the pavement looking at their little sister screaming and melting and D and I were too far away to be of any help. We start yelling “Keep going!”  She yelled back, “I can’t! It’s too hot!”  It was true, it was too hot- we were all fabout to burst into flames. We all kept yelling at each other and finally she made  it to the parking lot- still crying and screaming.  D remotely started the truck, and we all got in to try to cool down for a minute.  I looked at my children- everyone looked like a walking heat stroke.  I considered going back to the trailer to change clothes, but I also had an overwhelming urge to escape the island. (Which, by the way isn’t even an island anymore.  The water has receded so much that it’s a peninsula now- and that is why the beach is so far away too!)

That weather and insects sign mades so much sense at that time.  

D looked at the Vasiline on his leg and there are about 100 tiny flies stuck to it.  That sort of sums up the experience.  100 flies in a ¼ inch circle of Vaseline.

We stopped at a Walmart on the way out of Salt Lake City and I bought an ironic Tshirt that says, “Refresh your Soul at the Lake. Great Salt Lake, UT”  

Later that evening I said, “I took some pictures,” but when I looked for them there aren’t any.  I guess I was so disturbed in the moment that I thought I took some pictures, but I didn’t.  He said, “I took a video.”  So he showed it to me and it is just me walking up to the water then walking back.  Then I say, what were you saying in that video?  And he was like “Oh, I don’t know I guess I was just talking to myself.”  So we turned up the volume and it is the most hilarious thing- he whispering things like, “There she goes, she's going to do something none of us were willing to do, she’s going to touch the water- She did it!  That’s why I married her.” Then the camera starts jerking around wildly and he mutters, “stupid flies!” and it goes black.  

Someone asked my oldest daughter how The Great Salt Lake was and she said, “We don’t talk about The Great Salt Lake!”  She did,
however, show me the blisters on her toes from the hot sand.  

I told my aunt we went to The Great Salt Lake, but it was not great.  She asked if it wasn’t great or if it was terrible.  I let her know it was terrible, horrible, no good, very bad.  

Core memories baby!

-10/10 do not recommend

Let's try something different

I have decided not to renew my contract for my current position. After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that when you have a job that makes you feel sick to your stomach every day—even in the less stressful part of the day—you need to look for a new job.

I'm not sure what is next.  For sure a different school, a different position, maybe a different district or certification.  Maybe I'll stop teaching all together- maybe I'll substitute for a while just to see what's next.

Just now like every other teacher- I'm just surviving- not thriving.

Yesterday I wrote what I wanted to say in a resignation letter.  Then I asked ChatGPT what it thought.  ChatGPT said, "Slow your roll, keep it classy, take out that whole middle part."  (I'm paraphrasing)  So I did, and I sent my letter, and I felt a little sad, but there is more to be seen.

Nude

 I have a student who occasionally wears a nude color body suit/camisole, which seemed to be intended to be underwear, but what do I know, I'm OLD. Every time she wears it, it kind of freaks me out. Each time I look at her like, "Ah! Where are your clothes?!"  

One day, while driving into school, I saw a girl walking around wearing flesh-colored pants.  I thought, "People should NEVER wear pants that even remotely match their skin tones."  (I had a supervisor once, who had a pair of questionably colored pants that sent me into a tizzy each time he wore them.) As I got closer to the walker, I came to a horrifying realization that she was not wearing flesh colored pants.  Even worse- she wasn't wearing pants at all.  

It took just a second to process this information, but I came to the conclusion that she PROBABLY was wearing shorts, short-shorts which were hidden by an oversized sweatshirt. 

This week my 7th grader was invited to an awards ceremony.  Her peers decided it was a dress up occasion.  Their parents were in attendance- so presumably approved of all of the outfits. Several girls were wearing short, spaghetti strap, white summer dresses.  One of the dresses necklines dipped down fully as low as a triangle bikini top.

In fact I believe it was this very dress. On a 13 year old. At a school event. 

Being old does cause judginess I guess.

Chat Gpt fun and games

 I have been having way too much fun with Chatgpt.  It started with the fact that I had to write a letter to parents about the state requirements of testing and tutoring.  It was a form letter because all the kids needed one- so I asked Chatgpt to help me out and it was awesome.  Then I started planning a vacation and Chatgpt knew all the answers.  Then I started making an activity book for the kids while we travel, and although I found a bunch of free resources online, some things that I wanted were not showing up in the freebie- so I asked Chatgpt- "Hey can you give me an information and coloring sheet about brineshrimp in the Great Salt Lake?"  Chatgpt was happy to give it a go.  There have been a few quirks, like that time I asked it to provide a drawing tutorial for a llama, and it did. Then I asked it to give me a drawing tutorial for a ladybug- and it started with a ladybug head and went on to a llama body . . .What kind of unholy monstrosity ...

Yesterday I thought I'd make some school specific coloring sheets for teacher appreciation week.  My campus is known in the district for is multigenerational racoon "problem."  I mean at this point we've kind of embraced them.  I have not seen any in the building- but many stories have I heard about the misadventures of our trash-panda population.  

Sometimes (so I hear) the raccoons are walking around on the beams in the ceiling and they fall off (poor little fellas.) If they are very clumsy, they just come crashing through the ceiling tiles- and you know freak everyone the heck out.  If they are more dexterous, just one little paw slips off the beam and pops through the ceiling tile.  However, when that happens, you still end up with a hole in your ceiling (and a cute little fuzzy paw waving at you), and- usually it scares the raccoon and they pee- so then you also have a wet spot- which is much less cute.

All this to say, I thought a raccoon would be a fine representative. Then I thought, "What other animal represents us?  A roach? I know! A rat.  So I had Chat Gpt make an image of a raccoon hugging a rat with the school slogan.  Then I thought- I better not circulate that- Even though it is stinking cute- I get in enough trouble as it is- without rat propaganda about the campus. 

death by pickle

 I was at work today eating pickles with zest-too zestily it seems.  I suddenly realized there was a pickle bit in my windpipe- where pickle bits decidedly do not belong.  I started coughing and sputtering, which led to choking- when I started thinking- This is not how one wants to go- behind a desk, on a high school floor- with a pickle bit in her throat. 

I stood up and spit out the other pickle bits still in my mouth, hoping to make room for the bit in my windpipe to dislodge and come forth into the light. I coughed and gagged a few more times before the offensive pickle chunk made its way out. 

Then I sat back down to recover and contemplate life- so sweet and unpickled, when I realized my chest was burning- which either meant I was having a heart attack or there was pickle juice in my lungs- both sounded terrible- but I hoped it was the latter.  While I was still hoping I had pickle juice in my lungs (which, I think we can all agree is a very odd thing to hope for,) I came to the realization that my arms also ached- aside from the heart attack theory, I had no idea what that was about.  Was I having a heart attack AND I had pickle juice in my lungs?!  It seemed unjust.

So, I sat in my chair, taking deep, pickled breaths, waiting for the burn to subside. I thought, "Well, I guess I won't want to eat pickles again anytime soon. " This is a pattern for me. I have had a traumatic experience with a food, and it's been a no-go for a long while. In fact, I haven't eaten chicken legs since I was 5 because of that vein I saw one day. 

However, Pickles have power, so later in the afternoon, I ate the rest of my pickle stash.  This time I chewed carefully and swallowed with intention.   Those were good pickles, sweet baby gerkins, pickled okra, and hot pickled cauliflower- with added baby carrots to soak in the pickle juice.  

Pickles- I can't quit you.

Butter candles

 I'm not on TikTok for good reason.  But sometimes TikTok trends show up for the old people on Facebook, and that's what leads me to this even older people medium of a blog.

(Side note- I was talking to a much younger teacher about an outdated technology chapter of a book we were looking at, and I said something about how it used the phrase "Surf the web" and was explaining how to write a fax.  She was like, "Yeah, and writing a blog!  Who does that?"  And I was like, "Yeah! Who does that?!")

Anyway, butter candles- TikTok trend.  So, I saw a video on Facebook.  They were making a herb-encrusted butter candle.  Basically, they just rolled a stick of butter in an everything bagel mix and stuck a wick into it.  My first thought was, "Well, that's a waste of butter!  Why would you ..." Just about that time, I saw them dip a chunk of bread into the butter, and I realized my mistake in hasty judgment.  Mmmm, butter candle.

I decided long ago that life was too short to not use real butter.

Additionally, if you don't use your butter fast enough to leave it out of the refrigerator (so that it is soft enough to spread) you aren't eating enough butter.

teacher-life STAAR edition

 I'm practicing acceptance. I question how one knows what to accept and what to fight about.  

I fought about going to a department meeting.  It wasn't my department.  The meeting was about things that didn't pertain to me.  I came out of the meeting each time with a headache and a desire for a different job.  I didn't contribute, and I didn't learn anything useful.  I fought because only one person  (out of the 6 that I asked about it) really wanted me to go, and she could not articulate a reason for me being there.  

I accepted a different (less frequent) meeting instead. While that meeting is not generally useful, does not usually pertain to me, and often doesn't teach me anything, I just show up to the meeting to keep the peace.

The meeting is once every 6 weeks.  It's a district lead teacher training session.  The last meeting was supposed to be about how to teach research writing to our students.  The instructor decided to give us a demonstration of his own research- all about mantis shrimps.  For an hour and a half.  Mantis shrimps.  I wanted to raise my hand and ask him if I could leave since I'd already seen this episode of Octonauts.  

The meeting before that was about how to grade state-mandated English test essays.  He did point out at the beginning of the meeting that teachers don't actually grade these essays, but we should know how to grade them- you know, just in case.

It is day 5 of 7 of state testing.  Sgh. I accept there is nothing I can do about how dreadful it is.

I will describe a scene. 

I'm sitting in another teacher's room.  The walls are white cinderblock.  There are no decorations on the walls, save a few paper sombreros taped to a cabinet.  The fluorescent lights are split- with three rows on and two rows off.  There is a lamp with a bare bulb shining behind the teacher's desk in the corner.  There aren't any windows. The desks and students are arranged in tight, straight, rigid rows.  The room is off-putting.  I don't know what her room usually looks like, but for testing, everything has to be just so.

The teacher seems to be a little older than I am.  I imagine she is ready to retire.  She speaks with the slightest Spanish accent.  Her hair is too black, her lashes too long, and her lips are too red.  She's beautiful. She's firm, but kind.  She welcomes each student at the door.  She tells them in Spanish, "Tu escritorio es el número..." and she points to it in case they didn't understand.  They all understand that at this school, we are on the "wrong" side of town. The correlation between bilingualism and poverty is a topic for another day.  Later, she confirms that each student is still at the right desk by asking "cómo te llamas?" They all whisper their names like it is a great secret to be kept among so many strangers. One student says he doesn't understand.  He doesn't fit into the hoodie horde- with his cowboy hat, box toe boots, western shirt, and crisp jeans.  

Senora: "Cómo te llamas?" 

Student: "I don't understand."

Senora: "Andy, I know you understand. You learned that when you had class with me last year."

Andy: "Yes, ma'am."

Senora: "Cómo te llamas?" 

Andy: "Andy."

Senora: "Muy bien."

The instructions are read-and now the moment of truth.  To each student, she says, 

"Please turn in your phones. You can have them back when the test is finished."

One by one, the phones are collected into a pile of technology, ego, identity, and compulsion.

Little Red Riding Hood says, "I don't have a phone." 

Senora says, "I know you do, I saw you using it before the bell."

Red: "I don't have one."

Senora: "Put it in this box before I call in the assistant principal."

Red: "I don't have one."

The assistant principal calls Red into the hallway and says, "You need to hand in your phone during testing.  It is a state regulation."

Red: "I don't have one."

AP: "Okay, if I have security search you, they won't find a phone, right?"

Red: "Yeah"

AP: "Let's go."

A few minutes later, they both come back, and the AP hands me her phone.  Red sits down at her assigned seat and puts her head down on her computer.  It seems that the interaction had drained her.

Andy works dutifully, like a good cowboy should.  He and a few others plod along quietly answering questions which so little relate to their own experiences or futures. The rest of them are tired of this perceived exercise in futility.  They lay down their heads like Red.  

Every five to ten minutes, I walk around and tell them to wake up and keep going on the test.  Everyone needs to finish the test.  This is only a test.  Passing this test is one of the five magical keys to finishing high school and living your adult life.

I have woken Sleepy Purple 8 times in the past hour.  

I say, "You need to wake up and finish your test."

Sleepy Purple says, "I'm not asleep."

Me: "Your head is down and your eyes were closed."

Sleepy Purple: "My eyes weren't closed."

As if I can't see.  Here we are playing who's the idiot.  It's not me.

Me: "You drooled on your desk."

She looked me in the eye, grabbed the corner of her fuzzy purple blanket, wiped up the drool and said, "No, I didn't."

This is why there's a teacher shortage.

This classroom is visually unappealing.  Maybe she took down her decor for the test.  Maybe she can't be bothered to put up any decor.  When I moved into my classroom, I left up the posters and fabric coverings on the corkboards which the last teacher had left behind.  I put up some student work and moved some shelves around.  I have put little effort into my classroom compared to other teachers whose rooms look like they have robbed a teacher supply store, or the ones who make their classrooms look so much like living rooms.  

During the testing I have nothing better to do but look and wonder.  My job today is to look at students pushing buttons, or perhaps not pushing buttons.  Sometimes I wake them up and tell them to push buttons.  I'm not allowed to look at their screens- that is a state secret between the testing students and the Texas Education Agency.  I do, however, have to make sure they have answered all the questions and that they submit the test correctly, but without looking at the test at all.  It's a complex situation.

Every time the air conditioner comes on, I feel relieved. This room is so hot.  No wonder they are all so sleepy in this dimmed, windowless, humid, warm room.  I also feel a bit of unspecified nervousness.  The vents in my room are positioned differently.  They sound different here. It sounds as if there are 10,000 bees in the vent bearing down on this room.  They buzz and hum indignantly, coming to a crescendo before the air slowly loses pressure and they get sleepy and lie down.  They, too, are worn out from each interaction.

Red is tired of my ministry of wakefulness and pulls herself upright.  She proceeds to pull out a mirror and a tube of mascara.  "Darling," I want to tell her, "Nobody cares about your eyelashes right now."  But I let her continue on with her morning ritual.  Sleepy Purple has also decided it is time to tap some buttons.  Andy just keeps plodding along, he will finish this chore eventually.

Sleepy Purple is ready for another nap.  She raises her hand so that we can confirm that she has submitted her test in record time (last one to start, first one to finish.)  She lies back down and covers her head with her fuzzy blanket.  Random button tapping has worn her out.

Here come the cooling bees again, as angry as before.  I understand angry little bees.  

Some things we just need to accept.