Crackhead K.C.

For Sarah, who introduced me to K.C., long before I had the pleasure of ever knowing him . . .

This is not the school where I taught. My school was much older and much more ghetto, and I had bats living in the ceiling directly above my head. Yes, it did smell a lot like guano . . . GO VIKINGS!

Another teaching story to amuse/horrify/depress/uplift you:

As a general rule, when you are teaching high school, it is wise to steer clear of teenage romances. Seriously, unless you love watching soap operas, there's nothing there for you. I remember one Prom that my husband and I chaperoned, and we watched as the Special Ed teacher tried to reconcile a special ed couple about seven times. Seriously, they kept fighting: the girl would cry and storm off, then the boy would get all sullen and camp out at the punch bowl, then the girl would come back and yell, and then the boy would go to a corner and cry, and then the girl would pout until she felt he was sufficiently chastened, and then they would reconcile and dance a dance, and then the boy would inevitably say something that the girl found offensive, and then the whole cycle would start all over again. It's just not a situation that you want to find yourself in the middle of.

You also generally want to steer clear of encouraging crushes and intrigues in your classroom, because honestly, the walls are practically dripping sexual hormones anyway, and the kids really just don't need your help. Mother Nature has taken care of them adequately, thank you very much!

One of my most favorite students of all time was named K.C., but everyone (even the teachers) called him Crackhead K.C. (behind his back, of course, because crack, well, it can make some people violent). Crackhead K.C. really was a crackhead. He used drugs (and sold them) with astonishing regularity, and was probably high as a kite more often than not during class. He lived with his grandma, and before Crackhead K.C. was even in my class, I heard stories of him spending nights in cornfields and waking up and walking to school. Despite his crackhead nature, Crackhead K.C. was really the funniest kid, and amazingly smart (thus why the administration could never catch him dealing), even through the crack haze. He had an adorable crooked smile, although the crack made him completely unambitious. I'm actually not sure why he ever came to school (except of course, to sell his wares), as I recall that he only passed one quarter of the four that we spent together. However, I can guess why he came to my class faithfully, every day. And her name was Lizzy.

Lizzy was everything Crackhead K.C. wasn't. She was a cheerleader, a dancer, beautiful, and not that bright, really. She wasn't dumb, just an airhead. She was friendly, outgoing, and laughed a lot. Crackhead K.C. was totally smitten.

One of the great joys of teaching regular English was having silent reading period--the kids read whatever they wanted and I got to read, too. Crackhead K.C. usually picked a different book every day (until I forced him to commit to the same one, however, I don't believe he ever turned a single page--he just sat there, staring blankly at the page). However, whenever Lizzy was at my classroom bookshelf, Crackhead K.C. would arouse himself from his drug-induced coma, shake off the stupor and shuffle over to stand by her.

They would talk. Lizzy, who would have flirted with a male wasp, couldn't help it. She found Crackhead K.C. amusing. He was madly in love. She didn't feel the same, but she was genuinely a friendly girl (as a sidenote, she could ruin the most perfect seating chart, because she didn't care who she talked to, she just liked to talk). During our unit on The Princess Bride, Crackhead K.C. asked Lizzy to be his partner for the major project. She came to me in a panic, "I don't want to fail because Crackhead K.C. doesn't do his part of the project!" I assured her that I would grade her individually, but not to tell Crackhead K.C. that, as I hoped his passion for Lizzy would transfer into a passion for The Princess Bride.

I have to confess that I turned a blind eye to their tete a tetes by my bookshelf during this time period. I really wanted Crackhead K.C. to pass. There was just something so sad about his crooked little smile and his total disinterest in school or success.

The due date arrived. Lizzy turned in her portion. Crackhead K.C.'s desk was empty. Lizzy and I exchanged knowing glances. Oh, that Crackhead K.C. our looks said He's totally incorrigible. He's probably asleep in some cornfield right now, sleeping off his drug stupor. I shook my head sadly.

Crackhead K.C. burst through the door (wild-eyed, as always). He triumphantly carried his portion of the project. That was the quarter Crackhead K.C. passed my class. See? Teenage love is good for something.

If You Two Don't Get To Work . . .

I used to teach high school. I taught full-time and part-time; I taught Senior English Honors, Junior English, Sophomore English Honors, and ESL; I taught funny kids, crazy kids, shy kids, sullen kids, suck-up kids, and kids who were chock-full of personality. I quit teaching after Spe was born, because it just wasn't going to work out--someone, somewhere was going to get neglected. I'm pretty happy with the choice that I made to stay home, but there are some days that I really miss being in a classroom, with all that entails. Fortunately, I have a slew of memories, both good and bad, to carry me through.

One of my favorites took place in Senior Honors during my second year of teaching. I had two boys whom we will refer to as Jake and Doug (because those are their real names--I don't believe in this protecting the innocent deal). Jake and Doug were a fairly good-humored but extremely obnoxious duo, particularly for an honors class, where most students write a five page paper when you ask for a three page paper. It was pretty early on in the year, and Jake and Doug and I were still . . . adjusting. Meaning, I was still bringing the hammer down on their obnoxious behavior and they were still trying to see how heavy the hammer would actually be.

So, one class period, we were all enthralled with Beowulf (I have found that any story with character names like Hrothgar or Wulfgar or Edgetho is such an easy sell to teenagers. They double love it when we discuss scops. It's just so relevant, you know?) and so we had a little in-class project partner work going. (The Assignment: Create a four-part spin-off of How to Win Friends and Influence People for Anglo-Saxons. What have we learned so far in the story about this fascinating culture and what social success means to Anglo-Saxons?) I generally let students pick their own partners (especially seniors--hello, they are practically adults!), so I wasn't that surprised to find that Doug and Jake had partnered up. I did know, however, that this wasn't the best idea.

Before I let the class start, the following exchange occurs:

Me: Doug, Jake, are you sure you two can work together and still be productive?

Them: Oh, yes, we TOTALLY can. We will work so hard together and we'll have the best brochure in the whole class. (This is all accompanied with a self-satisfied smirk that belies their true intentions.)

Me: Fine, gentlemen. But I'm just warning you, (point with finger menacingly) that if you two don't work hard during class, I WILL 'F' YOU!

Well, obviously I meant to say, "I will give you an 'F,' or "I will FAIL you," but somehow the two phrases became jumbled in my head in George Bush-like fashion and it just came out terribly, terribly wrong. Do I need to mention that the whole class of 35 students was listening in?

Them: HA, HA, HA! (Hysterical laughter) Really? Do you promise? HA! HA! HA! (More hysterical laughter.)

Do I need to tell you that from then on whenever I gave instructions, these sweet, dear boys would say, "So if we don't do this, will you 'F' us?"

I have to confess I felt a little bit vindicated when I found out that after high school Jake went to prison for armed robbery of a drugstore (apparently even honors students get hooked on prescription pills). I couldn't help but think, "If only you cared more about the scops, this never would have happened." But then again, I don't really care about the scops and I've managed to avoid incarceration. So far.