My Bitches

I have a host of personal issues.  I want to preface this entry by saying I am okay with that.  I have compared notes with a lot of people on this topic and the general statements I am about to make are not unique to me.  Sure, I need medication, I come from a messed-up family, I'm probably part of a messed-up family right now (although I'd like to think it's pretty cool actually,) and I've got a skeleton or two hanging next to my now way-too-small (but too-expensive-to-give-away) lucky sage green Talbot's interview suit with coordinating silk paisley vest, size 6.  Sometimes I just look at the waist on that baby and think, "Damn."

Today's topic is Bitches in the Profession.  And there are a lot of them.  Educators are people who start out wanting to help others, most rarely waivering from that goal, I believe.  We come from families where we were needed an inordinate amount and thus, we feel most comfortable being needed.  We are also people who thrive on attention.  We need to find it somewhere: on the field or track or court, through positive feedback from our bosses, or in Hollywood.  Since all of our bosses are authentically too busy to baby us through the day, that leaves only the coaches feeling fulfilled.  The rest of us are left to compete for the boss' tiny bit of attention and then to make ourselves feel better by tearing each other down.

Well, this is one of my philosophies.  I am not entirely sure if it's our profession or human beings in general, but outside of the time we spend with children (and I am 100% sincere about of our devotion to kids) we seem like an unusually competitive and snarky bunch. 

The meanest thing I've ever done is yell at Mrs. Puff in front of her class and make her cry.  (See previous post called "1984")  Not cool.  I don't know another teacher who has done that.  I did get a hearty pat on the back from the tech guy, but I'm really not proud of it.  I've walked out of a couple of meetings and I don't feel sorry about that.  I walked out on principle, and only after exhausting every other possible avenue of communication, reasonable and unreasonable.  I got in much more trouble for walking out of those two meetings than for yelling at Mrs. Puff.  Other things I've been in trouble for were total missteps or even what I consider not bad form at all.  For example, once I had a student who was so high as to literally be delusional in my classroom.  The A.D. and I had her in the office with the exact amount and identity of what she had ingested within ten minutes.  My principal gave us both a potent tongue-lashing since we had locked the door of the small office we were in while we talked to her and kept saying, "Just a minute," while various people knocked and interrupted.  She was talking and we weren't about to stop long enough for the principal to come in and spook the shit out of her, at which point she would freeze up and probably pass out.  "This was a chemical situation," he spoke slowly and clearly as if I were leotarded.  "What if she had a medical reaction?  What if she had needed an ambulance?"  I looked back at him, dazed and exhausted from the passing rush of adrenaline and wondered if he was leotarded.  Yes, I thought, in shock.  I had genuinely expected to be praised.  She was 500 yards closer to the door and you would have been able to tell the EMT's exactly what she had taken and when.  Apparently basic CPR training and a college diploma still left me unable to recognize a heart attack behind a closed door.

Alas, it's dinner time.  Children can't wait until bedtime snack for nutrition.  My own Vengeance Bitchiness will have to wait several days, but let's talk about someone else's nasties tomorrow.  One of you could be a priest, after all, and I might accidently be saying confession.  I don't want to break my twenty-seven year guilty streak.