matching tracksuits

The summer’s end nears. Morning temperatures are back in the lower seventies, and return to eating breakfast on the deck occasionally. Bagels for us all, but the Girl prefers to dip hers in maple syrup. In a sense, it’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

Here in the south, the end of summer is about the only time we can go outside and play comfortably. In July, it’s still 90 degrees as the sun sets. We try to head out sometimes for a little outdoor time, but no one wants to melt.

Still, there are options. And does it ever bring back memories: a few minutes of running through misted water on a hot summer afternoon was my idea of paradise when I was a kid. A few overlapping garbage bags fastened to the ground with whatever one could find would sometimes serve as a slide, though never for too long. Since we don’t have a sprinkler (they’ve all broken), L has somewhat limited options. It’s more fun for me, though.

The last of the crape myrtle blossoms begin falling.

And in this end is my beginning: a new school year both sparkles and looms.

“Mr. Scott, is it true that chewing gum is made out of cat guts?”

The question floated up in the midst of a quiet, productive moment. It was, in a word, a gift.

“Of course,” I answered, deadpan. “What else would it be made out of?” I was wondering how long I could keep the straight face.

“Really?” She wasn’t buying it, and quite frankly, she shouldn’t have: I’m a bad liar.

“Seriously.”

A pause as she searched my face for some sign of deceit.

“Would I lie to you?” I asked, still holding the straight face.

“Yes!” she laughed.

At that moment, a young man seated behind me stood up, marched to the garbage can, and violently spat out his gum.

That question was a gift, I tell you.

I have decided to complete the “52 Books in 52 Weeks” challenge. I shouldn’t be much of a challenge at all, given the amount I read for the classes I teach and the fact I’ll be starting grad school (again) shortly. Still, I thought for a year I’d keep track of everything I’d read, regardless of the reason or, for that matter, the “quality.”

January’s list was varied, to say the least:

The Bluford books really shouldn’t count, I tell myself. They were something I read because some students were reading them. At the same time, I learned a great deal from them.

The series is aimed at African American students, and many of my black students say they can truly relate to the characters and situations.

In the case of Someone to Love Me, that is truly tragic. It tells the story of Cindy, a high school freshman who has only a distant relationship with her mother, who is constantly going out with her boyfriend Rafe (I believe that was his name — some shortened form of “Raphael”). She is constantly leaving her daughter at home with a couple of cats and a freezer filled TV dinners while she goes out on the town, eating out, buying new clothes, and generally acting selfishly irresponsible. When an elderly neighbor invites Cindy over for a hot dinner, she relish it: “It had been years since Cindy had eaten such wonderful homemade food.” Perhaps the most damning passage in the book. The girl goes on to get involved with an abusive older boy and has to face her mother’s anger — and physical abuse — when she tries to convince her that Rafe is a dealer. It is an emotional, sordid affair from page one.

If this is in any way the reality of any of my students, it’s little wonder they have difficulty focusing on school work.

1. Re-read
2. For school
3. Bluford series (for school)

Walking down the hallway, I try to smile and acknowledge students as we pass each other.

They say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, but I’m not convinced. Smiling is not always easy: sometimes I want to scowl because of some frustration; sometimes I want to have a blank expression due to exhaustion; occasionally, I don’t want to hide my anger. In spite of all of these competing emotions, though, I still try to smile.

I know I must be doing something right when students smile back at me. It means that we have, at the very least, a pleasant working relationship (though frowns don’t always mean the opposite). And a good relationship is an important part of the foundation for learning.

Oh, whom am I kidding? I’m a mean ogre…

Reading over student work, I find a sentence that troubles me: it has a maturity that belies its author. I continue reading, and within a few moments, I’m pulling out the laptop and Googling the suspect sentence: it’s lifted directly from Wikipedia. With a sigh, I write “See me” at the top of the paper, underlining it emphatically.

Dealing with plagiarism is one of my absolute least favorite duties as a teacher; it’s especially tough when it’s a student I really like, a student who is sensible and gives every impression of being a conscientious student.

Plagiarism is a sin that is hard to treat evenly. Is unintentional plagiarism as bad as intentional? Is malicious plagiarism (“He’ll never catch on, the old doddering fool.”) worse plagiarism motivated by laziness or procrastination?

As I’m reading, and I begin to grow concerned about the authenticity of a particular essay or poem, I find myself tensing up. A brier patch of issues awaits, and it’s seldom a pleasant experience.

Celuacy for non-Poles, is a grade above an “A”. It signifies mastery of a subject accompanied by superior extra-curricular work.

On one occasion, though, a young lady of supreme character managed not only to avoid losing respect but managed to increase it. She was a student in Poland, and she worked hard to have celuacy (“excellent”) in as many classes as she could. She turned in a journal that was clearly plagiarized. (With English learners, it’s easier to discover copied work, for obvious reasons.) I spoke to her about it, asking her why she’d done it.

“I just didn’t understand that we weren’t supposed to copy.”

A lame excuse, but she had so endeared herself to me (to all teachers) with her hard work and dedication that I put off the inevitable. “Well, I’ll think about how we can handle this; my standard policy, though, has always been to give a failing grade for plagiarism.” She said nothing, but she was clearly upset.

The next day, she approached me. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she began, impressing me with her correct use of the present perfect continuous tense. “I should have known better. I want you to give me a zero.”

I did, but I made sure she had plenty of opportunity to offset that zero and maintain her high average.

She did.

Every time I’ve had to deal with plagiarism since then, I’ve hoped for such a response. So far, no luck.

Maybe tomorrow.