What All the Martial Artists Warned Me About
The gym gods were all aligning against me today. I should have skipped; but instead I got Lil C ready and got on my way. I only had an hour before the Kid Zone was closing so I had to hurry. The first main road I turned onto has a speed limit of 35. Big I's school is located along this road and during certain times of the day, it's a school zone with a 15 mph speed limit.
I was following another car. They were going faster than I was going, but the cop pulled out of the school parking lot pointing meanly at me with his lights flashing. Fantastic.
Meanwhile I'm sure all my neighbors are driving by. The only people who use that street are people who live in my neighborhood. The officer approaches the car and he's an older man. I take off my sunglasses, turn the radio off and hope that Lil C is pouting. He lets me off with a warning for going 25 on a road where the speed limit is usually 35, but the school zone lights had just turned on. I did not see them flashing and swear they had turned on right after I entered the school zone. As I'm getting finished up, a police SUV pulls up behind the cop car with his lights on too. What? He thought he needed back-up or something? Maybe they planned on busting me for not registering my hands as deadly weapons or something.
I directly attribute the warning without a ticket to Lil C looking adorable in the backseat with her little lamb stuffed animal sitting on her lap, and to me wisely deciding to turn off the T.I. I was listening to when he approached.
I should have known right then and there that my workout was doomed.
I arrived at the gym with about 40 minutes to squeeze my workout into and got started. I did higher reps and less sets and tried to blow through the sets as quickly as possible. I kept noticing one of the new trainers sort of following me around. He seemed to be trying to get my attention but I had my headphones in and I was doing my best to appear invisible.
It was when I got on the dip machine that he came over and started talking right in my face, ignoring my headphones. I couldn't just ignore him so I pulled one out. He was critiquing my form. Apparently, I needed to adjust the machine a little better. Normally I would have, but I was in a rush. I had 15 minutes left and I still had two arm exercises and abs to do.
I thanked him for his help but he didn't stop there. He wanted to show me how to do it properly. I began thinking about another guy from my dojo who joined the same gym. No one ever bothers him, he says. Why do all the trainers bother me all the time? Why did all the crazy people always want to talk to me on the bus when I lived in Pittsburgh? I'm guessing the answer is one and the same.
Then I was distracted from these thoughts as we got into the conversation that every martial artist dreads, the one I've been warned about, similar to when you say you're an English teacher and people ramble off some Shakespearean quote and ask you to name the exact play, Act, line and character. . .
"I haven't really seen you here before" he said. (My God, I'm thinking, I finally know what super power I would choose if I could have one. I'd be invisible!)
"Yeah, well, I've been on a two week break from the gym and you look brand new. That's probably why. I've been coming since October."
"Oh, well what do you normally do for your fitness routine?"
Here we go, the hard sell for a training contract. Been there-done that.
"Well, I go to karate a couple times a week, and come to the gym mainly to rehab my knee."
"No way, you do karate!" he says excitedly.
"Yeah," I say looking at my watch.
"How long have you been doing karate?"
"About five years now," I said. (I should have said, "I started yesterday.")
"I LOVE the martial arts," he said. "I'm like an 8th degree black belt in wrestling" (I'm assuming there is added emphasis on the "like").
"Really? I didn't know they had black belts in wrestling" I say.
"Wow, that's so cool that you're a girl and you do martial arts," he chatters on.
"Uh-huh."
"So what would you do if I threw a punch at you like this?"
He throws a slow punch that stops about 12 inches from my face.
"Nothing," I said, "that punch is of no threat to me."
"Well what if I would do this," he says, throwing two punches that both land about 12 inches from my face.
"Nothing," I said, "your punch is still like a foot away from me."
I check my watch and tell him how I'm trying to squeeze in a quick workout, but he doesn't get the hint. He walks behind me and grabs me in the middle of the gym in a bear hug from behind. I'm sort of shocked that he would just wrap his arms around some girl he doesn't know, but I just stand there knowing what's coming next.
"What would you do if I did this?"
"Well, you are doing that, so if I thought you were going to hurt me and you weren't just screwing around, I would drop into a solid stance and first distract you by stomping hard on your foot. I'd probably start trying to loosen up your grip by getting my elbows moving. Then, I'd probably use a heel-butt kick to your groin. I'm guessing by then you would probably let go. You're shorter than I am and I have long legs so it would probably work. Then, as you're doubling over in pain, I'd elbow you in the face as hard as I could trying to hit you in the eye, nose, or chin. Or, depending on how you're gripping me, I might just drop down and elbow you in the groin on the way down."
"Well, I'd try to take you down" he said, "before you could do that."
He was inches shorter than I was and he wiggled around a bit, apparently trying to take me down, but I continued to just stand there. He finally let go. I was mentally heel-butt kicking myself for even mentioning karate.
"So you said you were rehabbing your knee. What's wrong with it?"
"I had ACL reconstruction" I said.
"Want to come in on Thursday and I'll show you some good exercises for it?" he asked me.
"As long as you promise you're not going to try to sign me up on a training contract and you're planning on showing me something I don't already know."
"Nah, I won't do that (he is so lying), but hey, can you teach me some karate stuff some time?"
Why an "8th degree black belt in wrestling" would want me to teach him some karate is beyond me.
What I should have said? "Sure, but that will require a $149 enrollment fee, plus $40 per 20-30 minute session. Can I sign you up now? Let's sit down and talk about it. It will change your life, the way you workout. It will change your body."
Instead, I told him I had to get back to my workout.
Invisible spray-someone invent it and send me some pronto.
The Kids That Keep You Up At Night
During my first year of teaching, I had a lot of challenging students. When you have an 18 year old driving to 9th grade and at least five kids who have probation officers, you know you're going to have some rough days. A quick scan of my class lists gave some of the veteran teachers chills. What a way to start off as a new teacher.
One of the students the veteran teachers warned me about was taking 9th grade English for the second time. As they started to tell their horror stories about Rob, I tried to block it out. I didn't want to have any preconceived ideas about my students. I wanted to give them all a fair chance at success without me walking in there with an expectation that they were going to be a nightmare for me.
It turns out that the student they warned me about became one of my favorite kids. He didn't turn everything in on time. He sometimes acted aloof in class, but there was something about him that I liked. He was no kiss-up and wasn't going to pretend that he appreciated Shakespeare to try to make me happy. He was as he appeared, and sometimes he was just not interested in being in class.
I was called to multiple conferences about this particular student during the year. I would listen as each teacher went around the room relaying horror stories about him and telling his Mom how he was going to fail, yet again. When they got to me, the room got very quiet. I had no problems with him. Although he was a straight C student at this point, he caused me no trouble at all. I just would have liked him to put a little more effort into his assignments. Behavior wise, I had no issues with him. It seemed that everyone else did.
About mid-year, we did a poetry assignment and what he turned in was not a typical poem. It was a rap that he had poured his heart and soul into. I couldn't have been more thrilled. He didn't try to duplicate a "roses are red" poem or plagiarize one off the Internet like many of my students did. What he turned in was authentic. It was also a bit raw and used some serious slang, but I liked it. I happen to like and appreciate rap. It was a turning point for him in the class.
Soon, he was writing journal entries about how he wanted to become a rapper. He was bringing in new songs for me to look over on a regular basis. Then, he brought me a demo tape that I still have somewhere. I thought it was awesome. I told him that what he was writing was poetry. I used his own work to show him examples of rhyming, alliteration, and the poetry patterns he was creating throughout his work. Suddenly, he had a new appreciation for English class.
His teachers continued to talk in conferences how he was disrespectful and inattentive; and then I would gushabout how talented he was and how once he saw the relevancy to his own interests, he became invested in English class and in his work. The other teachers just stared at me in disbelief. I was the only one who could see the good in this kid. I thought it was a real shame, and I think a lot of it was because many of those teachers walked into that classroom on the first day, knowing how he had been the year before, and assumed he was going to be the same disrespectful punk. I expected better from him, and he rose to the occasion.
This semester, I had a "Rob." He came from a rough background, lost his dad and two of his friends to drugs and suicide in the very near past, and although he was rough around the edges, I really liked him and saw a lot of potential in him. When I met with him mid-semester and told him he had a D and too many absences, he asked me if he should withdraw from the class.
I told him he needed to attend regularly and work harder! I spent so much time that day pointing out all the good in his work and telling him that I just needed to see more of it on time. He attended every class for a while and then he dropped off again. I was so disappointed. This weekend, as I sat grading final portfolios, it came time to grade his. He was missing his final paper, and two other major assignments that he had the entire semester to complete. Had he completed even one of the three assignments with any care, he would have been able to pass the class with a D-. Instead he failed.
I don't know whether or not he'll be back next semester. It's the kids like this that keep me up at night. What will he do if he's not in school? Will he follow the route his friends took and get involved with drugs again? Will he be able to straighten himself out and find the motivation to succeed? I found a way to get to my 9th grader many years ago, but as a teacher, you can't reach them all. This is one that slipped through the cracks; and I'm as disappointed in myself as I am in him.
This Movement Needs a Celebrity
As a suburban and blogging nobody, it's difficult to make companies like Dolce & Gabbana listen when I get upset. It occurred to me the other night that what this movement against violent advertising needs, is a celebrity spokesperson. Let's face it, people like me aren't exactly buying D&G items. People who read my blog probably aren't either. Celebrities do.
So how does a small-time blogger, Mom, and part-time instructor get the attention of a credible celebrity? How does one convince a celebrity to pick up the cause, get pissed off, and speak out against major fashion companies who objectify women and advertise shoes with images of gang rape?
Do celebrities care? Does anyone know one so we can ask?
My Wish for All Mothers
May the only "whine" you are around today. . .come in a glass.
Happy Mother's Day!
Just Call Me a Psycho Serial Killer
Today was my last class of the semester. I'm on break until the fall (after I finish all my grading of course). This semester was quite different from last semester. The class had very different group dynamics and I had issues with kids who lacked personal responsibility. Not every student had these issues, but overall, it was a big change from my class last semester. My first semester was not at all like that.
For the final class, both last semester and this semester, I brought in donut holes and we had a final day of fun impromptu speeches. Last semester, my students turned almost every impromptu topic around into something positive about how much they had enjoyed speech class or how much they had enjoyed having me as a teacher. They already knew where they stood grade-wise. It wasn't to kiss up. They liked me and the class and they let me know it. It was a great way to end the semester.
Today was a bit different. First, I had the students complete their evaluations of me. I have to leave the room during this time and I gave explicit instructions to my one student to collect them all and then come out into the hallway when they were all finished to get me. After 10 minutes had gone by, the volume was quickly rising from my classroom. It's not a group evaluation so talking is not required for them to complete the task.
Then I heard, "Well that's because you're a man-whore." That was it.
I opened the door, did a quick look around, asked them if they were finished and they all nodded that they were done and that my volunteer had the envelope of evaluations ready to go. Yet no one had come to get me. I got on their cases a bit, and told them I hoped the word "man-whore" wasn't a part of my evaluations, and then I broke out the donuts.
The students were tentative, so I pretty much ordered them to get out of their seats, and get some donuts so we could get started. I was sporting my classic look of irritation and frustration. We had a lot to finish up on our final day and the clock was ticking. Finally, they started moving.
I had each student write down two impromptu speech questions and then as the students got up to perform for one last time, they called on a student to give them a question. One of the questions was, "Why do you think Mrs. BBM is acting like a psycho serial killer today?" This question came from one of my responsible kids.
I asked him what he meant by that and he said that I was trying to make them eat donuts. . . "like a serial killer or something."
"Hmm, you know last semester, I brought in donuts and my students thanked me and told me I was awesome. This semester, I'm a psycho serial killer trying to kill you with my donut holes. I guess this is an appropriate way to end it all."
So, one of my most spirited students got the speech topic declaring me a serial killer and he did it quite well. I was almost convinced myself. As part of his speech, he said I had taught them through subliminal messages to go kill people and that I had spent time in jail for 30 murders.
When he was finished, I told him he did a fairly accurate speech, but that my murders were justified. You see, I had only killed people who didn't turn assignments in on time. I think I made my point.
As I was leaving campus today, I ran into one of my favorite kids from last semester. I asked him how his semester had gone and he said it was great, but that he wished he would have been able to take my class again. He then went on to tell me how he had to do a presentation for another class and he absolutely "killed it" and was the best one in the class. His professor had asked him where he learned to put a presentation together like that, and he said he learned it from me and my class. He then went on to tell me about his presentation and how he had attention and orienting material, how he used a personal anecdote, and a solid clincher in his conclusion.
It made me so proud to hear him say those things. I told him I was happy he was able to apply what he learned to other classes; and he went on to say that he'll use what I taught him the rest of his life.
There may be 17 completed potentially mediocre evaluations sitting on campus, critiquing me for not accepting late assignments, and for occasionally ranting about irresponsibility; but only one thing is important to me today. I taught that student how to "kill it" in his presentation. I guess I really do teach them how to kill.
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