Into the Mild

So in addition to dealing with Mom's stroke, my principal called me in on 5/27 to tell me that despite another ENG teacher resigning, she still had to let another one go and I was that teacher. She claims that because of my lack of seniority and the fact that I'm not a coach were factors in my reassignment. BUT...there is one other teacher who had been hired after me. A couple of people have asked if I plan to get the union involved, but I won't because it can get messy and while I may win the battle to stay, I'll lose the war because my principal will really micromanage and nitpick me in retaliation. A little slip-up can lead to a severe punishment.

I took the news badly. I cried just about everyday at work till school let out for summer. The kids saw me, and my co-workers saw me bawl. I couldn't even compose myself to go to the first thirty mins. of a going away party for myself and the other guy who resigned.

The principal got pissed as hell with me because on the last three days she wanted teachers to be "doing meaningful instruction." With all of the shit with Mom's stroke, I shut down for the year and since the kids are pretty good, I told them to use the rest of the week as a study hall. Well the principal peeked through my door window and got pissed that the students were on their phones and playing cards. And she had the balls to drag my supervisor into it and had her send me an email pretty much repeating what she had said about meaningful instruction. I lied and placated my super and handed out old photocopies telling the kids to look busy. I even said, "I'm outta here anyway." What a goddamn hypocrite. This woman snaps at me for this little fuck up while she comes into work late and has dragged morale among students and teachers alike to hell from her poor showmanship-wannabe attitude. She is not Steve Jobs of academia and this school does not need this sort of gimmick. We need a strong, competent, honest, and realistic leader. These problems never existed with the first two principals before she came along.

A good chunk of the students were very supportive when I told them about my transfer. When they gave me cards and told me thank you for being a good teacher, it made me cry. A chunk of my irritation also came from the fact that I basically feel worthless because I do shit for them like swapping out the original final exam that was supposed to be a typed report for a text and image collage analysis of what we read at the end or buying Evelyn the SAT prep book and voc. flash cards to help her out with her testing since she was not in the GT pool that gave the same materials to the kids. Instead, I'm expendable because I care more about academics than the kids' abilities to chase a ball on a field.

And when I was told about the transfer, the principal said, "Hillary will be going with you." (Hillary is my history dept. foil). It seemed more like the way a mom tries to placate a disgruntled kid by telling him that after church they'll go to McDonald's for lunch. Hell, I have a hunch that this was arranged so that both of us go to the new school together since we're counterparts of each other.

I'm taking my sweet time clearing out my room. I'm tired emotionally. I can drag my carcass out of my rancid-smelling bedsheets, but I'm falling asleep in the rehab center visiting my mom by late afternoon. I've got a former student from a couple of years ago helping me move on Thursday.

Deep down, I almost want to really focus on getting the test scores up at my new campus. Not so much to prove my worth, but because I want to make my old boss suffer more by thrashing her ass and getting her in trouble for having inferior test scores. I want to competitively tear her a new one, anything to keep her from looking good with the super intendent and his various secondary-education underlings.


Despite that colonic scrape, I still loved this school. The kids are all right. There were no heinous behavior incidents this year and the campus is relatively safe and clean. Or at least my kids were. My co-workers were decent folk. Hell, after word spread that I was leaving, one teacher who I suspected was annoyed with me surprised me by saying that she'd miss me. The special-ed teacher that I worked with last year when I had mixed mainstream and sped kids even confided in me that the students did better when I taught them. I will miss most of my co-workers, my friends, and my students.

Went to practice for tomorrow's monthly match. I shot well despite the curmudgeon next to me. It was crowded, all 14 sections in the pistol range were full. 
And getting pelted with spent shells is expected and normal. It's like the crying babies on a flight of the gun world. No amount of lube or no trick can adjust brass getting spit out. That said, there was an older man with a humpback and cane shooting next to me. and we were over five feet apart. He complained that my brass was hitting him. I apologized and said there was nothing that could be done. I would hold off on firing when he had his gun aimed so as not to disturb him when firing and I tried squeezing the trigger more gently in case my muscle was making those shells fly like popcorn. But he bitched and got real mouthy with me and Dad, ("Get a shield! Y'ever hear of one of those?" "You're spoiling my good time!") I ignored him like a bastard student, but the old man started pelting my brass back at me. I got hit on my left forearm while shooting. 
 
Quasimodo left shortly after. Yeah, I am a bastard for calling him that, but I refuse to show him sympathy or compassion for acting like an immature brat. I wouldn't go so far as to shoot the legs of his target to splinters so that it would collapse on him when he touched it or I wouldn't slice his eyes out with that SWAT tactical knife in my pocket, but I just ignored him. He had me by the short hairs-- if I yelled or hurt him, them I'm the asshole and bully for picking on a hunchbacked old man with a cane. But his age and disability didn't excuse his behavior. He's the exception to the rule about protecting the weak and infirm and respecting elders. I won't hurt him, but I'm not acknowledging him either. Passive aggressive, but what can I do? 

I spoke to the range patrol about Quasimodo. Rob said that if the old man raised hell, the brass hitting him was not a legit excuse. I'm not doing anything wrong. Dad talked about building a net to keep brass from hitting other patrons. But no one else uses a net or shield. I've been shooting at that range for eight years and this old man and one other guy I shoot with in competition are the only ones that have complained about getting hit with shells. But I really got disgusted with Quasimodo's behavior. Especially tossing the brass at me. I'd expect that from a kid, a teen, even someone in their early twenties. But not from an elder. 

And somewhere out there, this guy's bitching about a teenager with no consideration who ruined his and his wife or daughter's afternoon outing at the gun range because she lets her brass fly willy nilly.