Three months later.

Hello, old friend.

I have eight minutes until the bell rings, to update you on where I've been for three months. That's not enough time, but here are two anecdotes that will explain, if you read carefully. Of course you don't read carefully. You're a blog.

1) Yesterday, when I was grading papers with my thin, red Papermate correction marker, I noticed that I'd gotten sloppy and sleepy: my hand stopped doing what I wanted, and as I wrote comments I kept missing the paper and accidentally writing on my own fingers and hand. By the time I was done grading, the little red-pen dashes looked like self-inflicted bleeding cuts. In fact, I convinced myself that they were cuts enough that when I looked down I felt little slices of pain, just a little warm and fresh, not yet ready to heal.

2) I hate my graduate research right now. It's a load, and I keep having the instinct to tell my Composition students that they're my little mousy subjects, that I'm photocopying their papers in secret and their conversations in public, that I'm writing journals about them when they don't know what I'm doing up there at my desk. I imagine myself in a lab coat at the photocopier, that the green light from the machine is really some radioactive light, and I carry their papers around like Erlenmeyer flasks. They are white mice. I wonder how attached mice-testing scientists get to their mice before they inject cancer or whatever underneath their fur. I mean, I'm just observing their behavior, so I'm not that equivalent. But at the same time, I want to give them new names. I mean, I have Test Subject #1, but I feel like they should have mouse names like "whitey" or "bitey" or "Circle-face" for the one that won't stop running in circles and hitting his mouse muzzle on the side of the maze.

An Open Letter to People Who Hit "Reply All" So Their Stupid Emails Reach Everyone in the High School:

Dear People Who Hit Reply All so Their Stupid Emails Reach Everyone in the High School,

No.

Sometimes someone has to send a mass email. That email sometimes has meaning. But most times, I don't give a shit or it's not relevant to me. That's fine. A small delete will suffice.

(Note: Um, I take part of that back, sometimes they are emails like HEY EVERYBODY JIMMY JOHNS HAS SUBS FOR $1 TODAY and that is an email that has no meaning but informs me on the proximity of cheap sub sandwiches. Those emails are fine.)

Today someone sent out an email that said: hello, sorry for the mass email, but I just wanted to let you know that my email has been awkwardly sending out old messages to new people, so please ignore any emails from my name that don't make any sense. Thanks, Amy.

Sounds good. Thanks for the info, Amy. I'll delete this email because I haven't gotten any weird spam from you, but the information is noted. (Also, do you have any coupons for Jimmy Johns.)

But then, People Who Hit Reply All, one of you said, Oh yeah, well how do I know this is you, ha ha, and you sent that reply to the 300+ entire staff.

And then, People Who Hit Reply All, another of you said I have not heard of this problem happing on the PC side, Go Macs ; )

And then, same person above of the People Who Hit Reply All, you sent another email to the 300+ teachers in this district that said oops, I meant "happening"... brain fart.

Which, incidentally, is not a brain fart at all. It just means you can't fucking spell.

In conclusion, People Who Hit Reply All, I guess how much you make dumbasses of yourselves is punishment enough.

But seriously. Nothing you say is humorous.

Regards,
JP

The most obvious fart in the history of time.

This is the story of the most obvious fart in the history of time. Sit back, friends, and grab yourselves a bowl of broccoli.

My sophomores have just finished watching the movie The Princess Bride to wrap up our short archetypes unit. It's been quiet in the class the entire hour, the students are enthralled with Buttercup and Wesley and Andre the Giant, I've been watching their faces reflect the glow of the screen.

The movie is over. I turn off the DVD, students look at me waiting for instruction, so I give it: take your pink worksheets and finish your questions with a couple of----

PFFT.

There it is. A student in the front of the room, who was lying on the floor. In the process of getting up, he--or she--just let it slip out, an obvious slip. It was one of three kids. It was just this loud, quick fart that obviously wanted to stay in, but pressure and a movement allowed a 'lax of the sphinctor muscles and the brief, horn-like PFFT.

Laughter from up front, the kid on the ground. Was he laughing at himself or the girl next to him who pooped?

The whole class heard it. The whole class. Heard it.

And the thing about being the teacher, the thing is, I'm not allowed to laugh at that. My job is to keep composure when a kid rips ass, to lead by the example that farts aren't funny.

But farts are hilarious. They come from your ass. That's fucking funny.

Anyway, the kid who I think was the fart culprit started laughing, and then the whole class almost gasped at the fact that this was the most obvious fart in the history of time, and I put my hand on the table in front of me to pull it together, and I put my other hand on my hip in a stern-like way, and then I just started laughing. And it was one of those laughs where I was mid-sentence in the sentence I was giving to move on, like:

take your pink worksheets and finish your questions with a couple of---

[PFFT] [solo laughter, gasp from class]

with a couple of partners and [smile grows across face, tries to hide it behind hand] review your ans-- [starts laughing out loud, class joins in]

[4 seconds pass, pulls it together]

A good story to share with other teachers, but then Mr. B trumped it with the kid who, during his 4th block, peed his pants.

But then a couple other teachers and I shared some fart stories, as in I mean, isn't it the worst when you're checking homework and then you just walk into this wall of fart? And you're the teacher, so you can't be like OH MY GOD WHO RIPPED ASS YOU BETTER JUST GO TO THE BATHROOM. You just have to pretend it's not there, and that isn't really fair.

The end.

An Open Letter to the Next Student Who Asks "Do You Bump Up Grades".

Dear Next Student Who Asks "Do You Bump Up Grades,"

It is the ninth week of school, and in two days the quarter will end. Remember back on the first day of school, when I said there is no extra credit in this class because I like regular credit? Remember how I put that on the syllabus and then I pointed it out to you a couple of times because I knew that I would be asked this ridiculous question when the last couple of days of the quarter drew near?

No? Well, then accept my apologies. I guess I should've made that more clear.

You come up to me in the middle of class while you are working on a group project. You ditch your group and say Ms. Prokott can I see my grade. I show you that your grade is 89.52%. You say oh, man that's so close. Can you just bump it up to an A-? How many percentage points, exactly, does a grade have to be before you bump it up?

I say, I don't bump grades. I wouldn't lower a grade if it was .5% higher than I think it should be, and I'm not just going to throw extra points at you because you are close to an A-. And you say, an A- and a B+ are sooooooo different and that makes a difference on your GPA. Do you know what a big difference that is, Ms. Prokott?

I will tell you student, that your grade reflects how well you've done in class. I tell you that I don't bump grades, and on the rare chance that I do bump grades, it is because the student whose grade is bumped has shown remarkable, above-expectations effort in my class. That student whose grade gets bumped raises her hand during class discussions, she is respectful toward me, she comes in to talk about her work, she doesn't leave her garbage on the floor, she doesn't ask me for a pencil every day, and most importantly she was concerned about her grade the entire quarter rather than two days before I was to submit grades.

That student, Next Student Who Asks "Do You Bump Grades," is not you. You don't raise your hand in class. When you talk, it is to tell the person next to you that you didn't read the assignment or to mention something about that slut in the hall who gave you a dirty look. When you work in groups, you think you're tricking me by swapping "numbers" with the person next to you so you can be in your friend's group. Then, you don't participate in your group's assignment, and you flip open your phone like an expecting father, and you text when you think I can't see you. Then, student, you write essays about how teachers give too much homework and students are overwhelmed. Then, when you get a C on the essay, you whisper to the kid across the row this is SO UNFAIR.

When you forget your book on independent reading day and borrow one of my books, you neglect to put it back on the shelf even though I told you to four times, and instead you leave it on the floor near your desk where it is obvious you've been sitting. In fact, once I found a pop can that you hid on my bookshelf, behind my books, because you were too lazy to walk three feet to put it in the recycling bin. When you aren't so disrespectful you leave a pop can hidden behind my books, you whip empty green Mountain Dew bottles toward the front of the room--sometimes when I'm in the middle of a lecture!--and then when they thunk off the lip of the blue recycling bin and clatter to the floor, you leave them there. Once, I heard you say in the hall who cares if we don't clean up our stuff. It's the custodians jobs to clean up after us.

Then, student, when I tell you that I rarely bump up grades except for the kids who are A+ on effort and participation, you plead and plead and beg. You say but it's SOOOOO CLOSE. Can I just please do extra credit? I'll clean your room. I'll do anything you want me to.

And then, student I am literally, no, so seriously, literally disgusted by you. You are disgusting. Your pleading and begging and desperation makes me sick to my stomach, and I am sad for the kind of person you are, and I am so, so angry that you think this will work--to care only when it's days before the grade is due, when you had nine whole weeks to give a shit earlier, when you got a quiz back--and instead of holding onto it and using it to study for the final test like I told you to--rolled it into a ball as soon as possible and then threw it at the blue recycling bin and didn't pick it up when it bounced off the lip.

And then, student, you say:

Well, what if it was 89.99%. huh? What would you do then?

Fuck you, student. Fuck. You.

Right now, I am supposed to be grading papers, student, but I just had to write you this letter first--I just had to let you know what was up before I tried to do my after-hours paper-grading job. Because this is little to you, but it's eating me inside. You entitlement-generation asshole.

Oh, by the way. Let's recall a conversation we had last week. I was introducing the play Raisin in the Sun. I asked you the question--Can anyone achieve the American Dream? you said, yes, anyone can achieve it if they try hard enough.

But I gave you a chance. I gave you a discussion question the next day that said really? Can they? Really? Please think about it.

And you, student, you raised your hand and said yes--anyone who is not entirely lazy can achieve the American Dream. And then, student, we argued back and forth, and I brought up race and gender and unfortunate circumstances, and the hand you're dealt not being fair no matter how much you want to win the round, and I said what if I wanted to play professional baseball even though I'm a woman and you said if you were really, really, really, really, really good, then you could, they would let you on the team. You said it doesn't matter if you're poor, you just need to try really hard in school and you will get scholarships to go to college, as though there were trillions of dollars in scholarships floating around, waiting for underprivileged kids (with drug addict parents) to snap them up by caring about school when they don't know where their next meal is coming from.

Do you remember that conversation? Because I do. It nearly gave me an aneurysm.

I guess all I can say here, student is: was it your dream to get an A- in this class? Well, I guess you just didn't TRY HARD ENOUGH. I guess it is just because you're lazy. It had nothing to do with those outside circumstances. I guess you just didn't want it badly enough.

To borrow the words and timing of the amazing Professor Ronsman:

I QUIT.

Enjoy your B+, student. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but so many other things you've done in class are.

I'm embarrassed for you and your Justin Bieber haircut,

Ms. Prokott

Student writing.

• Many public schools hire under-qualified and incapable teachers practically off the street to teach their students. In the senate and governor race, many candidates are propising that no gays or unwed mothers be allowed to teach children because they will poison their minds. This proposition leaves only desperate and weird people to teach children.

• Teen pregnancy can also be caused by children following the lead of their parents. If a teen's mother or father is blatantly having sex every night, then the teen will most likely think it is okay.

Last week's question of the week. (While students are researching for persuasive papers.)

Um, Ms. Prokott, can you tell me what fecal matter is?

You bet I can!

Happy Monday.

In first block today, a student came up to me during work time and stuck his foot out and stamped it a little, like an aggravated horse. His white tennis shoe was covered in brown and green shit, along the side, on the front, into the laces.

I have to go to the nurse, he said, because I just realized that I stepped in some dog poop in my yard before school.