Responsibility

I was brought up by a military man. Dad retired from the Air Force in 1986, at the rank of Lt. Col., but never let go of the habits he learned in his military career. To him, being an upright, responsible person is important. The key to a successful life, he taught me, is to do your job. Just get it done. If you need support, by all means, ask for it, but never, ever, leave your responsibilities unfinished. I can't tell you how many times I heard phrases like:

1. "Cooper's don't quit."

2. "Cooper Rule Number One: Try not to be a pain in the ass."

3. "Don't let your alligator mouth get the best of your cardboard butt."

...but I can tell you that I heard them a lot. Once I got through the dramatic years of adolescence, I even started to live them.

Sometimes Mom and I still roll our eyes and call him "the Colonel" when Dad goes on one of his toots about getting the job done. Jokes aside, however, what Dad has taught me about responsibility has stuck--and, in many ways, given me an edge in life.

When I began my teaching career, I learned one key thing about managing a classroom: I am the one in the classroom who has responsibility for every student in my charge. I am the one who has to be the adult. And I have a responsibility to my kids, the parents, the school, and the community, to take that responsibility seriously.

That's why I get so pissed off when kids think they can just walk out of my classroom without permission. I try to impress on them the importance of my knowing where they are at all times. If someone sneaks out of my class when my back is turned, and they then crack open their skull in the hallway, the responsibility comes down on my shoulders--and I don't want to live with that. Most of my 6th graders this year have gotten that message. When, on occasion, a student storms out in a snit, I simply call the office and report it as a truancy, so that I cannot be held responsible if something happens.

It's responsibility--and it's sadly lacking in some people.

This morning, I was jarred awake about 2 minutes before my alarm clock went off, by the ringing of the phone. It was the high school secretary, begging me to come sub. I groggily said, "Yes, I'll be there," and proceeded to shower, dress, and schlep on the makeup in quick-time.

I arrived in the high school office, screeching to a halt with a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a Pop Tart in the other, to be informed that the teacher had left no lesson plans. I looked at his subjects: Business, Computers, Portfolio Assessment. I have absolutely no idea what these kids have been doing, what they are supposed to be doing, etc. In other words, it looks like a long day of babysitting.

As the day progressed, things weren't too bad, but the kids had this idea that they could just get up and walk out of the classroom to go to the bathroom, get a snack, wander around socializing...whenever they pleased. They looked a bit surprised when I would say, "Excuse me...uh, where are you going? Do you need a pass?" as they reached for the door handle.

It got to the point that I sat there wishing the door was a revolving door, so I wouldn't have to listen to it open and shut so much.

So I sat there, most of the day, watching kids play computer games and try to leave class for fifteen or twenty minutes of socializing and cruising. Outrageous! If I had been given some type of lesson plan, even a hastily planned assignment or video, I would not have had quite so many kids "needing" to leave the room. It would have been easier to keep track of who was supposed to be there, and who was not (the teacher has a habit of letting kids from other classes wander in to socialize, apparently).

Responsibility, people!

When I was at St. Peter's, I always made sure I had a good lesson plan for any teacher who had to cover my lessons. I left seating plans, procedures (please don't let the kids use my computer, or the keyboards, when I'm not here...etc.). Even when I was sick, I would walk the half mile to school at 7:30 in the morning to make sure I left a good lesson plan, and all relevent seating plans. Only then would I be able to go home and relax and get better. My sense of responsibility dictated that I never leave my classroom anything but organized and ready for learning. That is my job, and I take it seriously.

Some people learn this value and live it. Others find it is too hard, too much work, to be responsible, and just let everything slide. And then, you've got kids.

Remember Kandace? Yes, Kandace, the one who called me a bitch two weeks ago. It just so happens that she decided to call me a bitch on the first day of a special two-week period:

You get a pink slip, you don't get to go to the dance on June 2.

Ever since her little slip of the tongue, Kandace has been--almost--a model student. I have seen her following my instructions. She has not once been rude to me, or to any student. She has actually done some of her classwork.

Remarkable...and a little bit scary. I've been waiting for the bomb to go off. It went off today, but not entirely as I expected it would.

Halfway through choir rehearsal, I noticed that half of my class was turning around and looking out the window in the back of the room. I went back to investigage, and one of my kids told me that he'd seen a "full moon" from one of the high school kids outside. I called the office, and Ms. Dean came down to investigate herself. While she was there, and my kids were loudly singing "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" (hey, they voted for it...), Ms. Dean told me that Kandance had come to her to discuss the possibilty of getting her dance privelege back. Ms. Dean had told Kandace, "I can't make that decision. I leave it entirely up to Miss Cooper." I told Ms. Dean, in no uncertain terms, "Uh-uh. She's been a pill all year, and one week of good behavior is not going to make up for calling a teacher a bitch." Ms. Dean just smiled and said, "I figured you'd say that. And I agree."

After class, Kandace stayed behind to talk to me, and I gently told her my decision.

She just stared at me. Kandace has learned in her home life that anger and agression and making people uncomfortable will get her what she wants. What she hasn't learned is that I may be short, but I carry one helluva big stick. And I'm stubborn when I want to be.

Most of the time the staring gives away to anger and fireworks. Imagine a round face turning bright red and the spit flying from her teeth as she makes rude remarks and tries to argue her way out of a punishment. But not today. Today, the tears came.

I recognized typical Kandace manipulation tactics, but also genuine disappointment--and that was new. She started sobbing, "But I've been good this week, I've tried so hard!"

"Yes, Kandace, I have watched you, and you have tried very hard this week. You've done a wonderful job, too. But I just can't give you this dance back after the disrespect you showed in what you said to me."

I had to get back to the high school, so I took Kandace to the office and explained to Ms. Dean and Mrs. Secretary what was going on, and please give Kandace an excused late slip for her next class. As I rushed off to the high school, throwing a silent, "Sorry for this!!" over my shoulder, Kandace bawled her eyes out in the office.

I don't know if Kandace learned the lesson she was supposed to learn today. Probably not, but I'll be happy if she took a few baby steps towards it. You can't call your teacher, boss, colleague, classmate, friend, enemy, family member, anyone a rude name and expect them to do you a favor. Do I forgive Kandace? No question--yes. She made a mistake. Maybe it was, as she cried to me, something she did not mean to say. But the point is, she let her alligator mouth get the best of her cardboard butt, and part of my job as one of her teachers is to help her learn now not to do that.

Maybe the next time she is angry with a teacher, Kandace will remember the time Miss Cooper took the school dance away when she feels like saying something really rude. And maybe that will help her to bite her tongue and respond to her teacher in a more positive manner. Then again, maybe it won't. I won't be around long enough to find out.

But it would be terribly irresponsible of me to not teach her this lesson.