Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Classroom Pet
WARNING: The following tale of the Invisible Ben is rated PG-13. At least one animal was killed in the making of this blog post, so if you are squeamish where blood, guts, and death are concerned, why don't you wait until later this week when I plan to post about spring break.
Still there?
Ok. So today was a miserable day. Woke up before the alarm went off with a terrible stomach ache. Not the typical dread in the pit of the stomach that marks the start of anyone's work week, but actual physical pain. This was not a good omen, but a hot shower and a few Pepto-Bismol later and I was ready to go to work. Drove up to Underwood High and was pleased to discover that the place hadn't melted during the past weekend's storms.
The typical morning routine ensued. Checked my mailbox, made copies of the day's assignments, chatted with my colleagues about their spring breaks. One had the foresight to take a few days off earlier in the week before break officially started to travel to St. Croix. Which was fine for her, I suppose, but her substitutes--and yes, there were more than one--were all driven insane by the end of the week.
And then it was time for advisory. Somehow kids show up earlier than I expect, without fail. Even if I thought they get through the metal detectors by 7:00, at least one will be there at 6:45 waiting for me to let me know that I was late. Advisory: the usual humdrum stuff. I let my students play checkers to pass the time. Most of the homeroom didn't show up on time which considering they have a full half hour from 8-8:30 strikes me as a little absurd, but what's one more thing on the pile right?
So everything is well and good until probably around 8:20 or so when the kids start flipping out. They're running to the other side of the room. They're on desks. Yelling. Screaming. At first I thought it was another tick. (BEWARE THE EIGHT-LEGGED SCOURGE!) But no. It was a mouse.
Personally, I was relieved more than scared since I had been warning my students for the past 6 months that if they ate in the classroom and left a mess the mice would show up. And though I had told them that mice were there, and that I saw them while I stayed after school to grade, not once had a confirmed sighting been made during class. Until today.
But what to do? Because the mouse was not hugging the wall. It had strayed from the network of pipe fittings and ventilation shafts that provide easy access for the rest of the school's rodent population. And until it was dealt with, my classroom would be in absolute chaos...far beyond that of the tick incident. So I did the only thing I could think of. And maybe this says something about who I am, but here we go:
I crushed it. With my shoe. It was small, perhaps only a baby, and very fast, but I have recently dealt with roaches in my apartment and I was much faster. Stepped on it and snapped its back. It didn't squeal or make a noise, at least not one that was audible over my students. But I felt the bones in the spine crumple under my sole. And before I got the dustpan and broom, I watched it twitch its last little gasps of life away on the hardwood floor of my classroom. Sweeping it up casually...had to remain calm as an example... I was able to get the kids to sit down relatively quickly. No one wanted to go near the trash can now that it had a dead mouse in it, and that was fine with me because students walk around too much in class anyway.
I wish I could say that were the end of the story. But it's not. Because the visceral power of the mouse's death confirmed something. This was a symbol, a tangible demonstration of cause and effect. I could point to this dead mouse and say, THIS is what happens when you eat in class, children. Why do you think the school looks the way it does? Take responsibility and be mature! (The fact that their otherwise mild-mannered science teacher had killed tacked on additional "or else!" which I liked.)
So, I ran to the lab to look for formaldehyde. We didn't have that...too dangerous. But a quick check online for chemical preservatives indicated that alcohol might be effective, and I did have access to that! Grabbing a test tube, cork, and a bottle of isopropanol, I scurried downstairs, extracted the mouse from the trash with a pair of tongs and inserted it into the tube. I debated adding food coloring to the isopropanol, and may do so in the future, but for the time being, clear was fine. Let the students meditate upon that.
I showed our new classroom pet to a few of the students who I caught eating in class today. I pulled them aside at the end and asked them very politely please not to eat in class...and here's why. (flash the tube) Screaming generally ensued. I think I've finally touched a nerve. About time, given how many times they've gotten to me this year.
Tomorrow, I plan to mount the test tube horizontally over my desk with a sign asking students not to invite any more visitors into the classroom by eating. I have no doubt the kids will love their new classroom pet. A few of my colleagues have suggested that I invite them to help name it...but right now, I'm leaning towards Ralph. Other options considered: Reepicheep, Pinky, Mickey, and Muad'dib.
Some of you may be wondering after reading all this if I've finally gone off the deep end, and perhaps you are justified sitting there in front of a screen on the other side of the world. I'll leave you with only one thought, despite the temptation to expound at length about metaphorical connections between Ralph's martyrdom for the cause of classroom cleanliness and my own unique position as a teacher in this kind of environment. The thought is this: In a truly insane situation, sometimes the only sane thing to do, the only way one may ever survive, is to turn perspective on its head and embrace the madness. I wonder how well Ralph would get along with the Cheshire Cat...
WARNING: The following tale of the Invisible Ben is rated PG-13. At least one animal was killed in the making of this blog post, so if you are squeamish where blood, guts, and death are concerned, why don't you wait until later this week when I plan to post about spring break.
Still there?
Ok. So today was a miserable day. Woke up before the alarm went off with a terrible stomach ache. Not the typical dread in the pit of the stomach that marks the start of anyone's work week, but actual physical pain. This was not a good omen, but a hot shower and a few Pepto-Bismol later and I was ready to go to work. Drove up to Underwood High and was pleased to discover that the place hadn't melted during the past weekend's storms.
The typical morning routine ensued. Checked my mailbox, made copies of the day's assignments, chatted with my colleagues about their spring breaks. One had the foresight to take a few days off earlier in the week before break officially started to travel to St. Croix. Which was fine for her, I suppose, but her substitutes--and yes, there were more than one--were all driven insane by the end of the week.
And then it was time for advisory. Somehow kids show up earlier than I expect, without fail. Even if I thought they get through the metal detectors by 7:00, at least one will be there at 6:45 waiting for me to let me know that I was late. Advisory: the usual humdrum stuff. I let my students play checkers to pass the time. Most of the homeroom didn't show up on time which considering they have a full half hour from 8-8:30 strikes me as a little absurd, but what's one more thing on the pile right?
So everything is well and good until probably around 8:20 or so when the kids start flipping out. They're running to the other side of the room. They're on desks. Yelling. Screaming. At first I thought it was another tick. (BEWARE THE EIGHT-LEGGED SCOURGE!) But no. It was a mouse.
Personally, I was relieved more than scared since I had been warning my students for the past 6 months that if they ate in the classroom and left a mess the mice would show up. And though I had told them that mice were there, and that I saw them while I stayed after school to grade, not once had a confirmed sighting been made during class. Until today.
But what to do? Because the mouse was not hugging the wall. It had strayed from the network of pipe fittings and ventilation shafts that provide easy access for the rest of the school's rodent population. And until it was dealt with, my classroom would be in absolute chaos...far beyond that of the tick incident. So I did the only thing I could think of. And maybe this says something about who I am, but here we go:
I crushed it. With my shoe. It was small, perhaps only a baby, and very fast, but I have recently dealt with roaches in my apartment and I was much faster. Stepped on it and snapped its back. It didn't squeal or make a noise, at least not one that was audible over my students. But I felt the bones in the spine crumple under my sole. And before I got the dustpan and broom, I watched it twitch its last little gasps of life away on the hardwood floor of my classroom. Sweeping it up casually...had to remain calm as an example... I was able to get the kids to sit down relatively quickly. No one wanted to go near the trash can now that it had a dead mouse in it, and that was fine with me because students walk around too much in class anyway.
I wish I could say that were the end of the story. But it's not. Because the visceral power of the mouse's death confirmed something. This was a symbol, a tangible demonstration of cause and effect. I could point to this dead mouse and say, THIS is what happens when you eat in class, children. Why do you think the school looks the way it does? Take responsibility and be mature! (The fact that their otherwise mild-mannered science teacher had killed tacked on additional "or else!" which I liked.)
So, I ran to the lab to look for formaldehyde. We didn't have that...too dangerous. But a quick check online for chemical preservatives indicated that alcohol might be effective, and I did have access to that! Grabbing a test tube, cork, and a bottle of isopropanol, I scurried downstairs, extracted the mouse from the trash with a pair of tongs and inserted it into the tube. I debated adding food coloring to the isopropanol, and may do so in the future, but for the time being, clear was fine. Let the students meditate upon that.
I showed our new classroom pet to a few of the students who I caught eating in class today. I pulled them aside at the end and asked them very politely please not to eat in class...and here's why. (flash the tube) Screaming generally ensued. I think I've finally touched a nerve. About time, given how many times they've gotten to me this year.
Tomorrow, I plan to mount the test tube horizontally over my desk with a sign asking students not to invite any more visitors into the classroom by eating. I have no doubt the kids will love their new classroom pet. A few of my colleagues have suggested that I invite them to help name it...but right now, I'm leaning towards Ralph. Other options considered: Reepicheep, Pinky, Mickey, and Muad'dib.
Some of you may be wondering after reading all this if I've finally gone off the deep end, and perhaps you are justified sitting there in front of a screen on the other side of the world. I'll leave you with only one thought, despite the temptation to expound at length about metaphorical connections between Ralph's martyrdom for the cause of classroom cleanliness and my own unique position as a teacher in this kind of environment. The thought is this: In a truly insane situation, sometimes the only sane thing to do, the only way one may ever survive, is to turn perspective on its head and embrace the madness. I wonder how well Ralph would get along with the Cheshire Cat...
