Class Clowns vs. Teacher's Pets

Quail Man and Quail Dog: A Fashion Inspiration

When I was in grade school (and in middle school and high school) I used to get into trouble. I would be talking while the teacher was talking and they would interrupt me, tell me to be quiet, walk purposefully to the far end of the chalkboard, and write “John”. If I still hadn’t learned my lesson and I continued to talk, they would walk back to the far end of the board and, with a backwards glance, silently add a check mark next to it.

The teachers believed that this was a form of punishment. They all decided at some education conference before 1983 that if you wrote a student’s name on the board, said student would correct their behavior. And I think they were probably right. The first time I got my name on the board, I would wager that I didn’t talk again for the rest of the day. Mission accomplished.

The problem with this system is that after you have had your name on the board a few times you realize that that is the extent of the action against you. Your name was erased from the board that night by the janitors and you didn’t have to go to the principal until you got 2 check marks, a near statistical impossibility in a 40-minute class period.

The other problem with this system is that it relies on the hope that the student does not wish to be singled out. So much of the behavior in school is driven by a desire to fit in. To stand out, to draw attention to oneself, is to open oneself up to criticism and ridicule… unless you are the class clown. When you are the class clown, ridicule is the highest form of praise. I once wore my underwear on the outside of my gym shorts on a dare.

What the teachers never understood was that by acknowledging me, even in a way that they deemed negative, they were feeding me the very thing that I craved. I was talking in class to get attention from my fellow students, usually a select few friends. By stopping the lessons and writing my name, the teachers were putting all the attention on me. My name on the board was like having it on the marquee. I was famous!

Where I ran into the real trouble was at parent/teacher meetings. Throughout my schooling, these meetings fell on the second week of November, which meant that I always got a 4-day weekend for my birthday, and this was a mixed blessing if ever there was one. If the meeting was on Monday, my birthday had most likely already happened; presents were received, sleepovers were allowed. However, if the meeting was on Friday it meant that I now had 4 days off in which to be in trouble. Every year it was the same conversation. The teacher would say that I was disruptive, that I didn’t follow directions, and that I was getting my name on the board a lot.

My parents are nice people. They expected me to get good grades, (I did for the most part), and they were never hard on me as long as I got B’s. That said, they would come home from these meetings in a mighty pissy mood. Maybe it was generational, maybe it was because they were not themselves class clowns, but the idea of their son’s name on the board was a topic of great shame to them. It was like a horrible secret between the janitor and me had been unearthed. My defense was as unwavering as it was unconvincing.

“My teacher hates me,” I would say.
“Why?”
“Because they’re mean.”

According to my testimony, I had the most hateful and cruel line-up of teachers in the history of public schooling. For some reason, my parents never accepted this explanation.

A little older, a little more schooling (and even some teaching) under my belt, I can see the role that I may have played in all of this for what it was. In reality, I was a jerk, and just a lousy student. I had no interest in homework, or lectures, or anything really that wasn’t attached to a pair of shaved legs. But I stand by my original sentiment.

The thing that I like about this reasoning is that, while it misses the point of why I was getting in trouble, I still think it is completely true. Many of my teachers didn’t like me. And even more of them were just mean. On television, or in movies, you see the teacher as an empathetic character that reaches out to the kids who cause them the most problems. They become like a guardian figure and unlock the hidden potential in a child that will help he or she overcome their behavioral problems. They willingly spend time outside of class to help, and they actually seem to be enjoying themselves.

In reality, those teachers probably don’t exist. And if they do, they are probably dying of a brain tumor or something so they have vowed to embrace life. As to the rest of them, they are just people trying to get through a workday. I was just a kid who made their workday a little more annoying. For that I am sorry.

…

Last month I enrolled in what will be my 7th year of education outside of high school. I could tell you a few stories of teachers that, through positive and negative influence, taught me some valuable lessons about life. But that is for another time. For now, suffice it to say that I learned to become a good student sometime in my freshman year of college, and learned to enjoy education in general. Unfortunately, I am still perfecting my new positive outlook.

The major difference between then and now is that I quit a job to go to school. This being the case, there is a heightened sense of pressure to get just stupendous grades since I can’t claim that I am too busy with anything else. All I have is school, and this has made me eerily eager and annoying. I come to every class, usually early. I sit near the front and take notes. I don’t talk, and in fact roll my eyes at the students who talk or text throughout. I ask and answer questions, and bring in articles I’ve read that pertain to the subject. In other words, I am a flippin Teacher’s Pet. Oh, the irony! The symmetry! Of course, I am learning that the teacher’s treatment of the students, no matter their roles, is more static than I would have thought. Put another way, my teachers still don’t seem to like me.

I always assumed that the Teacher’s Pets were a welcome face in a hostile and indifferent crowd. I figured that they were treated with kindness, or something resembling gratefulness. I believed they embodied everything that a teacher wants in a student. As the class clown, I saw in them my opposite – studious, attentive, courteous, deferential. I loathed them and their obedience. I pitied them for their myopia. A few weeks into my new field of study, I can only surmise that the teachers concur.

Viewed now from both ends of the spectrum – someone just doodling and coasting through class, and someone that attempts to be engaged and who does their assignments before they are due – I am regarded in the same uninspiring manner no matter how I apply myself. And in a way it's worse now because I feel like I am invested in the assignments, whereas my teachers don't seem to want to return the favor. My attempts to make conversation after class have been met with weary distraction as they pack their bags to leave. My email regarding the length of an assignment – 9 paragraphs of bioethical discussions – was answered in the tersest of messages; “1-2 pages TOTAL”. (9 paragraphs on 1 page?! How is that even possible?) And, just to prove I’m not being paranoid, twice I have had to confront my teachers regarding my grade on a paper.

Thinking my score was surprisingly low, I approached the man who insists that we call him ‘Professor’ to inquire. With a sigh he looked over the paragraph in question and awarded me more points without so much as an explanation as to why they were negated in the first place. In another instance, I again had to wait around for the teacher after class to point out an entire paragraph (out of only 3) that discussed in detail the very topic she was claiming I had left out. Later, when I received a lowered unit score for spotty attendance I again had to corner the Professor and show him the notes that were taken on the days in dispute. Worst of all was when a teacher just added my test score incorrectly because she was in too big a hurry to do basic arithmetic. I feel as though I am being cheated out of points, and I have to fight for things I have already earned. When I was still not awarded full points for attendance, I just let it go. It’s tiresome, and though I believe I am right I’m afraid it makes me seem like a whiner. I see the teachers begin to wince as I approach their desk while the other students head for the door. They act like it's a great favor to change my grade.

My wife likes to mention ‘High School Me’, a younger version of herself, as a barometer for how square and compromising she has become in her adulthood. High School Her is always shaking her head at her. And it’s true. As teenagers, we were imperfect, immature people. But we had real convictions, and the energy to back them up. High School Me wouldn’t care about the grades. He wouldn’t study so hard. He would be happy with an A-. And he sure as hell wouldn’t need the approval of a bunch of people who were just too lazy to do their jobs right. Life is too short for that. Now, let's ditch and go smoke a cigarette.

Part of the Problem

Hotel Art: The Reason I Don't Remember My Dreams Anymore

Whole Foods will not call me back. I really want to work there. They are my top choice. But they won't call me back. I don't know why. I would make an excellent nonchalant cashier. And just try to forget your canvas bag and ask me for paper. I can cultivate the judgy air that is part of organic shopping without even looking you in your Earth-hating face. Oh, I want to work there so bad and they won't let me!

I am sure that everyone is clinging to their grocer positions in a manner that would have been unthinkable at any other time in my life. I am also sure that they will call me eventually, right? It's a big giant grocery store. It's got to have some turnover. One day you wake up and you realize that you just don't want to cut a bunch of sample-size pita triangles anymore. Well, when that day comes, I'll be waiting. I like triangles – so stable and proud. Alas, I have been without job for almost 2 months now (a personal best) and I am beginning to feel the so-called pinch.

In the meantime, I check Craig's List every morning, but it's really not very encouraging. There is (maybe) 1 job every two weeks that I would consider, and it usually isn't part-time. There are, however, a ton of scammers who reply promptly, while your hopes are still up, and try to get you to fill out an "online application" involving your home address and phone numbers. So far, I have had this happen to me 3 times out of the 5 total jobs I have inquired about, proving once and for all that I am a total sucker. In my defense, I am getting better at spotting them. For instance, if the salary is listed as a range, especially if that range is $31,000-116,000 for a veterinary assistant position, it is a scam. Another way to spot a scam is that it will be the only ad you see that day without egregious misspellings and broken English. At this point, I'm thinking of just buying my own brown apron and showing up at Whole Foods unannounced.

In order to keep out of the poor house, I have a new policy of accepting hardscrabble jobs when they present themselves, no matter what the job is. Two weeks ago I literally shoveled wet sand into sandboxes. I received no less than $8 for every hour I did this. Wet sand is easily as heavy as they say, but I managed to shovel $32 worth.

Finally, this week, I had a real paying gig doing some art installation. The venue? It was the newly renovated Sheraton Hotel in Albuquerque. And, by golly, this was some Hotel Art I was hanging.

The whole situation was pretty perverse. I, a self-proclaimed artist, spent two full days hanging up cheap canvas prints by some other artist that have been stretched to look like paintings but in no way resemble paintings except that they have signatures, though the signatures were also part of the print and not actual signatures.

A few thoughts about this:

– I am sure that these works cost many many more times than (a) what I was being paid to hang them and (b) what I could hope to sell my art objects for.

– My art must really be bad.

– By taking this job, I effectively helped prevent the sale of about 30 works by you maybe, and helped promote the career of artists who paint rectangles of varying stripey color.

– If there was a doubt as to whether art was dead, I think I have the answer – robots make the art now. Ironically, artists will always have jobs as long as the normals don't figure out what a 60" sight-lines is.

...

I hung about 30 of these objets d'art, which vary in size from the 12" square to the 60" nightmare, all of which were attached with security hangers* because the designer (the person who hired me, and who purchased the art) kept saying how people would steal anything from a hotel.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that? That's my enormous print of a painting of an orange rectangle inside of a brown rectangle, that I stole."

"Awesome!"

As I was returning to the hotel from Fuddrucker's (a truly strange restaurant indeed) I realized that the economic depression we are in is just a big lie. It's on the news, and some people have actually lost their jobs, but no one is even thinking about what is happening, or what might yet happen. The designer, nice lady though she was, makes her living by flying to various hotels and picking out stuff for the hotels to buy. She is burning a hole in the ozone layer, and probably making six figures to do it, so that people will come to the Sheraton and not notice that it is extremely ugly. We will only truly be in a depression when we no longer need interior designers.

While I was there I also met the lighting designer, the drink designer, and Carl. While the first two are fairly straightforward in their roles, Carl was a little more difficult to pin down.

For one thing, Carl didn't like me. I have no idea why, but from the moment I showed up he just didn't want anything to do with me. From what I could gather, Carl's job was to:

1. Avoid me
2. If I could not be avoided, then be curt with me
3. Go around to all the work I've already done and say that there is something wrong with it

The designer told me that Carl flies to Phoenix every weekend because he lives in Phoenix. He only works in Albuquerque. His job, when I am not on the premises, is to hang the artwork and signage... My only thought is that if they are paying him to fly in from Phoenix to do that, then the $15/hour I charged to do it in town must have just spoiled the whole ruse.

In closing, I do not think that I will pursue a career in hotel art installation. It was actually a lot of work (though I am seeing that I surely could have charged more) and not really something I can be proud of. It's the equivalent of writing a math problem on the chalkboard and then covering it with a big colored sail. No one will ever see the work I did; they won't even see the art that's hung in its place. It's all the exact right amount of color and abstraction so that you will never stop to look at it for even a second. It's all just an elaborate trick to keep you moving without feeling lost. Now, too late, I wish I had left a message behind one of the works.

"Hello. My name is John. I was 30 years old. I was poor and going to school to become a Nurse when I hung this. I worked for two days and hung all the artwork in this hall. I lived in the United States at the turn of the 21st century. At that time, our economy was going bad, and we were at war. People had gotten to be very strange and mean in the course of my lifetime. We stopped doing a lot of things that I enjoy, like writing letters, or learning how to fix things ourselves. I kept trying to do things that I thought would help. I rode my bike everywhere and learned to cook. I recycled, or I just didn't buy new things. I was scared sometimes, but I tried not to show it.

If you are reading this, I wonder if there is a United States anymore. I wonder if you are tearing this building down, or if you are looting it, or if you are an employee of a hotel that took over Sheraton Hotels and you are just renovating once again.

I just wanted to tell you that during my life we made a lot of mistakes and we lied and embezzled and stole from our neighbors and we hung a lot of ugly stupid things on the walls and we covered the land with plastic that will never go away and we made the empty overly full. And even though that happened, it wasn't all terrible. I had a wife, and a family. I had friends and pets. I played music and took pictures and went for walks. I had good memories.

I don't know if this means anything to you now, or if you think I am a huge sap, but I just wanted to tell you so that you would know. I just wanted it to be in writing so that there would be proof. As of February 20, 2009, love existed. For you, dear reader, I can only hope that it still does."


* Security hangers involve a t-shaped screw that, when turned, locks to a bracket on the back of the frame making it almost impossible to do the math correctly on your first attempt at hanging it.