Limited Language

Ali is a pint-sized pain in the ass. But I like him anyway.

Ali is Chaldean, trying to fit in to a primarily Black school, speaking very limited English, unless you count curse words. But what he lacks in written and oral communication, he makes up for in physical aggression. He plays too rough, swears like a sailor, has been in several fights and has been suspended numerous times.

So it's not hard for me to find fault with Ali; he's usually guilty of something. But he's got these big puppy dog eyes, and this crazy mop of black hair; he really does kind of grow on you, despite your immense frustration with the boy.

Many of his academic frustrations might be remedied by giving him a full-time interpreter & tutor to help him bridge the language gap until he becomes more proficient in the English language. Maybe then he could channel his energies into work he understands and knows how to do. Unfortunately, what Ali does get is inconsistent and limited ELL (English Language Learner) services for about 45 minutes a day, twice a week-maybe.

He's frustrated. I'm frustrated. And so it goes. So I try to give Ali some responsibilities in the class, hoping it will help keep him out of trouble, if only for a while. One week I made him the boy’s bathroom monitor, and he was overjoyed with the task.

One day, the class was in the hallway, lined up for their afternoon bathroom break. Ali stood in doorway, ushering boys in and out, when he said the following: "Hey, whassup, My Digga?"

Almost immediately, there was an outcry from the other students who were within earshot. Because of course, with Ali’s accent, what he said sounded very much like he was headed for another suspension.

"Ms. Tienda!” they cried. “Ali said the n-word!"

Wait a minute...what?! I was there. I heard his tone; his voice was casual and friendly. And I think I heard his words. It sounded like...but wait...what?! What just happened here?! Quick—mentally rewind the last few seconds—WTF? was all I could think before I had to react.

“Ali, tell me what you just said,” I asked.

Ali, who was visibly confused, looked at me pleadingly with those big eyes and just kept shaking his head no.

So the other kids answered for him: “He said the n-word!”

"Not you,” I growled to the other students, desperately trying to maintain control in the hallway, "Ali, tell me what you said."

With desperation in his voice, Ali yelled, “No, Ms. Tienda! I no say the n-word! I say ‘Hi, Digga.’”

“You said hi to someone? Who was it?” I ask, knowing that no one named ‘Digga’ is on my class roster.

“Digga. My Digga,” Ali responded, pointing into the boy’s restroom. “I say hi to My Digga,” he said again, indicating one of the boys now emerging into the hallway.

“Him, Ms. Tienda. He 'My Digga.' That him name,” Ali explained.

We all looked around to see who this ‘Digga’ could be. Grrr…I recognize him as a trouble-maker from another fourth-grade class.

“That LaRon! He from Ms. H class!” someone added. Mmm-hmph… I know who LaRon is.

“Yeah," Ali agreed. "He ‘My Digga’.” Ali again pointed to LaRon.

Meanwhile LaRon just kind of lingered, with a malicious smirk I just wanted to slap off his face. “Get back to class, LaRon,” I snarled at him.

I bent down to Ali’s level. “LaRon told you his name was ‘My Digga’?”

“Yes, Ms. Tienda. I say, ‘Whassup, My Digga.’”

Now Ali had established himself as a trouble-maker in his own right. Ali knows very well what the n-word is; he’s used it before in a negative context and suffered negative consequences because of it. So for someone devious like LaRon, this makes a boy like Ali—who has both a bad reputation and limited language—a prime target to set up.

And there’s the rub.

How do you tell a fourth grader, "Look, don’t trust LaRon. He’s f*ing with you"--but not in those words?

Sigh…

As a teacher, I'm limited in my language too.

I'm Awkward and I Know It

When asked to chaperone the upper elementary dance a few weeks ago, I readily agreed. It was only an hour commitment after school in the gym, and I was going to be in the building anyway. Why not? I thought. We’ve had a few dances this year. They’re popular fundraisers; the kids look forward to them; and they motivate students to behave better so that they can attend.

But this was unlike any school dance I ever attended.

By the time I got to the dance, the DJ had started. The gym itself was throbbing, pulsing with the energy of the music and the kids. I opened the gym doors, and the thump-thump-thump of the driving bass quite literally seemed to be blowing my hair back. I had no idea what song was playing, but the kids were all into it.

The DJ yelled, “Can I hear the 4th Graders in the house?!” Kids shrieked and screamed in response. “Can I hear the 5th Graders in the house?!” he beckoned, soliciting more feverish cheers.

See, he knew he was playing for kids in an elementary school. So why then, Mr. DJ, did your next song include “Mother F**er” at least four times? And that, according to another chaperone, was the ‘cleaned-up’ version. I looked around, and every kid in the gym was mouthing the words, M-F and all.

By the time he yelled for the 6th graders in the house, the students had been worked up into a frenzy, which was carried over into their dancing.

I noticed that they danced in a huddle though. Other than a few outliers here and there doing their own thing, the majority of the students were standing in a clustered mass, jumping up and down to the rhythm, while the students (usually girls) in the center of the crowd danced.

But this was unlike any dancing I ever did.

One girl would approach another girl, within inches of her, then she’d move and gyrate aggressively with her whole body—arms, legs, hips, face—then she’d back off, like a boxer to his corner. Meanwhile, the crowd of kids whooped and hollered. Now the second girl would become the aggressor. She’d walk up to the first girl, shake her head no, as if to say, ‘That’s not how you do it—watch me’—and then she’d dance her comeback dance. Afterwards, girl #2 would retreat back to her corner, amidst more raucous cheering, awaiting the next challenge.

And so it went. Some challenges went several rounds, each girl getting in the other’s face; some even ended with a shove to their opponent, gaining the momentum they needed to back away and leave an exclamation point in their wake. The dancing became more and more frenetic, propelled on by the boom-ba-doom-boom boom-ba-doom-boom bass (superbass).

Then the Curly Shuffle came on.

Hey, I recognize this one, I thought. I can do this. I’ll be the cool teacher who can dance. That was the intention anyway. I did ok; I kept up. The Curly Shuffle was at my threshold of dance capacity. It’s just too bad I didn’t stop there.

Still trying to be the cool teacher, some of the girls in my class tried to Teach Me How To Dougie. That didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped. I tried, thought I was doing ok, but then I asked for feedback. “How am I doing?” I asked, only to have the girls break into peals of laughter.

“You look like you’re hitting people!” they responded.

It was one of those “What I think I look like” vs. “What I actually look like” moments. In my mind, I was doing just fine. In reality, however, I was woefully underperforming. Those kids put my gracelss moves to shame.

Wobble? C’mon—I can do the regular Hustle, therefore I can do the Big Girl Hustle, right? Nope…should’ve stopped that train wreck sooner that I did.

Wutang? Nope…couldn’t get myself back off the floor without the help of some of the kids.

Stanky Leg? Nope…should’ve left that one alone too.

Turbo? Nope…never should’ve attempted this disaster in the making. I’m just grateful I didn’t kick anybody other than myself.

In a sea of sheer, raw talent, I was quickly sinking into lameness with my inability to dance with any refinement or rhythm whatsoever.

This Moment 4 Life was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. But it was very telling in that now I have to admit I’m old and more out of touch than I ever realized. Go ahead; LYFAO at my expense.

Sigh…I still have to finish out the school year with these kids.

Hysterical

One of the fourth grade vocabulary words for the week was hysterically, meaning, “with uncontrolled emotions.” So to make the word a bit more relevant to my nine- and ten-year old students, I asked them to write about a time when they either laughed hysterically or cried hysterically.

The students were writing away, and after a few moments, several appeared done. Some, in fact, had already started talking on their own—you know, the ones who view the class rules merely as guidelines that are subject to interpretation.

So I reigned them all back in and asked if anyone wanted to share out to
the class. Hands went up all over the room, and I picked Richard to start. He
shared a memory of laughing hysterically at a Chris Tucker joke. And although we were spared the actual joke, enough students giggled in amusement because they too had seen something funny by Chris Tucker. I myself was remembering humorous scenes from the movie, “Rush Hour.”

It occurred to me that although I had given the students an option, I would
bet that the kids with their hands up are the ones who wrote about something
hysterically funny. If any students wrote about crying hysterically, this was probably not the forum they wanted to share out in.

Sure enough, student number two also recalled a hilariously hysterical moment between herself and her sister, something about a party—blah, blah, blah. I tune out at certain point. It can’t be helped.

Then I noticed Jarrell’s hand waving wildly in the air. “Ms. Tienda! Ms. Tienda!” he shouted. The boy could hardly contain himself. He was hysterically flagging me down, a live definition of the word I had assigned.

“Ok, Jarrell, you can be next,” I said, hoping to appease the boy. I could tell I had made his day by the way the smile just beamed from his face. He’s a pretty good writer and a sweet kid who wants nothing more than positive attention. Even his voice was animated as he began: "I--I was watching this comedian, Kevin Hart, and he was so hysterical!” Several students snickered, either at Jarrell's uncontrolled emotions, the mention of Kevin Hart, or a combination of the two.

“And then he talked about Sponge Bob!” Jarrell blurted out, pausing for more
of his own hysterical laughter. He could barely get the words out, but soon he composed himself and was ready to continue.

Now, unlike Richard, who only shared the name of a comedian he found hysterical, Jarrell was sharing the comedian’s joke with the class. I, however, was unfamiliar with Kevin Hart’s work. To my unfortunate dismay, I was not culturally aware of this next generation of young black comedians; nor was I aware of Kevin Hart’s particular content—although I should have had a clue. Few comedians these days—regardless of cultural genre—keep it clean.

Jarrell's infectious enthusiasm radiated as he panted out the rest of the joke. “And…and then he said Sponge Bob said, 'Let's play a game: ‘Duck, Duck, N***!'Hahahahaha!" And once again, Jarrell fell out laughing.

Yes, he said the actual n-word. No, I didn’t see it coming. That damn Sponge Bob intro threw me for a loop.

Jarrell, naïve young Jarrell, was so proud of himself and his hysterical share. I, on the other hand, was hysterically mortified.

The entire room went silent. My hand flew up to my mouth in shock. All eyes
were ping-ponging between me in my eye-popping astonishment and Jarrell with his clueless grin.

In my head, I was screaming: "AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!"

In reality, though, after an extremely tense long pause, I responded in a
calm quiet tone, “Um...not appropriate.”

Jarrell looked instantly crestfallen. I felt for the kid, but I tried to let him down easy.

“Look, Jarrell,” I began slowly and deliberately, “you cannot use that word,
even in the context of re-telling a joke.”

“But you said to write about something hysterically funny, and that part was
funny to me.” Poor kid was confused, almost tearful.

“I get that, honey. You can write that you found Kevin Hart hysterically funny, you can write that he told hysterical jokes, but please remember that you’re only in the fourth grade. What you cannot do in an elementary school is write about or share the details of his jokes, especially one using that word.”

“Oh,” he said pitifully, looking downcast.

My heart went out to him, so I polled the rest of the class. “Has anyone else seen Kevin Hart’s act?”

Several hands went up, some brazenly, some sheepishly.

“What?!” I asked outraged. “But you’re in fourth grade!” I reminded them. “Your parents let you?!” The students put their hands down and just all kind of grinned at me like the Cheshire Cat’s they were. Now, I remember watching Eddie Murphy’s act on the sly, but I was at least a teenager.

A friend of mine later told me, “I too laughed hysterically when I saw that Kevin Hart special! However, my kids did not watch with me.” Who knows how and why so many of my fourth graders watched Kevin Hart. But I still hadn't seen it, so I decided to check it out for myself. I looked up his routine on YouTube, using the keyword “SpongeBob.” It was a pretty funny bit. I might have even found it hysterical had I not already heard the joke retold to me by a nine-year old kid in front of my entire fourth grade classroom.

Meanwhile, back in my room,the air was still thick with tension. It takes a lot to retain control of oneself in a situation like this, but the stress is still there, and it manifested itself in raising my blood pressure. But this worked to my advantage in diffusing the situation. I heard one of the students whisper, “Look at Ms. Tienda—she’s turning red!”

I said, “Yes, I probably am turning a few different shades of red and pink right now. Remember, I’m the colored one in this classroom. Now let’s get back to work. Hysterically is only the first word.”

Word to Kevin Hart: Come laugh at my pain, man.

Bathroom Break

I stepped out of my classroom and overheard the following from another teacher: "Let's pretend we are in the Underground Railroad."

Ok... What is Dorothy doing now and how long until she and her class are out of the hallway? My own 4th graders were restless and antsy to go to recess, which was to begin after their afternoon bathroom break.

But upon checking to make sure the hallway was clear, I found Dorothy, my 3rd grade co-worker, sternly monitoring her own group, keeping them in line and in check with her "Underground Railroad" simulation.

"You got to be quiet or you get caught, and I don't wanna get caught," she barked as she moved up and down their line. "And if you get caught (indicating one student), you all get caught (indicating the rest of the class)--and then you got killed," she added matter-of-factly.

I had to turn away and chuckled quietly at that point. She was too much! But I give her class credit. They stood quietly in order, waiting for the rest of their classmates to finish thier bathroom break and rejoin the Railroad.

You see, these are the extremes we teachers are forced into when we work in an environment that demands militant discipline, lest one be considered an ineffective teacher who lacks classroom control. Granted, Dorothy took some creative liberty with her "Underground Railroad" approach on how to behave in the hallway, but it seemed to be working. No one moved,talked or even looked around. The students had been somewhat scared into submission.

But then, as is usually the case, one of her kids pushed his luck and made a goofy noise. We've all got that one kid. I knew this was coming; I think that's why I stuck around in my doorway.

Dorothy walked up to the noise-maker, slowly and deliberately. She bent down and spoke to him up close and personal, right at his level. "You know Harriet Tubman?" she said, looking him dead in the eye. "See, she led a bunch of slaves to freedom on the Underground Raildroad. But if they gave her trouble, she put a pistol in their face and said, 'I shoot you myself!'"

Then Dorothy stood straight up and walked away. "Like I said," she continued as she patrolled the kids,"I don't wanna get caught."

Damn...now I had to leave the hallway altogether. I couldn't laugh in front of her class, so I went back into my room and laughed in front of mine. "What's so funny?" they asked. What could I say? And yet, one of the girls near the doorway, one of Dorothy's former students, had overheard enough so that she had a clue. She said, "Hey, I wanna play that game that Ms. W is playin'."

"What game?" I asked.

"You know, the 'Underground Railroad' game."

"Oh, she's not playing," I answered. "Ms. W is pretty darn serious about them being quiet in the hall."

As I finally lined up my class for their long-awaited bathroom break, I heard Dorothy down the hall, now at her own doorway, still reprimanding that one noisy kid. "Oh, you want me to get caught, don't you?" was the last thing I heard her say. Lucky for him, he'd reached the safety of his classroom. In Railroad terms, that's the school equivalent of the Ohio border. Lucky too, that Ms. W wasn't packin' that day.