Story From The Classroom: A Severe Whooshing Sound

The following is an excerpt from my book “Things I Probably Shouldn’t Have Said And Other Faux Pas”. Buy a copy on Amazon.

Catholic High School. Saint Charles Avenue. New Orleans. I'm a school teacher. Yesterday, while teaching a lesson and facing the chalkboard, the noise stops. As soon as I return to the board, the noise escalates.

I immediately become angry. "Shit," I mutter, reaching for the call button on the wall that connects directly to the disciplinarian's office. I turn to the class. It's spring. We're all fatigued. It's time to go home, to build castles in the sand, to grow tired of school, to dive into summer. I see that, I know that. But damn, the noise must have been intentional. Who made that noise? I’m not a happy teacher.

"Somebody better fess up before the office responds," I say. Almost immediately, a boy in the front row meekly raises his hand. "It was, ummmm, me." He looks mortified, as if I had just told him he has a few seconds to live.

But I know this student: he's not malicious. He may have a penchant for destruction, but he's certainly not hell-bent on making my life miserable. "So," I say, "Why are you making those whooshing noises?! I can't think straight."

I feel like Ludwig Wittgenstein, the world-class philosopher who would easily get angry in the classroom and bop ignorant children on the head. But he was teaching kindergarten, and I'm a ninth-grade English teacher. A flawed one at that. The student says, "I didn't realize." I want to be like Wittgenstein and bop him on the head, but I don’t.

The intercom blares, "Yes? May I help you?" "No," I say. "I'm good. Got it under control." The intercom clicks off. The class sighs. The student perks up a bit, "I thought you were going to kill me, for a second." The kid looks at me with a sheepish grin. He’s one of those kids who wants to be badass, but he is too sweet to be truly malevolent. I laugh. In a good way. The class laughs. As if it had been a huge practical joke. The joke’s on me.

"That noise felt like it was destroying my thoughts."

"I didn't know I was making any noise," he says. I’m slightly suspicious. The kid smiles as if he knows what he's saying. Nods. The class is chatting. A classroom loves drama. Any kind of drama. It’s the inner logic of kids in a group. Any distraction will disarm their learning neurons — is there a version of docere et delectare — to teach and to delight?

I’m slowly losing control of this class. I never wanted to be a teacher of children. It should have been obvious at the job interview when I said, “I dislike bratty adolescents.” Maybe the teacher who interviewed me didn’t hear me when I thought it out loud and didn’t say anything.

I say to the class as a way to recover, "OK. As I was saying." We go on with the lesson. I'm over it. But the class isn't. The kid can't help himself. "You need a hug?" he asks in a slightly insouciant manner that adolescent boys are wont to do.

"No, I'm good. Just take your pen out of your mouth. OK?"

After class, I feel bad. Silly, even. "I'm sorry," I say. He smiles, puts on my prop that I use for Of Mice and Men.

"You scared me for a second, Mr. Roselli. I thought I was going to get in trouble. Usually, when you're mad, you still have a smile on your face. Here, Mr. Roselli, have a hand sandwich." He shakes my hand like I shake theirs, with both hands like a sandwich.

Even if he did mean it, I realize I reacted swiftly. I scared the kid. Good thing he really didn't mean it.

Well, now I know where that whooshing sound has been coming from all year. Maybe he'll finally stop. He picks up his slugger stick — an affectionate term the boys’ baseball team has given to what I would call a bat. He exits. He comes back in, with masking tape and a sign, "Please do not touch." He puts it over the intercom.

"Funny," I say. "Now, go home."

Tomorrow will be another fiasco. In a nightmare, they crowd me in like the demon in Children of the Corn. But today is a good day. A student tells me she likes poetry, thinks about the meaning of the lyrics. One student wrote a poem about being adopted.

Jim left me a note on my desk. It read:

Dear Mr. Rosselli [sic],

I know you must be stressed. I feel stressed sometimes too, especially because of all the homework you give. I think it would be best for all of us if you were less stressed. My mom and I visited the humane society the other day and we saw the cutest dog ever. I think you need a dog to love you and you can love back. I think if you had a dog you would be less stressed and we wouldn't feel so stressed neither.

Sincerely your student,

Jim

He wanted me to have a dog. So simple. From the mouth of babes. One observation about ninth graders: they remember in spurts. Just like me bolting for the call button. I spurt. One girl pipes up, "I remember what a hyperbole is?!" Good, I think; I feel like one right now. The boy with the pen makes sure he puts away his pen.

"You'll miss us when you're gone?" I don't answer. Just smile. "You know you love us."

And I guess I do. Let someone else mind the gap, teach tone and imagery, gerunds, infinitives, and first-person point of view. Today I want peace of mind. A kid laughs when another kid talks about "reading for pleasure." As if he's coding for a dirty word. "Y'all are sick," I say, instead of saying, stop being immature. I scan the classroom before the bell rings. I sometimes wonder why I am here. Where will they be?

Have seeds been planted? But, who needs a mentor? We need a teacher. But, who wants to be taught? The apple-faced kids? I turn out the lights, take my tie off. I hate wearing this stuff.

The hallways become quiet. I'm leaving soon. On to something else. I decide to stay at school later than usual because I'm giving a workshop to the faculty on how to use Google Docs in the classroom.

I feel conflicted because I know my time at this school will soon end. It's time. I knew this even before I began. I have given my two years. A few more weeks left. Finals. Summer. "Yes," I say. As I finish up the last remaining details for the presentation, I begin to be in my feelings. I will miss them. I am the last teacher to leave for the day. The Toyota Echo that has been mine for the past two years sits alone in the parking lot. I notice the gates have been shut which is odd, because usually, they are open. I am locked out. Or locked in. I call a teacher. A few. No one is around to help me - no custodians. No administrators. No kids. Using my key, I go back into the building and then exit through the front door that leads out to Saint Charles Avenue where I take the olive-green streetcar home to my nest; it arrives on time as if out of a dream, out of the night, under oak trees and nighttime amblers, the streetcar is an obvious symbol of journey, made more noticeable by how I feel at that moment, standing with a brown messenger bag, and ungraded papers. I have left the Toyota behind, to be a watcher of a school without kids, without me, because in a way I will miss teaching, but, I long for New York more. I leave for the Big Apple at the end of the school year. I wonder if I'll see my students in the future? I wonder what we'll learn? Are we home?"

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Re:”What Makes a Great Teacher”

An article in the latest issue of Atlantic Monthly on what makes great teachers revived my spirit a bit.     After reading the article, I realized that growing up I thought of my best teachers as magical beings, as if they had possessed something we didn’t and they were willing to pass that magic on to us. I know. I had a heavy infatuation with teachers as a kid. So I am biased. And now, I am a high school English teacher. So there is that.
Obviously, good teachers are not superheroes.
     They have foibles just like the rest of us. But, we have to stop thinking that “good teaching” is some mystery that lies in the realm of the unknown. As if the skill of teaching is an intangible thing that cannot be taught. There are qualities that one can detect in a teacher. When you meet a good teacher you realize they are never satisfied. Good teachers say stuff like this to visitors to their classroom: "' You’re welcome to come, but I have to warn you — I am in the middle of just blowing up my classroom structure and changing my reading workshop because I think it’s not working as well as it could.'" Good teachers are constantly re-evaluating their methods and constantly looking for ways to make the learning environment better.

• Good teachers “avidly recruit students and other teachers into the process.” I know this to be true. Good teachers create a vibe that sends the message: “let’s be a part of this.”
• Good teachers maintain focus and ensure that everything they do in the classroom contributes to the learning process. I chuckle at this sign of a good teacher because it reminds me of a teacher I had who would always use every opportunity as a learning moment, to such an extent that we as students were not always aware of it. We might be collecting cool quotes to put into our notebooks, not realizing he was teaching us how to be better researchers.
• Good teachers plan exhaustively and purposefully, planning backward from the desired goal. Yes, I agree this is a good sign of a great teacher. They have broad goals they want their students to reach and make sure every lesson somehow inches toward that goal. The work is in the details. It takes a mammoth amount of creative energy to accomplish this feat.
• Good teachers seem not to complain about the system, but work relentlessly despite the combined efforts of budget, poverty, and budgetary shortcomings. The converse of this is those good teachers often are ground down by bureaucracy and quit due to burnout.

In a nutshell: Good teachers have grit.
      Here is a different video than what I originally had seen on the Atlantic's web site on the "Manager Teacher" (a model I would like to emulate). The original video was taken down and I cannot find it, but this video is sufficient for what I want to showcase. Notice two things: how the teacher has the students' full attention (that did not come out of thin air) and how from the beginning she demands from students to illustrate their understanding of what they need to do. But she is concise and she uses "economy of language" — and then the students get to work!

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Teaching Journal: A Nonsensical Rant on Teaching Ancient Literature to Ninth Graders

Uncredited Photograph of a Road

Why None of My Students "Dig" Homer (Or Virgil) 

I finally figured out why none of my students likes the Odyssey or the Iliad, or the Aeneid (except in an anti-nostalgic, oh yeah, my parents read that in High School, kind of way; or oh yeah, I am supposed to like this story because my grandfather read it in the original Greek, or oh yeah, someone told me it was good; I'm supposed to like it, like I am supposed to like Catcher in the Rye because my English teacher read it as an adolescent).

There are better narratives to pursue. That’s why. 
I would love to teach Six Feet Under as an epic - or Angel the Vampire with a soul - or even heck, Mio, my Mio by Lindgren. I am flipping tired of Odysseus. He was an unlikeable twat. I really don't like him anymore. Why do we stick to the tried and true "classics"? Folks are swayed by better narratives that fit their current milieu, but we still drill them with Macbeth and Julius Caesar. Here I am teaching about the rage of Achilles where most kids have figured that out living with themselves nowadays is tantamount To Achilles’ rage. I don’t need to teach an ancient greek epic for them to figure out their own narcissistic tendencies. Now, granted, as a ninth grader, I loved the tale of the Odyssey, but my teacher was unique. She did not care if we actually “read” the book. What she would do is weave stories in class based on the epic story relating to events in real life. For example: Penelope. She would talk about the plight of the single mother—something we could relate to in the classroom, because a majority of us came from single family homes. But, even the kids who didn’t read got the gist of what my teacher was saying and passed the tests. Here I am teaching the Odyssey, about a man longing for home, but most kids don’t have a home (at least in the metaphysical sense of the word) so the story is lost on them in the reading, only to come alive when I mention that perspective.
 

But, I am being hyperbolic. 
Both the Odyssey and the Iliad are vibrant tales. Home, loss, anger, curses, fathers, mothers, sex, honesty, revenge, you name it. The issue isn’t the brilliance of this ancient epic, but rather, the children I teach are already subsumed in their own epics. I know I am going to get fire for saying this, but TV shows nowadays—if you scan through them — have their own brand of epic tonality that beats the Ancient Greeks. Take for example Skins — a brilliant TV series from the BBC. The beginning scenes of its first episode about a Telemachus named Tony— the shenanigans of a British teenager—beat out the tumultuous fatherloss of Telemachus in the first four books of the Odyssey. Like I said, it is not that the ancient epics were not good—but heck—I am trying to teach a beautiful epic here, where kids are completely toned out. They won’t read the thing, save for a few of them, who are secretly bitter that they are the only ones reading. I have too much to compete with: Madea, Fuel, Adult Swim, American Idol (okay, here I will say the ancient epics are paramount). I am not sure anymore what makes a narrative great. I am not sure anymore about the CANNON.
 

I will parse my argument out better here: 

... take the epic of the Odyssey. What do we want to teach when we introduce this story? Home? Right? Isn’t that the core of the story? the return home? Why the Odyssey? Why can’t we teach the same theme with something like Skins? I really don’t understand. It is funny: because an epic is more than a thousand years old, it’s legit. But, god forbid we teach a story that is only a few months old. The naysayers will say the ancient epics are better written. But, I say that is a bunch of bulls*&^. I could create a lesson that teaches everything I already teach using film and popular culture: heroes, antagonists metanoia, epiphany, journey, inner journey, archetype, you name it. I think if I teach Ancient Lit again, I am going to only teach the Odyssey, Gilgamesh, and Oedipus Rex as primary texts. Everything else will be excerpts, mixed in with television: Angel, Six Feet Under, Dexter, and Welcome to the Dollhouse. 

What do you think? How do I teach the themes of Ancient Literature? Is it still relevant? Post your comments.

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When a Classroom Lesson Does Not Go As Planned: Where the Wild Things Are

Max sails to the island of the Wild Things
(Image Credit: Max Sendak)

Notes from my teacher diary on a lesson that went south:

Human nature is funky. Take Max, from the Sendak story: brazen and ferocious, ruler over the beasts. Example: stretch your brain and your brain bleeds. The kids become restless. The Wild Things pervade. I forgot to get the book to read to my students and therefore the entire lesson faltered a bit. I wonder sometimes if words can ever be restored; can a word marry itself with unadulterated passion? Can Max ever reconcile the beast-logic with home?

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Body Language in the High School Classroom and What It Can Tell You About Your Students

The funniest thing about being a teacher is learning the body language of your students and discerning the meaning of their sometimes ineffable facial expressions.

Kids vibing in the classroom.

The Typical Layout of a Classroom Allows for Plenty of Observation into Human Behavior     
      When teaching a lesson, classroom teachers face the class so they see everything their kids are doing during a lesson (even though kids do not sometimes register this fact). On the flip side, kids are typically looking at their teachers all day which explains why kids are often flawless in their uncanny ability to imitate their teachers. Trust me. They can. I've seen it happen.

Photo by Jerry Wang on Unsplash

Kids Signal How They Are Feeling Through Body Language
      Here are some common messages your high school students are sending while you are delivering quality education in your classroom. N.B. I am not a clinical psychologist and I have not professionally studied human behavior — so take my observations with a grain of salt (or, leave your comments below detailing what you have observed).

• If a kid has his head down and does not look up for a considerable amount of time, most likely he or she is texting.
• If a high school student has a pen or pencil in their mouth and they're chewing it with wild abandon it probably means their mind is on something entirely different from whatever you're teaching.
• If they are twirling their hair: the same thing. But they are probably thinking about someone (not you).
• Head on the desk: not enough sleep at night. Disengagement.
• Fidgeters: these kids need to be more active during your lesson. Make them write on the board or do some kind of kinetic task to get that excess energy expended. 
• Smiling: they are listening. 
• Staring off into space: something else is more important. Or, they have something on their mind.
• Blank stare. Does not respond when called. They are listening to music or something. This is a perennial problem in the age of smart devices.  

Nipping Negative Behaviors in the Bud Before They Bloom
      Kids bring into your classroom whatever has happened to them during the course of the day. I did not teach him, but I knew a kindergarten-age child whose father would bring him to school and the kid would cry miserably when dropped off and was unpredictable and incorrigible for the rest of the day. But when the mother dropped him off, the child was well-behaved and acted appropriately for his age. The teacher, who was savvy, told the father not to enter the building for drop-off, and the teacher would meet the child at the entrance to the school when it was the father's turn to bring his kid to school. This school had breakfast available, so the teacher would make sure the student had breakfast and was able to check-in with his feelings — which typically made his day better. The point of the story is that kids bring with them their emotional baggage into the classroom. Most students are not as extreme in their behaviors as the kid I just described, but if as a teacher you stand at the threshold of your classroom as kids enter and take their seats you can pretty much do a "temperature check" of emotions and catch kids who might appear off or "not themselves". It works! One of my high school students would get into arguments with one of his classmates and their frustration with each other would often trickle into my class. But I wanted to get some teaching done and not have to worry about their squabbles. So, I made it a point to always observe these two when they entered my class and very quickly nipped it in the bud if they came in "hot". I would say, "one of you needs a moment. Take a minute by yourself and walk around outside for three minutes and come back".
Making Group Expressions Fun in the Classroom 
       My favorite is group expression: group laughter. I love it when the class acts as a group and the students respond spontaneously to the material and join in expressively. Take a few moments and tell a story. We were talking about embarrassing elementary school experiences: one kid told us how his teacher braided his moppish hair and I spoke about how I pulled down on my second-grade teacher's cardigan at a Halloween Haunted house. I was so scared. When we came out through the other end I had made her sweater into a dress.
       Don't make your lessons boring. Think — would I want to do this? Now. Granted. It is not your job to be the Pixar entertainment center for your students. Academic work can be taxing and kids need to learn self-discipline. We all have experienced tasks that feel tedious — like inputting grades in the grade book or taking attendance. The problem with being a teacher today: it is hard to make every lesson exhilarating. Sometimes, the lesson is boring. How do I make articles interesting? (especially at 7:40 in the AM). And: students are highly critical of their teachers. But, we demand a lot from them, so it goes both ways. Geez, if the opprobrium of the grade would disappear! Anyway: best moment this year: sculptures. Worst moment: being blamed for losing a notebook. Jesus, do I look like a housekeeper? Let's get back to nouns, verbs, and sh&(.

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Word Diary: How I Discovered Coded Languages Like "Pig Latin" and "King Tut" as a Child (And As an Adult Learned More About Their History)

In this post (which is an update of the original post I wrote in 2009), I write about the use of encoded words and phrases that have meaning only to the initiated — or, put in another way — how we can even understand each other at all! If you think about it — words are just sounds, aural signifiers that are inert, the utterances of our vocal cords. But put into context, into meaning, and then voila — we have utterances that can break through the void and become language.

Nonsensical Languages in Linguistic Terms

Nonsensical languages are so much fun. Nonsensical in the linguistic sense, that the use of words, syntax, order of words, encoded meanings, enact a playful dynamic to undercut the formal use of the dominant language form and to lay bare the construct of language, how it works and operates. You know you are a fan of the nonsensical if you can enjoy Lewis Carrol's "The Jabberwocky." I am stunned that I understand what a vorpal sword is and chortle. Amazing. Simply amazing.

The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

Most of the words in this poem are completely made-up. They are neologisms. It was only recently, after they entered the dominant language, that words like chortle and snort came into the main as "English words". But coded languages do not only appear in poetry. Look to the child's playground. Or other social spaces where the need to speak in secret emerges. Do you remember Pig Latin as a kid? I-ay o-day! We used to speak Pig Latin in the schoolyard so we could say bad words. Uck-fay ou-yay!

King Tut

"Hello" in King Tut Language

But, what about King Tut language? I stumbled upon this coded language* several years ago, working as a page in a public library - you come across a plethora of arcane, but useful books.

King Tut is a language I read about as a child in a book by Paul Dickson — it involves taking all consonants and simply doubling them and inserting a "U" in the middle. It works like code. Vowels are pronounced as usual. Here is the alphabet:

King Tut Letters

A, Bub, Coy, Dud, E, Fuf, Gug, Huh (or Hoy), I, Juj (or Joy), Kuk, Lul, Mum, Nun, O, Pup, Quk, Rur (or Roy), Sus, Tut, U, Vuv, Wuw (or Woy), Xux, Yuk (or Yoy), Zuz

Double Letters

If a letter is doubled, like in "book" you say bub-o-square-kuk.

"Hello, How are you?"

in King Tut is rendered

"Huh-e-lul-square-o, Huh-o-wuw a-rur-e yuk-o?" 

When King Tut is spoken it is unintelligible only to the uninitiated. It sounds like complete nonsense. But once you understand the code (i.e., the rules,), it's meaning becomes clear. Once you learn how it works, the code is broken and you can understand it. I have taught coded languages like King Tut to my freshman English class to impress upon them the artificial construct of a language (although I don't tell them that is why I am teaching it to them). 

It is quite impressive how quickly the students can understand what I am saying once I explain the rules. And what was at first an unknown string of sounds becomes intelligible.

But — of course, coded languages come into being for a purpose. And while I did not at first know the origins of King Tut, I learned about it as a coded language that was used by enslaved peoples in North America.

Update (August 2021):

I wrote about King Tut Language on my blog in 2009. I first read about it in the 1990s when I was a kid — reading about it in a book by Paul Dickson. Subsequently, I have learned that Tut Language has its origins in American slavery. Enslaved people used Tut to communicate amongst themselves and to practice literacy without being caught. Tutnese, or Tallehash, is way more complex in its original form than the modified version I learned. In fact, the alphabet I learned as a kid most likely is not Tut’s original form. When speaking in Tut, or writing in Tut, the coded words appeared unintelligible to outsiders; this allowed enslaved persons to speak, write, and practice literacy without being punished — as learning to read and write was forbidden by slaveholders. Enslaved people fought against their masters and learned in secret, and in code — in a way that shows the resiliency and tenacity of the human spirit. I apologize for my ignorance in originally writing this post, thinking that Tut was a child's language (like Pig Latin). It has a much richer history. And one that seems to be getting noticed as people start learning more about their individual histories.

Thank you to Gloria McIlwain's book "Tut Language" — it was the book that I read that introduced me to the Tut language's history and origins. Check it out if you wish to learn more. Here is the pronunciation table she provides (using the phonetic alphabet):

McIlwain, Gloria. “Tut Language.” American Speech, vol. 69, no. 1, 1994, pp. 111–112.

*(thanks to Dickson's Word Treasury by Paul Dickson)
Also, thanks to Wordie

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