Coming from situations where I sometimes had to teach inside a tiny broom closet, or where the principal had to create a classroom for me in a place that was never designed for one, I feel very fortunate that this year I actually have an entire portable. Of course, teaching in a portable is still not ideal, but at least it's a step up from the isolated, damp rooms with no windows. In the fall I battle the constant rain showers, in the winter the snow and ice (especially on the steps leading up to the portable), and in the spring the invasion of wasps; fat, flying wasps that freak my students out as easily as the abominable snowman probably would. Though my fellow portable colleagues and I constantly put in requests for someone to come and spray for the horrendous insects, they always seem to return a few weeks later, each time brining more and more family members with them.
On the first nice day of spring, the wasps hovered around the door of the portable, as if taunting me. My students' sudden chatter as we filed in told me that, they too, had noticed, and I knew right then that it was going to be a long class. I tried to start the lesson, but the majority of my students were staring at the ceiling with dread on their faces at the one wasp that had either just flown in or was already there waiting for us. I told them several times to just ignore it and that it wouldn't hurt us, but it was no use. They tried to take my advice, but every time the wasp flew to a different point, their attention was lost again.
One boy in particular, a spiky haired boy named Jorge who liked to talk just for the sake of talking, made it clear to me that he was "scared of wasps" and even refused to take a seat for several minutes. At first I paid no attention, finding this comment highly unusual considering that all the times we had wasps in the portable before, he never said anything. But as I continued halfway teaching, halfway redirecting the class' focus, I noticed that he was letting out a small sound resembling a whimper. Yes, a whimper. Each time I approached his desk the whimper became louder, and he also started bouncing around in his seat and frantically rubbing his arms. The other students started to notice also, making it harder and harder to ignore. Something had to be done, and fast! When another boy (an attention seeking hypochondriac) told me that he had blood coming out of his nose, I told him to go to the bathroom and take Jorge with him.
I waited until my students were quietly writing to stand on a chair and start spraying a homemade "anti-wasp" treatment another teacher had loaned me, but of course they dropped their pencils as soon as they saw my shenanigans. I would spray, the wasp would fly away, spray, run after him, stand on another chair, wait for it to be away from my students before spraying again, listen to my students scream each time it swooped down and laugh nervously each time I missed, and follow it with the spray bottle to another high point to start all over again. Finally I got the sucker on the top of a cabinet and crashed down on him with a Hello Kitty notebook when someone announced, "That was Angelica's notebook!" Sorry, Angelica. The wasp was dead, Jorge could return to the class without hyperventilating, and my students considered me a hero.
Each day I face dilemmas as a teacher, and my dilemma on this particular day was, to kill the wasp, or to let it go? If I didn't kill it, my students would probably feel like sitting ducks for the rest of the class with much more on their minds than "what is a pronoun"--not to mention the potential lawsuit from Jorge's parents for allowing him to hyperventilate because I didn't do anything about his "fear of wasps." On the other hand, since I did kill the wasp, we lost at least ten minutes of instructional time, my students didn't learn to conquer their fears, and now every time they see a but they're going to expect me to kill it, meaning we will lose another ten minutes or more of instructional time for each bug I must pursue. I have often heard that teachers wear many hats, including caretaker, nurse, mother, and babysitter. I can now add one more to the list: wasp hunter!
On the first nice day of spring, the wasps hovered around the door of the portable, as if taunting me. My students' sudden chatter as we filed in told me that, they too, had noticed, and I knew right then that it was going to be a long class. I tried to start the lesson, but the majority of my students were staring at the ceiling with dread on their faces at the one wasp that had either just flown in or was already there waiting for us. I told them several times to just ignore it and that it wouldn't hurt us, but it was no use. They tried to take my advice, but every time the wasp flew to a different point, their attention was lost again.
One boy in particular, a spiky haired boy named Jorge who liked to talk just for the sake of talking, made it clear to me that he was "scared of wasps" and even refused to take a seat for several minutes. At first I paid no attention, finding this comment highly unusual considering that all the times we had wasps in the portable before, he never said anything. But as I continued halfway teaching, halfway redirecting the class' focus, I noticed that he was letting out a small sound resembling a whimper. Yes, a whimper. Each time I approached his desk the whimper became louder, and he also started bouncing around in his seat and frantically rubbing his arms. The other students started to notice also, making it harder and harder to ignore. Something had to be done, and fast! When another boy (an attention seeking hypochondriac) told me that he had blood coming out of his nose, I told him to go to the bathroom and take Jorge with him.
I waited until my students were quietly writing to stand on a chair and start spraying a homemade "anti-wasp" treatment another teacher had loaned me, but of course they dropped their pencils as soon as they saw my shenanigans. I would spray, the wasp would fly away, spray, run after him, stand on another chair, wait for it to be away from my students before spraying again, listen to my students scream each time it swooped down and laugh nervously each time I missed, and follow it with the spray bottle to another high point to start all over again. Finally I got the sucker on the top of a cabinet and crashed down on him with a Hello Kitty notebook when someone announced, "That was Angelica's notebook!" Sorry, Angelica. The wasp was dead, Jorge could return to the class without hyperventilating, and my students considered me a hero.
Each day I face dilemmas as a teacher, and my dilemma on this particular day was, to kill the wasp, or to let it go? If I didn't kill it, my students would probably feel like sitting ducks for the rest of the class with much more on their minds than "what is a pronoun"--not to mention the potential lawsuit from Jorge's parents for allowing him to hyperventilate because I didn't do anything about his "fear of wasps." On the other hand, since I did kill the wasp, we lost at least ten minutes of instructional time, my students didn't learn to conquer their fears, and now every time they see a but they're going to expect me to kill it, meaning we will lose another ten minutes or more of instructional time for each bug I must pursue. I have often heard that teachers wear many hats, including caretaker, nurse, mother, and babysitter. I can now add one more to the list: wasp hunter!
2 comments:
I think you can still turn this into a lesson in overcoming fear. I seem to recall a little girl (besides myself) that was not a fan of these silly flying stinging things. BUT you overcame that fear to protect your students - some of whom were truly paralyzed in there fears. You were a hero that day. I greatly enjoyed your imagery and imagining you jumping on the school furniture (though again, I might have been seeing ourselves as we were 20-something years ago - yikes!).
Yes, I surprised myself as well because I still don't like them and don't even kill them in my own house!
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