Teaching

Teachers are going back to school now and on the Facebook pages so many of them are expressing great joy about going back and great joy about meeting their students. What is wrong with these people?

Now I taught for 33 years. Since I’ve started posting on Facebook, many of my former students have written or emailed me saying that I was a good teacher (actually “great” is the word many of them used but I am a humble man; kind of like Moses who was the “humblest man in the world” so I won’t brag).
One former student mentioned that I really never had discipline problems in my class.

Well, that is true and not true. In 33 years, I never had to send a kid to the Dean of Students; I never wrote a disciplinary referral on a kid; and I don’t think I ever yelled at a kid. Of course, I did have some kids that were not easy to handle; two of whom I must say honestly I despised; a Neanderthal beast of a girl and a jittery, demented, snake of a boy.

The monstrous brute of a girl at Lawrence High School always tried to take the class away from me.

If you think of your class as a string orchestra, then I was the lead string instrument. I wanted everyone to follow my rhythm. A disruptive student, your average, everyday shit head in other words, would try to take that rhythm from you. If such a ploppy did that, you would lose control of the class and, perhaps, have a battle on your hands all year. No teacher wants to battle students though many feel as if they are forced into such battles.

I always felt that my problem students were my problems and I never wanted any administrators to ever (ever, ever) be involved with me. For two reasons, if I couldn’t handle a student, how could someone who fled the classroom handle that student? I felt it was a sign of defeat to allow a student to defeat me.

So this bulbous female barbarian would always make comments and try to take the classroom rhythm from me and bring it to her. Keep this in mind. I never worried about a kid who cracked a joke at my expense. If the joke were funny I laughed. If it weren’t funny I just rolled my eyes, looked at a few other kids in the class as if to say, “God is he an idiot!” (That, of course, connected me to those particular students; gave us a bond so to speak.)

She --- S-H-E --- was hard to contain. I didn’t crush her until February. That was a long, long time. I was teaching something or other and she just shouted out, “Scobe, you’re a dick!” I could feel the tension shoot through the students. Would this be the moment I sent a disciplinary referral for being so insulted by such a hellhound? Hell no. When she said, “Scobe, you’re a dick!” I just turned to her and said casually, “Use my first name, Big.” The class exploded in laughter and this beast was finished for the rest of the year. (These were seniors, not little kids.) She could find no one who wanted to listen to her after that slaughter.
You can read more about her in my book “The Virgin Kiss” as well as some other interesting (and insane) students I taught.

The boy was off the wall. The brute of a girl picked her shots to go after me, but this guy was wired at all times. Tall and skinny, eyes blazing, he had no control over himself. Luckily, his string instrument was broken so he could not even attempt to dominate the class. In addition, not only did I despise him but so did every student in the class. Usually students enjoy watching maniacs acting like maniacs but no one enjoyed this creep.

Finally one day just before the Christmas holiday one of the football players in my class – a big and I mean a really BIG kid – turned to creepo and said, “You open your fucking mouth again and I am going to rip your fucking heart out of your fucking chest.” He meant it too because this football player had a reputation for being violent. He and I got along great. And what happened to wired-up ? He started cutting and finally never showed his face. No loss.

I will say that I did like most of my students – and I taught around 6,000 of them. There were only a few I disliked. I never let them know it. But in the car on the way to school I would act out scenarios so I wouldn’t act them out in class. “Timmy, you are the stupidest fucking jerk I have ever seen. Is your mother an ape or something?”

Of course, I never said this to Timmy. I never “looked it” to Timmy. As far as Timmy was concerned, I liked him. Generally the Timmy’s liked me or, at least, they were neutral towards me.

I do not deny that I now feel I had a meaningful teaching career thanks to my former students who have written to me. I didn’t always feel that way. Often I thought, “What the hell am I doing here? I’m throwing sand into the wind. I’m supposed to be a famous writer; not some teacher slogging through a mundane career.” Well, that sand seems to have had an effect.

But let’s be serious. Only a teacher knows the truth of the following statement: "Teaching is a bitch!" It is really, really hard work. It is draining. You are on the line every minute of every class – every second of every class. One of my teacher friends, the late Gene Brown (who died way too young) used to say, “We are selling a product they don’t want.” For most kids that would be true. The kids on their way to Harvard often think of their teachers as stepping stones to good grades. The kids on the way to the streets thought of their teachers as idiots suppressing the students’ enjoyment of causing chaos. The others? Just wandering through their teenage years.

I saw many people come from other professions into teaching; from business, law, nursing, law enforcement and then get their asses kicked. Kids can be sharks. They smell blood and the teacher gets eaten. It was not unusual to see some teachers – and some of these new teachers were prized at their former jobs – come into the teachers’ lounge and cry. Don’t think just women; mind you, men too – often real man’s man types of men.

You had to be damned good at teaching just to be competent.

So those teachers expressing rapture at the thought of going back to the classroom also know, “Christ it is going to be some haul.” The best of the best teachers think this. Those who get daily buffets know this in a really, really profound way. Why? Because they can be torn apart and have been torn apart. They can be crushed by students just as I had crushed the brute.

I do salute the teachers who are going back to one of the toughest jobs imaginable. I also know that many people who have never taught in a public school think what teachers do is easy. Well, come on folks, step into the lions’ den and see how you do.

I’ve spoken before audiences of 1,500 people. No sweat. I’ve written almost 30 books. No sweat. I’ve been on television plenty of times. No sweat. But I have also sat up on Labor Day weekend, knowing that the next week I would face young men and women that I had to teach; that I had to control; that I had to try to make their high school experiences worth their while. In short, I had some small part of their lives in my hands. You bet I sweated.

I salute all our teachers’ courage and dedication.

Good luck.

---Scobe

Frank,

I was one of those fortunate kids to whom everything came easily, all the way through school; tail end of the bell curve, blew out standardized tests, skipped a grade or two while they tried to challenge me (we had many good teachers in that system). Until I got to 11th grade chemistry. Doing my usual show up for class, take notes, respectful and attentive, on cruise control. When it came to fall midterms, I got a "C". What??? I went in to see the instructor and ask him how he could justify that given my scores, which were comparable to the best in the class.

Arnold Steinjes was in his mid sixties then, crusty Northern European immigrant with still a trace of a homeland accent, gruff and mean. A combination legend as a hard grader, very sarcastic, and a figure of fun to the cruel kids because he had been crippled with polio long before any of us were born and used steel crutches to lever himself in and out of the classroom every day. He made a production of it; wouldn't enter until the kids were seated and quiet, and we all had to endure that painful, slow effort with him as he went from his office at the side to the lecturn up front. He always seemed very angry, and most of us simply endured our hour with him every day. (Obviously my perspective on this has changed over the years; trying to remember how it felt back then.)

So, anyway, I went to ask him about my grade. He offered me the opportunity to do extra credit to raise it. I asked why I had to do extra credit to earn a grade he was giving others. And he said, "Because you don't learn. You don't try. I see no growth in you, and that is the point of my class; to challenge you, to teach you not the answers, but how to ask the questions yourself, how to study a subject for its relationship to the world, not just to take tests." I was insulted. I argued with him politely for a few minutes about his double standard (imagine any of this in public school today; this was 1974), but he was adamant. And you did not argue with teachers in that school system, publicly or privately. So I grudgingly gave in and agreed to come in once a week for extra time with him; I was planning to be a doctor, was already getting scholarship offers, and couldn't afford the low grade. (What a master manipulator, huh? My Mr. Miyagi, and I didn't know it.)

So once a week I showed up after school to spend an hour with him in his little glass office. One on one, he was still gruff and sarcastic, but it was magnified like a laser because I was the only one in there. I learned basic differential equations, molecular calculations, a dozen other things that were completely new to me. Everything was worked on a slide rule (calculators were just being introduced) or pencil and paper. One subject led to another. And it all felt very punishing and frustrating. I managed to get my grade up to a "B" for that semester, but was still dissatisfied with it; all I could see was my career choice going to waste with the GPA hit.

The second semester, he was often absent for illness, but still in control of the class grades and syllabus; his substitute, Mrs. Moon, was Eastern European with an almost unintelligible accent and a plodding way of teaching, but very knowledgable. We continued our once-a-weeks as he could; I was not excused for any reason, but if he wasn't there, somehow there was always a handwritten lesson prepared for me to work through. (Computers were mainframes miles away on which I was learning BASIC; larger class lessons were on mimeographed pages - loved the smell of the ink. Smelling it now in remembering all this.)

One day I reported for my time, and knew he should be there because I'd been in class earlier that day, but didn't see him through the glass until I was almost at the door. He was down behind the desk, writhing with his face all screwed up, his steel crutches thrown out of reach. He'd fallen, I think hit his head on the way down, and was mostly helpless. He was such an intimidating figure to me that, while his infirmity was always a part of his legend, he seemed human and fallible for the first time. I went and got him sitting up (first time I'd ever touched him, except when he rapped me across the knuckles with his slide rule for stupidity a few times) on the floor and grabbed the cup of water from the desk, and held him while he got his bearings. He was completely embarassed, as was I. He refused to allow anybody from the front office to come or call the school nurse, so we just sat together for a time, then we got him to his feet and back in his desk chair and he dismissed me from our lesson.

That was the last one. He taught a few more days that semester, but was mostly out ill. They forcibly retired him though I heard he wanted to come back. I was scheduled to take 12th grade physics from him the next year and was very disappointed (starting to figure out by then, in my dim, self-centered mind, what a gift he had given me and at what cost). You didn't communicate with teachers outside of class back then; the few who tried to establish any social ties with students were quickly shut down, so I mostly lost track of him. However, his wife was an office manager in the front office, so I checked with her every few weeks to see how he was doing. She would say something bright and meaningless, and sometimes I could tell it was a lie.

I didn't attend my graduation because I was opening a seasonal bookstore out of town, so I don't know if he was there. When we got home, there was a little box with a note on it from him on the front steps. It was a black and white cotton scarf with polka dots, and a congratulations on my graduation; the only graduation gift I received other than a Timex from my parents. I still have it, and make sure to wear it when I remember to thank him for teaching me how to think and how to study. I can't imagine what he must have endured to keep teaching, between mocking or indifferent students, the pain, the need to show up every day and slog through the routine.

I've never written about this before, but I've often reflected on his generosity and the magnitude of the change he made in my life. He didn't have to do any of that. But in telling this, I see that maybe I got to give him a gift as well; maybe I was one of the few that validates a teacher's existence and rewards their efforts, and I've just never looked at it from his perspective before. I can't ask him, because he's been gone for decades, but I'd like to think it's so. No, I didn't get a final "A" from him. I earned it. And it was the hardest, most worthwhile grade ever.

It is a great thing that this man reached out to you. Obviously you're a smart guy and can fully appreciate him. I had three teachers in my life that gave me a strong foundation --- one told me I'd be a famous writer; one told me never be afraid to control a game (I was a star athlete --- you can see I have no humility) and the other told me she would not let me play ball until I had one of the highest grades in the class because I was just skipping by. Most teachers do not reach those levels of greatness but the ones who do make lasting impressions on you.

I wonder if everyone doesn’t have that hard assed teacher that changed them forever, just like in the movies…

Mine was an Economics teacher, although I never once had him in class. I had him for a baseball coach. He was the school’s hard ass, the guy that wouldn’t think twice to lash out and put anyone in their place, to say whatever was on his mind, and seemed to rarely have a good thing to say about anybody or anything. You know the type…

My team… we were hellions. We were bastards. We were out of control outlaws and legends in our own minds; strutting around with all the confidence of late teens and challenging anything that even resembled authority. Batting practice in the gym wasn’t time to work on stance and posture, it was time spent trying to blast the scoreboard or windows or overhead lights,… or anything else that shattered spectacularly. Ground balls weren’t caught with form, they were caught with SportsCenter-esque ridiculousness. Ground balls weren’t thrown to challenge the fielder, they were thrown to defeat him and rail a ball off a shin… or his chin… at 70 mph. We were lawless renegades.

He walked in to the first practice he’d ever had with any of us, sat us down, and proceeded to rip us to shreds. He declared we were without worth, that our prior accomplishments in the sport were worth so many bags of shit, and there wasn’t a single bit of any one of us that impressed him in the least. Many of us, myself included, were known throughout the town as premier players, and here this clown was, totally ignorant of the lot of us, telling us we were worthless. You could feel the shock of defeat tinged with a wave of rebellion sort of flow through the group. Keep in mind, this was ’97 ish; the ball was already rolling into the whole “every kid is special” phase of our culture, and it was right on the cusp of “every kid gets a trophy”. This guy, this treatment… we hadn’t experienced anything of the sort.

His first order of business, after breaking us down, was to warm up. He declared where we were to begin throwing and how to do it. My best friend, our star pitcher who was already throwing mid 70s and had a respectable curve and other assorted junk at the age of 15, of course went and showed off his arm. Coach spun on him and flipped the fuck out. 5 minutes later, both he and the kid he was throwing with, our #2 pitcher, were kicked off the team.

Outside fielding practice consisted of the pitching machine cranked up to the max. Ground balls came at over 100 easy, and with as much spin and bad hops as his demented mind could create. Fly balls, no joke, were sent a tick shy of 500’ down the field, as he maniacally swung the head back and forth to make you RUN!. And nothing mattered. You could hustle, you could dive, you could bleed out your eyes, and nothing mattered. Unless you performed the way he had it in his head, it wasn’t good enough, and he’d rip your ass for all to hear for as long as he could manage to create insults for. One day, we did the machine in the rain. One of the kids got shocked by the electric cord. Said kid was torn a new ass for it and was kicked out of practice for the week, just because he got shocked.

We managed to convince him to reinstate our pitchers, but it didn’t end. My buddy had a necklace on. Coach saw it and sat him for three games. This kid was a legend, a legit legend… sat him for three games because of a gold chain. It went on like that all year. Running bleachers, kids would fall and they’d be screamed at and punished for falling. The punishment? More bleachers! FOR EVERYBODY! GET YOUR FUCKING ASSES UP THERE, NOW!!

One day, I got benched. To this day, I do not know why. I cannot remember a single thing that I did wrong. But I sat. And I sat. And I sat. I was the best hitter. I was the best fielder. I led in RBIs, Runs, Stolen Bases… and there I sat. After 5 games, I finally ran into him in the hall and just asked “Why ain’t I playing?” He looked me dead in the face, cold as ice, and said “Because you are playing like shit. I can’t stand to see your face out there. If you want to work,... But unless you want to do the work, you’ll sit your ass on the pine for the rest of your goddamn career.” I was stunned. Not even because he talked to me like that, but because I was good. I busted ass, I sold out, all the time. I never quit, ever. I never gave up, ever. I was the leader of the team, and I couldn’t figure out what the fuck this crazy ass old man was talking about.

I was an angry kid, and I sure got mad at that. If he wanted me to run, fuck it, I’ll run ‘til I puke. That’ll show him. He wants me to be the emotional leader, fuck it, I’ll scream all damn day long and ride my teammate’s ass for days. That’ll show him. If he didn’t want a single ball to get passed me, fuck it, I’ll take them right off the dome. That’ll show him. If he didn’t want a single ball to touch the ground, fuck it, I’ll catch every fly ball that’s hit no matter where it was. That’ll show him.

We beat our area's champions that year, put baseball on the map in our football school. And at the end of year ceremony, that grizzled old fuck took the podium and told of the player that was the worst he’d ever seen. A guy who had the talent, had the skill, and just coasted on it. He told of how judging a person against other people was horseshit, that grading someone against their potential was what mattered, and this kid was a pile of wasted potential. Until that day he benched him and let him wallow. Until that day the kid got pissed. Until that day the kid worked. And that kid not only surprised himself, but surprised the coach, and was possibly the best damn ball player he had ever seen.

Imagine my surprise when his very next words were my name calling me to the stage.

He taught me a lesson I still carry today, one that I seem to use almost daily. What you have ain’t shit. Who you are ain’t shit. How you measure up to others ain’t shit. All that matter is how the “you” of today measures up to the “you” of yesterday. He gave meaning to that “Bronx Tale” quote – “There’s nothing worse in this world than wasted talent”. Unless you are better today than you were yesterday, you’re fucking up. So DO IT AGAIN!, because ain’t no one here gonna kiss your ass for you.

I miss that guy, despite how much many hated him. Shame he’s serving 10-15…

Great story, Face! I had several other excellent teachers, but you're right, it's that one....I would think, given the skills, accomplishments, and intellect on this forum, that there should be a lot of other worthy stories for us to hear.

Great stories, all of you. I'm at work, and don't have time, but I'll try to put something up here in the next day or two.

Quote: FrankScoblete

It is a great thing that this man reached out to you. Obviously you're a smart guy .

Babs is a woman, Frank. Makes her story even better, I think.

Oops, sorry, Beachbumbabs, I didn't realize that you were female. I think the story is actually more powerful with you being a woman.

Quote: FrankScoblete

Oops, sorry, Beachbumbabs, I didn't realize that you were female. I think the story is actually more powerful with you being a woman.

Absolutely. She's a real asset to this forum, very smart lady.

Best teacher I ever had was my 12th grade English teacher. Known as the Biggest Hardass in the school, hands down. We only wrote 5 paragraph themes, all year. And we were the better for it. Tough as nails, no compromise in her.

She resigned in protest at the end of our Senior year, when the school's Principal was fired.

She relocated to her small Kansas hometown, taking up her longstanding desire to write fiction. She died two years later, after hearing her next door neighbor screaming inside her home. The woman's Ex was attacking her. Ms.Musgrave and her neighbor both were killed.

There are different types of "hard-asses." There are those who really know what they are doing and the "hard-assing" is a part of their personae. And then there are people who are just hard-asses (as in hard-headed) and have no idea of what they are doing. This second type is somewhat common. They are also the type that get their asses kicked frequently in the schools.

Today's kids are immune to hard-assery if there isn't any substance behind it.

I would say that my hat goes off to all teachers, regardless of whether or not they're any good, because of the tremendous amount of patience required to even teach a group of people. I have tinkered with the idea of going back to get an education degree, and I'll probably do it, but only after I retire. I definitely want to have, "One year and done," as an option, if I decide to do that.

It seems easy to me to teach people on a one-on-one basis, especially those who are willing to learn and/or desperately need to learn the material. I was a paid tutor for a long period of time in college, and for a time, paid by the college directly to tutor! I also wrote research papers for cash, but not for anyone that I tutored, because even though it probably wasn't the right thing to do at all, I had a moral opposition to doing it for someone I tutored (being paid by the college to do so) as a conflict of interest.

The college had an interesting concept of, "Supplemental classes," and I don't know if that's a common thing to do or not. The pay for teaching a supplemental class was $10/hour, and the criteria was that the supplemental instructor must have carried, or be carrying, a 3.5+ GPA, lifetime, and that the instructor aced the class being tutored. The instructor for the actual class also had to recommend you, which simply entailed you taking a sheet to him and him signing that he thinks you know your stuff well enough to teach others. Technically, I qualified to instruct many supplemental classes, but with having one or more jobs at any given time in addition to being a full time student, I chose to only instruct Accounting, Macroeconomics and Microeconomics.

I learned all about having a difficult student in one of the Macroeconomics supplemental classes. He wasn't disruptive in the sense of being rude or sarcastic, but he was Mr., "Why don't we do it this way?" I couldn't stand it, you have a one-hour Supplemental class two days a week where my job is basically review of the prior (actual) class lesson and trying to get them caught up and prepared for the next class. In one hour, on average, I would get three, "Why don't we do it this ways," from this guy.

Anyway, we get down to our last two classes before finals, and out of six students, I have two students who I am desperately trying to get to the point where they have a good chance of getting at least a, "C," on finals and passing the class. (All of my students passed, YAY!) Anyway, I had spoken to the instructor and Mr, "Why don't we do it this way," has a C (at that point) such that all he needed to maintain that C was a 40 or better on the final. In other words, he only had to be breathing.

I approached him before the second to last supplemental class, and said, "You know, you did a really nice job learning the material and getting yourself up to a C from failing. You were failing when you started this class. Anyway, I have determined that you only need a 40 on this final to keep your C for the course, but at the same time, it's mathematically impossible for you to end up with a B. You obviously have the right to do whatever you want, but in my estimation, it's nearly impossible for you to get worse than a 40 on the final. You may want to spend the time you'd usually be in my classes to focus on studying for your other finals."

He replied, "No, I'm not as confident as you are. I want to attend your reviews."

I said, "That's fine. I didn't want to come out and say this, but we have a few guys in there that are really hurting. I have one guy that needs to get a 90 on the final just to pass the class. Confidentially, I'm not positive he can, but we have to try. The point is, I don't have time to address anything irrelevant. We have to stay focused and on course with what I am trying to review, can we do that?"

His response, "I follow you, sure, no problem."

"Thanks, I'm glad you understand."

Anyway, we're in the review working on a reasonably complex formula for that level, and the one kid just isn't getting it. I can't devote an entire hour to this one formula, but at the same time, about 10% of the test is going to revolve around the concepts inherent in the formula. Needless to say, I am supremely stressed out because I have other people that need help, (and already understand that formula) but if I can't get this guy understanding the formula, he's royally screwed.

I notice that Mr. This Way is conferring with the guy who I desperately need to get to understand this formula, and I asked, "What's going on?"

Mr. This Way responded, "Nothing, I'm just showing him a different way to do this, I think that..."

Interrupting, I blew up, "LISTEN! I'm going to tell you this twice, the first and last time and this is both of them. The reason we are doing this my way is because you are in a fucking supplemental class and I am the instructor of said fucking supplemental class. If your ideas or new ways to do things were even remotely successful, then they wouldn't have advised that you take this supplemental class, and you would be universally heralded as the Godsend to modern Macroeconomic theory. You're not, nor am I, but what I am is someone who aced this class without the need for outside help, because I understand what the book says to do and do it the way the book teaches me to do it. You're wrong, I don't have time to analyze or explain why you're wrong, but you're wrong. I want you to know that this is a two-way optional supplemental class, which means that you can leave anytime you want to leave, and I can ask for anyone I like to be removed and they will do it. I already told you what you need on this test to keep your grade, and you'll do that, easily. NOW, you will stand up and walk out that door, or I'll waste another five minutes going to the Academic Resources Office and asking them to come and ask you to leave. Your ball."

Needless to say, he got up and left. I don't think I'd ever been so pissed in my life. So, in essence, it's this one guy that makes me question my long-term ability to teach if that's what I chose to do...lol

EDIT: I changed the word, "Tutor," to, "Instruct," in three sentences for clarification.

If I was a teacher I certainly wouldn't want a student like I was. I apologize to every teacher I ever had for being the freaking little asshole that I was.

Wow, some great stories.

In my fourth semester of college, taking "Feedback Control Systems," I had an 'A' coming toward the end of the semester. Up till that time, I had a 4.0, and I didn't want to mess it up. While working on my final project, my brother came into town. I hadn't seen him in 5 years: he spent time homeless in San Fransisco and several years traveling with the Hare Krishnas, and he would only be in Denver for one night. I busted my ass to finish the project, but I couldn't quite get it done, so I talked to the professor and explained the situation. He said "OK, don't worry about it... the most important thing in this life is friends and family." All I heard was "don't worry about your grade, I'll be lenient." A few weeks later, I got my grade, and learned my lesson: I got a 'B' in the class.

I went to school when there were no disruptive students.
I read the stories here in disbelief. I went to a regular
public school. We wore slacks and the girls wore dresses
and skirts. There were no disruptive students, ever. If
you did the slightest thing out of line in class, you were
sent to the vice principals office. Passing notes, whispering
to another student during class, you were gone.

The only disruptions were in gym class. They usually dealt
with those with a three foot paddle. Have a the kid bend
over and take three whacks to to the hindquarters. Get
caught smoking and you were kicked out of school for
3 days. Get caught fighting 3 times in any semester, get
kicked out of school.

Disruptions in the class, kids acting out, talking crap to the
teacher? They would have crucified you.

EvenBob, school was indeed great in the 1800's.


(Just kidding.)

Quote: FrankScoblete

EvenBob, school was indeed great in the 1800's.


(Just kidding.)

1960's, but what you say isn't far off. Most of the
teachers had been in the profession since the 30's
and 40's. We had a 40 year veteran who started
teaching in 1923. These people were trained by
professors who were indeed had their roots in
the late 1800's.

My junior high school math teacher was about 75 years old, and had no post high school education.

My ninth grade history teacher was basically senile; we amused ourselves holding pocket mirrors so as to direct a beam of light onto his bald head, making the light "dance."

But yeah, there were some good ones along the way, but most were just putting in time.

Quote: EvenBob

I went to school when there were no disruptive students.
I read the stories here in disbelief. I went to a regular
public school. We wore slacks and the girls wore dresses
and skirts. There were no disruptive students, ever. If
you did the slightest thing out of line in class, you were
sent to the vice principals office. Passing notes, whispering
to another student during class, you were gone.

The only disruptions were in gym class. They usually dealt
with those with a three foot paddle. Have a the kid bend
over and take three whacks to to the hindquarters. Get
caught smoking and you were kicked out of school for
3 days. Get caught fighting 3 times in any semester, get
kicked out of school.

Disruptions in the class, kids acting out, talking crap to the
teacher? They would have crucified you.

I'm not sure it's necessarily more lenient these days, just different. Corporal Punishment is often gone by way of adjudication in many jurisdictions, and is gone, "In practice," in many others. Smoking had a much stiffer penalty in any of the three High Schools at which I attended, the stiffest penalty being five days of ISS (In-School Suspension, pronounced, "ICE,") followed by being put on a list for the remainder of the semester where the slightest further infraction resulted in expulsion and mandatory home-schooling.

Further, all of the schools I attended also took fighting more seriously. Typically, it would be a three-day Suspension for a first occurrence and then expulsion and mandatory home schooling on the second. They'd usually also take you through the juvy system (with varying degrees of success) the second time around. It also applied for your entire time in that school, not just that one semester. Although, (as I actually found out) they'd occasionally pull you into the office but otherwise turn a blind eye to a fight if nobody was seriously opened up. That was pretty much the case if one of the combatants was a good student, who otherwise never did anything wrong.

Although, it seems like being disruptive was a lot stiffer in your time. Hardly anything ever happened to the kids who were merely disruptive. Get sent to the office, back the next day, it took three occurrences in the same class just for the smartass little SOB to even get one day of ISS!

The sad thing about students who disrupt the class is that they screw up the education of others. They are like bad drivers on the highway.

Great story Babs! Thanks for sharing it.

Quote: Face

I wonder if everyone doesn’t have that hard assed teacher....

First day of 8th grade math. Coach Haskins was the teacher. I went to talking to someone while he was trying to teach. He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mr Crimm, step outside the class, please." He grabbed his paddle.
"Crimm, are you gonna keep your mouth shut while I'm teaching?" He asked when we got outside. We were the only two in the hallway.
"Yes Sir!"
"Okay, now turn around and lift up your boot heel."
"Sir?"
"Turn around and lift up your boot heel!"

I turned around and lifted up my boot heel. He layed ten hard whacks on it with the paddle. I didn't feel a thing but the noise was so loud you could hear it in the next county.

"This is just between you and me, right?" he said.
"Yes Sir!"
"Now go on back in class."

You should have seen the looks on my classmates faces when I walked back into class. He didn't get any trouble out of one student for the rest of the year.

Smart teacher.

Quote: EvenBob

I went to school when there were no disruptive students.
I read the stories here in disbelief. I went to a regular
public school. We wore slacks and the girls wore dresses
and skirts. There were no disruptive students, ever. If
you did the slightest thing out of line in class, you were
sent to the vice principals office. Passing notes, whispering
to another student during class, you were gone.

The only disruptions were in gym class. They usually dealt
with those with a three foot paddle. Have a the kid bend
over and take three whacks to to the hindquarters. Get
caught smoking and you were kicked out of school for
3 days. Get caught fighting 3 times in any semester, get
kicked out of school.

Disruptions in the class, kids acting out, talking crap to the
teacher? They would have crucified you.

That describes my school to a T and if you were punished for something at school look out when you got home. Mommy and daddy didn't go whining to the principal, the school board or the ACLU. Oh no, they punished you again as soon as you walked in the door.

We had a male bus driver who, if you were disruptive
on his bus, would open the back door, which is about
3 feet off the ground, and physically throw you off.
Right there on the side of the road, in the middle of
nowhere, you're face down in the gravel.

How quiet do you think our bus was.

Quote: 1BB

That describes my school to a T and if you were punished for something at school look out when you got home. Mommy and daddy didn't go whining to the principal, the school board or the ACLU. Oh no, they punished you again as soon as you walked in the door.

If the 60s generation was well behaved in high school, they made up for it when they got to college.

Quote: JimRockford

If the 60s generation was well behaved in high school, they made up for it when they got to college.

Now now, we were just finding ourselves. :-)