Thursday, October 02, 2003
I DON’T HATE YOU; I HATE YOUR DISEASE
Things I wish I could tell you…
You. You try my patience. You are quite possibly the most irritating student I have ever had. I wish I could give your parents a stern talking to about their reproductive responsibilities. It is exhausting to look at you. Every day that you’re absent I breathe more easily. I do not miss you when you are ill. I do not miss you when you are tardy. At times, it's my desire to forget about you altogether.
Why do you smile that foolish, sheepish grin when you talk to me? I will never think you are funny. I will never think you are cute. You are lazy and, at the moment, utterly useless. The only way you can make decent grades is if the school made lunch and football actual subjects...seriously...why are you so lazy? Why do you rest that oversized head of yours on the desk when you should be taking notes? Why do I have to make special accommodations for you, when your only learning disability is acute LAZINESS? What do you carry in the abyss you call your backpack? Clearly, it's not your text book or your homework, as those are often strewn about my classroom once 3rd period is over. Why are the few assignments you actually turn in always shredded and crumpled- as if you chewed them up and then regurgitated them?
You mother and father empty their wallets for you every year, hoping that a private education will miraculously make you smarter. Are they also as daft as you are? You cannot keep up. You cannot read. You cannot write. You cannot think. You cannot.
My role as a teacher is to be a torch bearer- to pass on to you the intricate beauty of the language that is your mother tongue. My duty is to help you appreciate English by unlocking its mysteries; I strive to perfect your ability to use it, so that you may one day become an articulate member of society. Still, when I look at you, I fear for our collective future. I fear for your future wife and children.
Each handout I carefully prepare, each lesson I painstakingly organize, each mark I thoughtfully dab on your papers as I grade them is wasted on you. You are, metaphorically speaking, sucking the life out of my educational teats.
Things I wish I could tell you…
You. You try my patience. You are quite possibly the most irritating student I have ever had. I wish I could give your parents a stern talking to about their reproductive responsibilities. It is exhausting to look at you. Every day that you’re absent I breathe more easily. I do not miss you when you are ill. I do not miss you when you are tardy. At times, it's my desire to forget about you altogether.
Why do you smile that foolish, sheepish grin when you talk to me? I will never think you are funny. I will never think you are cute. You are lazy and, at the moment, utterly useless. The only way you can make decent grades is if the school made lunch and football actual subjects...seriously...why are you so lazy? Why do you rest that oversized head of yours on the desk when you should be taking notes? Why do I have to make special accommodations for you, when your only learning disability is acute LAZINESS? What do you carry in the abyss you call your backpack? Clearly, it's not your text book or your homework, as those are often strewn about my classroom once 3rd period is over. Why are the few assignments you actually turn in always shredded and crumpled- as if you chewed them up and then regurgitated them?
You mother and father empty their wallets for you every year, hoping that a private education will miraculously make you smarter. Are they also as daft as you are? You cannot keep up. You cannot read. You cannot write. You cannot think. You cannot.
My role as a teacher is to be a torch bearer- to pass on to you the intricate beauty of the language that is your mother tongue. My duty is to help you appreciate English by unlocking its mysteries; I strive to perfect your ability to use it, so that you may one day become an articulate member of society. Still, when I look at you, I fear for our collective future. I fear for your future wife and children.
Each handout I carefully prepare, each lesson I painstakingly organize, each mark I thoughtfully dab on your papers as I grade them is wasted on you. You are, metaphorically speaking, sucking the life out of my educational teats.
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