Sticks of Fire: a Tampa blog

… or not: 

Dear Disruptive Student,

You:

- are a bully.
- refuse to work.
- make clicking sounds or bang your desk or tap the wall or stomp your feet when I’m helping someone else.
- snore loudly.
- are lazy.
- have lousy taste in friends.
- proudly maintain a zero grade point average.
- snicker when other students ask questions.
- announce after eight weeks of daydreaming, “You don’t teach the right way.” Then your grandmother calls and say it’s my fault you are unmotivated. Sometimes she calls my principal.
- a complete waste of space.
- have parents who don’t love you.
- will make everyone pay for it.
- burp or pass gas when the room is quiet and kids are working.
- are lazy, disrespectful and rude
- pretend the ringing cell phone isn’t coming from your pants or backpack or purse.
- mumble, “They don’t give a sh*t” when I threaten to call home.
- are almost always right.
- enjoy getting a rise out of me or other students. I can control *me* quite easily; however, it’s difficult controlling teenagers who want to kill you.

For these reasons and many more, please, stop coming to school. Keep your sad, sorry ass at home with those who are responsible for your particular brand of bullsh*t.

I appreciate it,
Your Annoyed and Nearly-Medicated Teacher

***cross-posted at Out in Left Field***

It’s always scary meeting online friends. A year or so ago, I remember being mildly surprised that Tommy and Brett were not the types who lived in their parents’ basements. Not really, anyway.

Of course, the rest of the Sticks crew made me realize that the Internet appeals to more than the just the people who send anonymous hate mail. And a few of you have made the meeting process even more than extremely enjoyable. Still. The idea is sometimes frightening.

I’m not alone. Others have expressed the same trepidation with me.

• “Are you normal?”
• “Is your hair really that big?”
• “Own all your own teeth?”

No worries, folks. I know how to clean up, make eye contact and laugh appropriately at all the right moments. I’m a godd*mn delight.

And so it was that Husband and I went out last night with another transplanted Tampa-to-Colorado couple: Chase Squires and his lovely wife Saralee.

I used to read Chase’s work regularly in The St. Petersburg Times. So sad when he left the bay area last year. Yet he somehow caught wind of my site and realized we were both moving to the same state. An online best buddy was born. It’s about time we made each other’s acquaintance in person.

We had a fun double date. Chase showed off Denver with all the pride of someone who’s been here for years instead of months. He and Saralee had better luck selling their home back in Z-hills and offered up several ideas, imploring us to “get out of Florida once and for all.”

While Chase bought round after round, and even our dinner, we talked about everything: trail running, politics, vasectomies, plastic surgery, tattoos, and tennis. My head is so much bigger than his - but he was polite enough not to notice.

This is the beginning of a wacky, western friendship.

*Cross-posted to Out in Left Field.

• Scream it loud. Scream it proud.

The big show isn’t until December 22nd so that leaves plenty of time for one, two or three (un)dress rehearsals. Practice makes perfect.

Where is the best place in Tampa to shout it out? Some ideas:

• - dessert room at Bern’s
• - downtown ampitheatre
• - any parking lot in Ybor City
• - my bed
• - Don CeSar’s honeymoon suite
• - balcony at Tampa Theatre
• - beach under a moonlit sky

Either alone or with someone else, the time has come to do your part.

More crazy conversations from the classroom…

One of my all-time best students, we’ll call him Kenny, and I started at Superior High School at the same time. I had him his freshman and sophomore year, missed his junior year because I tried out two other local high schools, and returned this year to see him graduate.

Kenny, my favorite little redneck, is a delight.

“Ms. Robinson, the principal took my confederate flag off my truck!”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, how’s that for unfair? Says it offended people. Did you complain Ms. Robinson? Was it you?”

“It was not me,” I said, laughing. “You and I have talked about this. I’ve tried to tell you the confederate flag is a racist symbol that made its comeback a hundred years after the Civil War ended in response to civil rights legislation of the 1960s. It was a message to black Southerners that they would not be considered legitimate members of society. It’s a disgrace. But no, Kenny, I didn’t complain about your flag.”

“Southern pride, Ms. Robinson. It’s all about southern pride.”

“Let me ask you a question, Kenny.”

“Anything.”

“Do you like the Dixie Chicks?”

“No way!”

“Why not?”

“They’re traitors! They trashed our country and don’t care about our soldiers. They are on Saddam’s side!”

“The Dixie Chicks said twelve words, Kenny. ‘We are ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas.’ And for that, they are traitors. For that, they deserve to have their albums burned and for that, they deserve no career of any kind. I see. Then explain something to me, please.

“Explain how you can proudly wave the emblem of a movement that sought to remove the South from the United States altogether and Form. Another. Country.

“A movement that sought to enslave human beings.

“A movement that took up arms against an American President and his soldiers.

“Cause if that ain’t traitorous, jeez, Kenny, I don’t know what is.”

(Long pause.)

“C’mon Kenny, explain it to me.”

“I don’t know, Ms. Robinson. The Dixie Chicks are just retarded.”

Don’t kid yourself. Kenny is still thinking about what I said.

***cross-posted at Out in Left Field***

“Damn it.”

My co-worker was angry. I adore her and wanted to help.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I just got an email from our assistant principal and she says I can’t write a referral on a student who won’t stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”

“Oh.”

“Isn’t that ridiculous? Every student should stand up and we can’t do anything about the kid that just sits there showing disrespect to the flag, our soldiers and everyone else. Can you believe that?”

Ever have one of those moments when you and a friend first disagree? I took a deep breath.

“I never make my students stand up. I encourage them to do so, but if they don’t, well, that’s okay, too.”

She just stared at me.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said, smiling meekly.

“Katie!” she said, half-laughing. “They should stand up. It’s a sign of respect!”

“I agree,” I said. “But forcing students to stand seems to go against what our flag stands for in the first place. I don’t think we should make it compulsory. We’re going to give kids detention for this?”

“Our forefathers fought for and soldiers today are dying for our freedom…”

“Right,” I said. “The freedom not to stand.”

“Okay,” she said, trying a different approach. “Standing up, at the very least, is a way to show that you love your country and honor and respect what the flag stands for.”

“In a way, I agree. And I ask the kids to get up. However, there are other ways to show patriotism, maybe more effective ways even, than standing up for less than a minute. Especially if they don’t want to. How is forcing them to stand encouraging love of country? I’m afraid it might even have the opposite effect. What makes this country great is that we allow for dissent. We don’t force people to go along with the majority in cases like this. It makes us stronger than other forms of government. Let the kid be an ass. He’ll get over it one day and be thankful he lives in a society that allows him to be himself.”

My awesome co-worker jokingly told me to f*ck off.

“You still love me though,” I said.

“No!” she laughed. “No I don’t!”

“I have your number programmed into my cell phone and your email address at home. You’re stuck with me.”

She just smiled and shook her head.

“How about this? I’ll post our conversation on-line and let you see all the hate email I receive over this issue. Will that make you feel better?”

“Little bit,” she said.

I blew kisses and went back to class.

Done.

***cross-posted at Out in Left Field***

I feel sorry for my father. His favorite holiday is here, yet he hardly recognizes it. Thanksgiving has always been Dad’s annual opportunity to enjoy a feast while surrounded by a loving family. However, for him, this tradition has changed in too many ways. Children and grandchildren still arrive early with hugs and kisses and the head of the house enjoys himself in many ways. But in the back of his mind he knows. Dad recognizes that the past is slipping away and the future brings with it uncertainty and fear.

“Tofu turkey!” he shouts when I arrive with my covered dish. “Are you out of your mind?”

Dad’s concern is understandable. He may yell, but really he’s just wondering, “Where did I go wrong?” The man has had a life-long relationship with dead animals and is now surrounded by fanatics who are trying to change all that. My mom still serves his stuffed bird, but he can’t help feeling depressed when the rest of us turn away and request a moment of silence. To him, vegetarians are as bad as liberals. And now he’s related to several of both.

“Cheer up, dad,” my sister tells him. “This means more meat for you.”

He tries to smile and focus on the positive. There is something funny about a boiling turkey neck forcing everyone in the house to breathe through their mouths. However, my father’s smile fades while watching children prepare a meal that is foreign to him. He always hopes for the familiar. Instead, a man who would never set foot inside a health-food store will have to accept some healthy yet hard choices. There’s no talking to him about certain things. He ignores assurances that mashed potatoes don’t have to include milk. He shrugs off organic apple pie and warnings that traditional deserts will kill him. We all must get used to the grumpiness. Even my children learn to think happy thoughts when Grandpa holds one of them hostage for old-fashioned gravy.

“Would it kill anyone in this family to buy butter?”

He won’t even get that old standby – cranberry sauce shaped like the can. One of his crazy kids serves fresh cranberries and he’s supposed to act appropriate? I feel for him. I really do.

At the end of the meal, my father swears he’s starving and sadly makes his way to the television for beer and bonding. Dad will convince himself this last tradition still stands - women waiting on men watching football.

When my brother passes out bottled water and grandchildren successfully pressure him into watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, he sighs the sigh of a defeated man.

The rest of us, male and female alike, gather in the kitchen to clean up the feast. One of us tries to convince him that drying dishes can be fun, but Dad won’t listen. He just sits quietly and thinks up ways to avoid all of us until January.

***cross-posted at Out in Left Field***

Oh, my, another year gone by…

Here we are about to celebrate Thanksgiving and I again dare you to watch this newest presentation about your soon-to-be dinner plate. Only a few minutes out of your day -

Do you have the nerve,
the stamina,
the balls to sit through it?

You owe it to yourself to try.

How can anyone who believes in God also believe this is justified? Okay, so you don’t believe in a higher power. You must acknowledge that nothing healthy can come from this type of suffering. Think about tumors and ulcers encased within white and dark meat. Yummy.

I’m just asking you to consider these images before you pop a drumstick into your mouth. Come on, do you really believe this type of cruelty is acceptable? After a meal of stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash, green beans, maybe a salad and some rolls - will you really have room for anything else? Have a slice of pumpkin pie instead. Whipped cream on me.

Yummy indeed.

***cross-posted at Out in Left Field***