Perspective: Cancer Sucks, so 7th Graders Can't be THAT Bad

Every so often, tending to be more often than not, I'm asked to teach a section of 7th grade language arts instead of an additional section of 8th grade. In my current job, where I've been since January of 2003, I'd estimate I've taught that single 7th grade section 4 or 5 times. Sometimes it's been for the entire year, a few times for just a semester.

It's not that I have anything against 12 year-olds. In fact, my student teaching gig, eons ago, was 12 weeks of 7th graders in Dubuque and I absolutely adored them. They were a big part of the reason I'm a middle school teacher now. They were fabulous. Since then, however, 7th graders as a class have lost a bit of their charm for me. In my first teaching job, the 7th graders were completely and utterly horrendous, though when they morphed into 8th graders over the summer all of that nonsense (for the most part) was left behind. In my second job, the "7th grade" concept was easily replaced by sophomores. I still talk to several of the students in my first sophomore class... but only because I also knew them as juniors. (hey, reed-maker -- that doesn't apply to you!) When people are befuddled by my love of middle school teaching, I know that the image they have in their brains involves a group of 7th graders. Likely tying their teacher to a chair. And laughing.

7th graders, especially in our district, are stuck. Firmly implanted in the ghastly middle of middle school. They're not 6th graders, so they're not the babies. Not 8th graders, as the 8th graders so frequently remind them, so they're not cool. Just awkward, goofy, self-centered, peer-focused 12 year-olds whose bodies are practically screaming "NOTICE ME!!!" As I pluck them down off of the ceiling of my classroom and wish that duct tape was, in fact, a standard teaching tool, I try to remember that this isn't their fault. I too, was 12... and awkward, feeling unloved, uncoordinated, unaccepted and totally and completely uncool. It's just the age.

My great understanding (thank you Magic in the Middle guru) however, does not diminish my dismay whenever an administrator of mine oh-so-nicely asks, "so, Mrs. Rott, how do you feel about teaching a 7th grade section this year?" The formality of asking is nice, though I feel I could say "gobledygookywacamoledoodly" in place of an answer and the result would still be 18 hormone-festering children in front of me. Drooling, most likely, at nothing in particular. They do that, too.

What I'd like to say, of course is, "actually, dear administrator of mine, I would MUCH prefer you use the serrated spoon so often seen accompanying grapefruit halves at fancy brunches and delicately remove both of my eyeballs from my head. But if you think teaching 7th graders might be less of a hassle... well, hand me the spoon. I'll do it myself."

Hormones notwithstanding, teaching one section of anything is a pain. It's extra prep working toward a class that I only do one time a day. It's changing my frame of reference when I grade their papers. It's... well, annoying.

I bring this up instead of all of the usual cancer related drivel because I found out today my lovely 7th grade class has been granted permission to continue for another semester... despite my best efforts to the contrary. I've had less than 20 in this class all year, and let's just be delicate and say that they are incredibly interesting (spoon, anyone?). Actually, to be fair, most of them are fine examples of festering hormones, many will grow up to be fabulous 8th graders some day, but a few of them are actually spewing fountains of goodness-knows-what and they drive me straight up the 15 foot high ceiling to join them. Due to scheduling conflicts, having them leave me for the rest of the year isn't an option, so we're powering through. I think I may have thrown a dictionary upon hearing the news...

In retrospect, of course, a biopsy, CT scan mastectomy, six months of chemo, two hospitalizations, another scan, two chest x-rays, biopsy #2, a recurrence, five weeks of radiation, a left chest resection, litisimus flap surgery and another x-ray sound much worse.

Perspective.

I love 7th graders. I wonder what we'll do tomorrow.

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I have had 6 exceptional teachers in my schooling. Some have influenced my career choice, some simply my life in general and, at the passing of one of them, I realized I should have told them ALL that more often.

My first grade teacher, who STILL makes me feel like I'm in the smart group and always manages to give me emails or notes at exactly the right time.

My 8th grade history and Language Arts teacher who desperately tried to get the history part through to me by reminding me that it was just another story to read...

My student teacher/sophomore English teacher and friend who WILL edit my book some day (who I still proofread my blogs for), and who I will repeatedly tell how important she was in my life because she deserves it

My junior year teacher who piled more wit, wisdom, gosh darn good sense, caring and dance lessons than one would ever have thought possible into American Literature. We'll miss you, James. I hope you're proud of all of your Marillac girls.

My college advisor who was kind, comical, and wise... and gave me an A- on my Oral Comprehensive Exam (but he said even Jesus wouldn't have gotten an A... so he was a bit radical, too).

My cooperating teacher who scared the heck out of me, ate lunch with me every day, and taught me my most valuable career lesson -- if you love the content, teach high school. If you love the kids, teach middle school. It saddens me to know he's not a teacher anymore because he was one of the BEST ones.

They, with lots of help from others, have made me the teacher I am. And some days they might even be proud of that fact... probably not 0n dictionary-throwin' days (don't worry, no one was in the room).

But all of those teachers, I'll bet, no matter how good they all are, at some point, all wished for snow days... we're expecting 4-7 inches tonight.... fingers crossed!

CT scan next week.

Carpe diem. Even for the 7th graders. Groan.
- Trela