Lost In Translation

Have you ever had an uber-jack-a-ninny in your class? He’s the one who is such a jack-a-ninny that other jack-a-ninnies even try to avoid him. Think of it like all the other dinosaurs staying out of the way of the T-Rex.

The primary tactic for me and my other students when dealing with my uber-jack-a-ninny is just ignoring him. He’ll just start reading out loud in the middle of an assignment. Or he’ll break out with a pencil drum solo. And those sometimes have a fart noise accompaniment.

I know, I know, as a teacher I’m supposed to try to help this young man, but if you only knew. It has taken a village (parents, counselors, administrators) to intervene with this kid and the result? Well, one day he incorporated the phrase blow me into everything he said. My favorite was, “When was this book written, nineteen sixty-blow me?”

Yesterday, I was quite proud of myself for sticking to my ignoring him protocol because he almost got my goat. He kept blurting out, “What time is this class over?” The class and I just continued with what we’re doing because like the U.S. I do not negotiate with terrorists (him being a productivity terrorist), plus I’d be down with a bit of water board stuff, if you know what I’m saying. After saying it about five times, he blasted, “Are you having trouble understanding what I am saying?”

Now my brain is raging, “Yes. I understand what you’re saying, unless it’s some kind of riddle, champ. If it is, then I’m stuck. So why don’t you calm down there, Da Vinci Code, so the rest of us could get back to work,” but my tongue stood fast. For that I deserve to give myself a pat on the back.

Although I must admit that my rage-a-holic football player shouting, “Shut up before smash your face in!” may have come to my rescue.