I am mean.
My eighth graders hate me, and the feeling is mutual. (Okay, I'm exaggerating, I don't really hate them, but I'm getting THISCLOSE.) Amongst my thirty-three eighth graders I have officially been called "mean" behind my back- and that's just what I've heard about. When I was in eighth grade, I had words much harsher than "mean" to describe my teachers, so I have a pretty good idea of what I'm not hearing.
But they are mean.
Some adult I am, I know...
but they are.
Dear Reader, I am trying so hard.
I tried music- like "cool" music (in Spanish) that The Kids are listening to these days. It was "annoying." I tried videos to stimulate interest. They were "dumb." I tried games. They were "ghetto." I tried relating to them regarding respect. I had a class meeting. Each activity has elicited a negative, sarcastic, condescending response. Today I gave a slower student who never participates a high-five (I KNOW, who DOES that? ME.) for giving the right answer in class and when I turned around he said, "Ew, I touched her."
He sits in the front row.
I'm officially out of ideas.
Ten more weeks?
Ugh.
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