WHEN I DIE IT'S NOT GOING TO BE IN A BLAZE OF GLORY
All names have been changed to protect ... me.
I lost my Zen for a moment last Thursday. It was brief, and, thankfully, it did return awfully quickly.
Due to the recent shootings at Virginia Tech, our principal thought it would be a good idea to practice our lock-down procedures. While we were at it, why not practice a tornado drill, right?
Oh sure! Why not?
Because I did something horrible as a child, these drills were planned during my third block. This is significant because my third block tries their level best to get my head to explode in tiny, little, bloody pieces on a daily basis.
Picture this ... our Principal's voice comes over the PA announcing the lock-down. All of my third blockers go to the appropriate location, except for Peter and Greg, who decide it would be way more fun to belly flop and slide across the classroom floor and under my desk. This gets uproarious applause and laughter, and, had it been a real situation, it would have been the gunman's golden invitation to enter my room.
To say I was not happy in the least, is to utter the understatement of the century.
After I finished unloading on them all of the appropriate/inappropriate ways to deal with a lock-down, our principal announces our tornado drill.
The entire sixth grade makes their way, none to quietly, to the lower level and begins the process of shoving themselves into tornado mode like sardines in the smallest tin can you could possibly conjure up in your creative, imaginative mind. Seriously!
There was much crying and gnashing of the teeth, mainly because so and so's butt was in so and so's face, and "I can't stay down here for that long ... something smells funky!"
It was at this point, after using all the Zen I could muster and attempting to get Allen to get into tornado mode, that I lost it. Christy said that my voice went into this scary, other-worldly state. I'm guessing it sounded like a possible demon-possession, as I roared:
"ALLEN WHITCOMB, SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN ON THAT FLOOR AND TUCK YOUR HEAD TO YOUR KNEES!"
I have pretty much come to the understanding -- resigned myself, in fact, to the notion that I will not die in a blaze of glory. Rather, someone, somewhere in North Carolina will find my bruised and battered body hanging upside down in a tree ... right where the tornado deposited me. The lasting impression I will leave all my colleagues and students with will be my satanic voice from the vortex of the tornado, screaming:
"I DON'T CARE WHOSE BUTT IS IN YOUR FACE! JUST GET YOUR HEAD DOWN!"
I lost my Zen for a moment last Thursday. It was brief, and, thankfully, it did return awfully quickly.
Due to the recent shootings at Virginia Tech, our principal thought it would be a good idea to practice our lock-down procedures. While we were at it, why not practice a tornado drill, right?
Oh sure! Why not?
Because I did something horrible as a child, these drills were planned during my third block. This is significant because my third block tries their level best to get my head to explode in tiny, little, bloody pieces on a daily basis.
Picture this ... our Principal's voice comes over the PA announcing the lock-down. All of my third blockers go to the appropriate location, except for Peter and Greg, who decide it would be way more fun to belly flop and slide across the classroom floor and under my desk. This gets uproarious applause and laughter, and, had it been a real situation, it would have been the gunman's golden invitation to enter my room.
To say I was not happy in the least, is to utter the understatement of the century.
After I finished unloading on them all of the appropriate/inappropriate ways to deal with a lock-down, our principal announces our tornado drill.
The entire sixth grade makes their way, none to quietly, to the lower level and begins the process of shoving themselves into tornado mode like sardines in the smallest tin can you could possibly conjure up in your creative, imaginative mind. Seriously!
There was much crying and gnashing of the teeth, mainly because so and so's butt was in so and so's face, and "I can't stay down here for that long ... something smells funky!"
It was at this point, after using all the Zen I could muster and attempting to get Allen to get into tornado mode, that I lost it. Christy said that my voice went into this scary, other-worldly state. I'm guessing it sounded like a possible demon-possession, as I roared:
"ALLEN WHITCOMB, SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN ON THAT FLOOR AND TUCK YOUR HEAD TO YOUR KNEES!"
I have pretty much come to the understanding -- resigned myself, in fact, to the notion that I will not die in a blaze of glory. Rather, someone, somewhere in North Carolina will find my bruised and battered body hanging upside down in a tree ... right where the tornado deposited me. The lasting impression I will leave all my colleagues and students with will be my satanic voice from the vortex of the tornado, screaming:
"I DON'T CARE WHOSE BUTT IS IN YOUR FACE! JUST GET YOUR HEAD DOWN!"
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