save before you quit?
Today I came to the conclusion that one of the requirements of math teachers in the public school district is to be a complete numbfuck. I can picture it so vividly in my mind -- Mrs. Johnson (my math teacher, in case you haven't caught on yet), sickeningly nervous on her first day of teaching the hordes of hoodlums. As a variety of students mull into the classroom and throw their limp bodies into desks of their choosing, Mrs. Johnson wrings her hands and looks frantically for the teachers' handbook, provided to her by the senior director of the math department. She flips through the first few introductory pages with her forefinger, and exhales with relief when she reaches the first and foremost rule, printed proudly in 72-point font so that it takes up the entire page: 'Rule #1 - Be a complete numbfuck.' Mrs. Johnson stares at the page intently for several seconds, gaining some composure and purpose.
The bell pulses three or four times, signaling the beginning of class. Mrs. Johnson carefully closes the handbook and gingerly sets it upon her desk, rejuvenated with the uplifting reassurance of her goal as a math teacher. A quirky smile jerks onto her face as she gazes at the dozens of sullen teenagers.
'Welcome to hell,' she announces. 'After I take attendance, I'll bust out the math books and issue each of you one of them. Once that's been done, feel free to begin your assignment that will be collected tomorrow -- chapters one through twelve, and all the problems in between. I also expect all of you to measure the spatial area of your homes in cubic feet. "Feet" are nine and a half inches in this course, considering I am the ruling force and that is the length of my feet. If I perhaps hear any complaints, your bodies will be impaled upon the flagpole at the head of the room. Any questions?' All students present immediately burst into a fit of indignant cries. Mrs. Johnson grimaces, spooked. Not expecting this type of response, she grabs her teachers' handbook with one hand, then snatches up the receiver of her telephone with the other. She presses a gray button near the bottom of the phone cradle with her pinky, and it automatically dials the extension of the senior director of the math department. As the phone rings insistently, Mrs. Johnson flits through the rule booklet, hurriedly searching for any sort of sign as to what she's supposed to do in this sort of scenario. Damnit, she curses to herself as she passes the section illustrating how exactly to impale children of various age groupings on a flagpole.
'Yes?' the senior director of the math department asks in a nasal, monotonous voice.
'Sir!' Mrs. Johnson replies immediately, dropping the handbook to clutch the phone with both trembling hands. 'I issued procedure 97, and --'
The senior director of the math department cuts her off and snaps, 'Ya damn rookie! Procedure 97 is not supposed to be commenced until the victims have been weakened as illustrated on page 154 in your instructional handbook! That way they don't notice the sudden onslaught of manual labor!'
'I'm sorry!' Mrs. Johnson squeals, cowering into the corner of her classroom as the students become increasingly unruly...
This is the sort of thing that I think about occasionally, especially when my math teacher executes 'rule #1.' Yesterday we did an in-class exercise, but we ended up running out of time. At the beginning class today, Mrs. Johnson instructed us to lay our assignments out on our desktops so she could walk by and spot-check. She slowly walks past me, hands clasped behind her, then hesitantly takes a step backwards to look at my assignment once more. A gnarled finger taps problem number two.
'Go up front and illustrate this one on the chalkboard,' she says.
'Wait,' I murmur. 'I didn't understand the question, you didn't teach us what this word meant.' She shoots me a smug grin and continues without answering my question. I squint in concentration. Well, I reason, that look of death must mean I guessed correctly. I amble up to the front of the classroom and draw it, then slip back to my seat. After a few moments, Mrs. Johnson resumes her lecture. She once again taps that gnarled finger against my drawing.
'This,' she says, 'is completely wrong.' She then continues to explain why it's incorrect and hacks my artwork up with additional lines and such. 'Who drew this?' Mrs. Johnson asks, spinning around on her heel to examine the room with beady eyes. I raise my hand, but apparently she misses it, because she continues with an amused undertone: 'Ah, I see. Now that I've analyzed the stupidity of this illustration, no one wants to own up to it, eh?' I raise my hand higher to spite her.
'Kate admits to it,' she replies, her grin broadening.
Later during work time, she was passing out coupons (the coupons entitle you to one extra point on an exam) to others who had gone up front to draw other problems from the assignment. But, naturally, all of the other people were chosen because they had solved the problems correctly. Standing less than a foot away from me with coupons in hand, Mrs. Johnson mutters, 'Hmm, who am I missing?' My eyes widen in rage and my lips pull back into a snarl. I wave to her for a few seconds, and eventually she notices and haphazardly tosses a coupon onto my desk. I think I should've gotten two as payment for making an ass of me in front of 41 other people of higher intelligence than I.
Minutes later, we were being situated into a different seating arrangement. For some odd reason (and I can't say that with enough sarcasm), I was completely forgotton from the seating chart. I was 'randomly' placed behind some girl who's so much taller than me, her entire head perfectly obscures my view of the overhead. That's right, folks, I had to lean into the aisle to see anything. That, and the back of the chair was jacked up (i.e. not completely connected to the chair).
After class I spoke with Mrs. Johnson and asked her if I could sit elsewhere. She had me trade places with some other loser who sits (or used to sit) in this practically inaccessible part of the room.
'It's hard for me to get into that area of the room because it's so crowded in here,' she explained, 'so I've decided to put people there that know how to work independently. I think you're very successful when it comes to working without my guidance, so you'll do well there.' Of course I function somewhat well without the help of teachers -- if I didn't, my dumbass answers would be broadcasted across the entire school. They'd probably set up this scrolling marquee along the top of the chalkboard, listing all the idiotic things I've done in my lifetime.
Can we fast-forward to tomorrow now?