Something in the Water....

Sometimes I feel like a celebrity when I walk through the halls of the school where I spend the most time as a substitute. On my way to whichever class I'm headed to in the morning, nearly every child greets me,

Hello children! 

"Hello Miss Barry!" 

A 6th grader noticed my new haircut the other day. The secretary loaned me a dollar once for a soda, and when I paid her back we became buddies.
The teachers know me and have my phone number, so I usually spend 2-3 days each week at this school.

And with so much time spent in one place, I've noticed something.

Twins.

The number of identical twins in this school is unlike any other place I've experienced. In preschool alone, there are three sets of twins. That means out of 16 children in one room, 6 look exactly like another one. And of course, every mother with identical 4-year-olds dresses them in identical outfits. Perhaps with different-colored shoelaces to remember who is who. By the end of a long-ish stint with them, I was almost to the point where I could look for other subtle differences in facial structure before checking the shoelaces. Which one are you?

Like this, but not evil. Usually.

4th grade has two sets of identicals split up between two classes. So when my homeroom 4th grade walks out and the one next door walks in, it looks to me like two of my students left and came right back in to sit down.

5th grade has a set.

So does 6th.

All identical.

In such a small school, I can't get over how many classrooms get to enjoy watching Miss Barry call students by the wrong name--and not just because of my "accent."

Two weeks ago at this same elementary, I had the pleasure of teaching little 3rd grade Cody's class. Cody didn't like it when I couldn't pronounce his name the way he liked (still a puzzle, not tryin' to solve it). Yesterday I was responsible for the other 3rd grade class. There's always at least one troublemaker, but this time the child who consistently gave me the most sass all day long looked oddly familiar, but it didn't hit me until the end of the day.

"Hey Calvin*...do you have a brother?"

Calvin informed me that yes, he did have a brother, and yes--he was just one door away.

"His name's Cody. He's my twin."

Your mother has to deal with TWO of you?

There are two of them.


At least I can pronounce Calvin's name to southern standards.

*Names are changed. I'm not try'na get sued here.

Excessive Mischief

Kindergarten is a special age.

I spent two days with such a class this week, where I was reminded just what beautiful, blank slates we humans are when we begin life at school. Adorable, sweet, loving, germy and mischievous little slates. An age where everyone gets a sweet magnetic car with his or her name on it, and the placement of such a car on the classroom stoplight reflects their daily behavior.
Green, yellow, or red.
Where's your car gonna be today?

"I warned you three times to stop distracting your friends during Quiet Time, and you didn't listen. Nicholas, you have to move your car to the green light."

Instant hysterics.
"NO! Miss Barry! Give me another chance!"

Nicholas throws himself to his knees and clings to my skirt.

*I solemnly vow to never, ever never exaggerate or tell untruths when I write this blog. Everything I say here actually happened just the way my words describe it.*

"I be good now!"

This child is sobbing at my feet. His wet little cheeks are bright red, and I honestly don't believe I've seen a more pitiful sight in my life.

"I be good now Miss Barry. Another chance and I be good now!"

This is the same child who walked out of the principal's office with a different set of bright red cheeks just a few hours earlier.

That's because it's OK to paddle the students.

You guys.

IT'S OK TO PADDLE THE STUDENTS.

With parental permission, of course. Permission slip for a PG-13 movie, permission slip for field trips, permission slip for letting me use this piece of wood on your child.

The only way I knew little Nicholas had felt the wrath of the board was because he brought back an official note to tell me so.

Under the "reason" section, the bus driver had checked "excessive mischief."

Love it.

Flashback to two months ago at a different school, when I first started this subbing gig. The "after-school" kids had evidently been pretty bad the day before, because the After-School Boss Lady was not happy with them. Still unsure how I got lumped into after-school police duty, and becoming more sure by the minute that I had to escape--but how?--I watched her swing around an old-fashioned wooden paddle.

The kind we Greek kiddos (college days whoa, I'm old now) used to decorate real cute-like and give to our Big Bro/Big Sis. Like, as a joke. As in, "Ha-ha! People used to do this but now we don't because it's socially unacceptable and they'll sue your ass for using it! Ha-ha-ha!"

What I thought to be idle threats from Angry After-School Lady have turned out to be real, concrete punishments. And oh man, if you step outta line--you better hope your mama isn't cool with a stranger hitting you.

Back to kindergarten:

Nicholas is in such hysterics in front of his classmates that he finds himself incapable of getting up off the carpet. Had this been the first time I witnessed such a sight, I may have given him a fourth chance. But Nicholas was just as upset when I asked him to "move his car" the day before when a similar incident occurred.

And there are 20 other sets of wide eyes just waiting for Miss Barry to be weak so The Overthrow can commence.

After about a minute of wailing on the floor, I'm finally able to convince Nicholas to stand up. He stumbles tearfully over to the stoplight on the wall, picks up his magnetic car, and places it on the green magnet sticker.

You know what happens when you reach the green magnet sticker?

Nothing.

Nicholas returns to his desk. Until Quiet Time is over, the only sounds I hear are his despairing--but quiet--sobs.

To be clear, this is the same Nicholas who had absolutely no visible reaction to the whaling his little bottom had received that morning. None.

Man, if my mom called the school at 9:35 in the morning to tell my principal it was okay to paddle my bottom when I was any age at all, I certainly wouldn't email her a link to my blog.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. You guys have always been very nice when it comes to this kind of thing.

"Well, you didn't want to move your magnetic car..."

Now, with all my disbelief about corporal punishment still being legal here, I had to do my research. And Alabama isn't alone--she's among 19 states that allow it.

Idaho is included in those states. 

....But of course we are.

Looks like I need to peel off the cute little stickers my Greek Little put on my Big/Lil paddle before I get back to Idaho.

New Job, New Probs

Hello world!

After attempting to get a "real job" in elementary schools, I was informed that my elementary education degree doesn't really mean so much anywhere other than Idaho.

Because I don't plan on staying here forever, I opted to not spend hundreds of dollars on state exams. So, after passing a mandatory tuberculosis test and proof that I graduated high school (whew), I am a certified substitute teacher down here in The South.

And I look just like this.

People ask me if there could actually be enough teachers absent every day for people like me to make a living babysitting classrooms. The answer is yes, there are enough teachers absent every day. Making a living is a different story, but I am still here--living--so yes. I am making a living. Just a substantially lower living than substitute teachers in nearly every other state.

Thaaaaanks Alabama.

Each day begins with a prayer for patience, followed by a power struggle as I walk into a new room full of new faces and new names. My northern accent has grown-ups guessing I'm from Wisconsin or Canada. The kids think I'm from...well. I'll get to that.

Apparently, we Yankees (but am I a Yankee?) just cannot pronounce things correctly.

It is so awesome how ticked off some of these little country kids can get if I mispronounce their name.

Taking attendance: arguably the most challenging part of my day.

"Cody. Is there a Cody here?"

"No, my name is Cody."

"Coldy?"

Roll Tide!

"No! Cody. C-o-d-y. Not Coldy."

"I said Cody the first time."

"You said it wrong. It's Cody."

Something about the way the local accent (oh, and don't get me started on Sawyer. SAW-yur? Saw-YOUR? I'll never get it right here) enunciates some mysterious part of that name makes every student in the class call out, "No Miss Barry, that's not right!"



Whatever kid. I've got bigger fish to fry, like the child who has taken the sharp part off his ruler and is dueling with his unarmed neighbor's face.
His face.
Come. ON. Didn't kids stop doing that when I was in 3rd grade?

Anyway, Cody (CO-dy) loudly challenges me: "Miss Lady d'you go for Alabama or Auburn?"

The class is simply not prepared for my response.

"Actually, I don't care. I don't go for either."

I wish I had never exaggerated when story-telling, because I am telling the absolute gospel truth when I say that the entire class gasped collectively in absolute horror.

"What do you mean?" 

The concept is just not familiar to them. The culture here is all about Alabama and Auburn football. Being someone who doesn't care about football, or really any sport--I prefer things I'm good at, thank you--I'm not about to pretend to choose a rivalry team here.

"I'm from Idaho. I go for the Vandals."

My man Joe

This bit of news inspires a fresh round of questions from the room.

"Miss Barry do you have those things--those pointy things, they're not hills...um..."

"Mountains?"

"Do you speak Spanish?"

"Is it cold there?"

Yes. We have the mountains. And yes, I speak Spanish--though I don't know how that relates to the conversation. I draw a quick outline of Idaho on the board and explain a little more about the gem state.

I forget about the whole thing until lunchtime, when once again Cody and I are at battle with his name.

"Cody, straight line please."

"Miss Barry that ain't my name! It's CO-dee. Not Co-DEE!"

Another student pipes up in my defense. "Be nice to Miss Barry, she's from a different country!"

Wait.

They think Idaho is a different country. 

Throw in potatoes, and it's actually pretty accurate.

That's okay kids.

I guess American History isn't until 5th grade anyway. 

According to Plan

I have a degree.
This particular thought dashes across my mind at least 3-5 times a day. It's not because five months after walking across the prestigious stage of the University of Idaho graduation ceremony I am still euphoric that I joined the 6.7% of the world with a college degree.
This thought usually crosses my mind when I am changing urinal cakes.
Urinal cakes.
Or when dealing with a customer whom I would like to send to time-out.
Because I work in the fast food industry.

Though my sweet Little Grandma has passed on to heaven, thus shrinking any chance this blog will be read by real humans by about half, I am using this blog to come out to the world.
Hello world!
Not only do I hold a college degree, I also hold two minimum-wage jobs and a humbled sense of self.

The plan was this:
1. Graduate!
2. Move to Alabama *cue banjo music*
3. Develop sweet southern drawl and enjoy the hospitality
4. Get dat money

The plan has gone more like this:
1. Graduate!
2.Move to Alabama *cue banjo music*
3. Use "y'all" way more than could be considered appropriate
4. Scrape...dat....money

Hello world! I am a (fairly) fresh college graduate, whose immediate post-graduation professional life is not going quite according to plan. This blog started two years ago in Spain as an online journal for my family to read about my fabulous adventures. Now, I'm using it as a therapeutic outlet to drum up the drama and turn my southern happenin's into...fabulous adventures.

Nobody cared....

I have a degree. But nobody seems to care right now. So Blanquita is back, y'all.


....I'm pretty sure that's how you spell "y'all."