Fifth Graders Don't Like Me

I was working for mere peanuts, doing a split shift, at the most expensive private school in the state of Colorado when I had my first experience with fifth-grade bitterness and play-ground revoking rage. I had done just that -- taken away two of my student's playground privileges for incomplete homework -- when I was exposed to my first lesson in just how vicious an 11 year old could be. My students returned from music class that day to find their names written on the board in the front of the room with that epic and (what they would have you believe) indelible chalk. Simultaneously, they changed from angelic creatures drenched in sparkles and sporting halos to demonic monsters, snarling, showing their bloody red gums and fangs. This was also the exact moment they set themselves to their task of note writing.

Now, I can understand being frustrated and needing to vent some rage. I know I've had plenty of moments in life that I have, in some facet or another, told a haughty authority figure to shove it. But, generally, I've done a pretty good job of staying calm and logging my complaints directly to that person. And on the rare occasion that I decide to rant and rave, I try to make sure I'm not within ear-shot of the subject of my crazy diatribe.

In all my life, I don't recall ever having hastily penned a note doused in profanity, only to toss it into the recycling bin where the person I was "dissing" had the soul responsibility of emptying the box. That my friends, is where fifth graders lack graceful elocution when they try to "stick it to the man."

I didn't cry until after I left the school and was sitting in my car in font of the YMCA where I spent my two hour break working out. However, the homeroom teacher told our group of 15 that I had left the school in tears, so as to teach more of a lesson -- I'll assume. (Not to make me feel like a wuss. "What, you can't handle an eleven year old calling you a bitch?" I'd like to state for the record that the tears I did shed were tears of being underpaid and unappreciated, which is generally much worse than any name that could possibly be pinned to your lapel.) This in turn, prompted the whole class to write me letters of apology and I actually received a few small tokens from both of the students who had been guilty of the actual crime.

Days passed, and my ego healed. And even now, one of the girls still sometimes emails me to see how old Ms. Carmin is doing in Japan. I hadn't thought about that day in a very long time and on the rare occasion that I did, I'd just chuckle about it and let my day move along. That is, up until Monday.

I met with my elementary school teachers on Monday to go over lesson plans for the following week. The fifth grade teacher, Takahashi-sensei, also delivered to my hot little hand a stack of letters written from her class to my friend's third grade class in Utah, USA, which we didn't get a chance to finish during our last lesson. On the worksheets, students only had to fill in the blanks on some basic English questions, but I had also left a space for students to add anything else they wanted to share. Many of them drew pleasant, chubby-cheeked animals and people waving "bye bye." But, there was one in particular that caught my eye. It looked like this....

For those of you who can read katakana, you'll notice that the name under the person being kicked in the side is "Dawn". For those of you who can't read katakana, I'm telling you now, that's "me" getting pummeled.

I don't know what it is, but fifth-graders seem not to like me. And, for whatever the reason, I just hate that. I mean, how awful do you have to be to get a kid to hate you? And, if a kid doesn't like me, shouldn't I at least get to do something that would give him a reason not to like me? Don't I get to trip him when he comes to the front of the room to do an English skit, or tell him he's always wrong, but make him keep guessing at an answer? Can't I make him cry in front of his friends?

I'm one of those obnoxious people who can't stand it when other people don't like them, even if they are pre-pubescent.

Afterthought: You know it occurred to me last night, that the katakana in this picture might be the written expression of the sound to hit/drop something. (My name, unfortunately, resembles that onomatopoeia.) I think I'll choose to believe this is just a picture of some random person getting it in the gut, opposed to me specifically.