It's Sorta a Wrestling Move . . .

It was a beautifully passing week for me at school. Some minor irritations chaffed on Monday, mainly the notification that I would have a new conversation class on Tuesday/Thursdays during one of my much-loved breaks, but the rest of the week seemed to flow by in a tired river of kids.

The new class turned out ok. Usually these two-student conversation classes more resemble romparoom than anything to do with education. In one of my previous classes--now moved over to Traci's jurisdiction ha--the two 6 year-old girls most productive use of the English language was squirming around the floor saying "I'm a worm!" Or hopping around saying "I'm a rabbit." Writing activities and even games quickly deteriorated into princess drawing sessions followed by "I'm a princess" repeated till the phrase had no meaning.

But the new class of Philip and Stephanie seems different. They stay in their seats; they participate; the speak English, even though at 7 they have no command of the language. Thursday, they became quite animated, somewhat scarring me into a realization that maybe it's me. Maybe I make kids crazy.

Maybe. But I generally do not make kids cry. Keith, our roommate and colleague on the other hand . . .

Yesterday, Traci and I were joking with Olivia Teacher, a new hire who speaks well and has a small son at the school, about how, just maybe, I do make kids crazy. Keith stepped in with "I think I made a kid cry today."

No cause for alarm. Kids cry all the time, especially in this country where they're coddled and babied through their first 22 years of life. A kid flips you the bird, you take away a measly amount of "points" that amount to a fraction of a notebook they could buy with change found in a gutter, and they cry. They get thrown out in dodgeball, and they cry. They don't win a writing game when they thought they would, and they cry.

So we joked "How? What'd you do this time?"

"Well," Keith said slowly "it's sorta a wrestling move."

Quite easily the best line I've heard in a month. It was poetic in it's timing, the silence that enveloped it, and the bursts of acerbic laughter that followed. I think Olivia, being a little older and not so into WWE etc., was more puzzled than uncomfortable.

He began to explain. "He was standing on the chairs looking out the window," not paying attention.

I guess he does this a lot, but Traci told me he is one of those kids that's a little out there, seemingly somewhere else but able to respond to whatever question he's called upon to answer during class.

So Keith gave him a choice either minus three points--a terribly insignificant amount--or something else. Something undescribed.

Naturally the kid took the "something else." Not gonna lose three points over something insignificant . . .

"So, I took him and" Keith demonstrated the backbreaker.




Laughter growing, jaws dropping, pointing, kids are looking in the door to the teachers office wondering why

"Then, I threw him on my shoulder," he continued "and spun around really fast. And made like I was going to throw him out the window." The same window, minutes before, the kid was placidly looking out.

"When I put him down, he had tears streaming out of his eyes."

"Keith, you can't do pile drivers on yr kids," I derided.

"That one's next," he said with a smile and laugh.

"Pretty soon parents are going to be calling the school, saying my son's talking about WWE and backbreakers . . . what's this about?" Traci laughed.

I can see Jane Teacher, the scatterbrained receptionist, puzzled and asking Keith "uh, Keith Teacher, uh some parents, they called, and uh, they are uh worried about 그뭔데 wrestling?" and the uncomfortable silence after.

Keith didn't explain what happened after that. The bell rang ding dong and we had other classes to go to, Keith, other kids to conquer.