would you like to hear about a timeshare opportunity?

Today is one of those days when my old bookSnore job (complete with back strain and panic attacks) looks pretty good. Or my two-day stint as a shave ice stand-tender.

Let's see, have I been adequately demoralized today?

First, this douchebag writes a letter to the editor about how the state of Hawaii is punishing its students by hiring teachers without teaching degrees, who ruin lives and crush young spirits with every bumbling misstep in the classroom. Public disapproval of the endeavor to which I've devoted the past seven months of my life? Check.

Then, my students act like holy terrors all day. My request to have my room cleaned (it never has been)--which was met with a vow from the principal that yes, the seven-month accrual of spit, gum, cockroach droppings and dry-erase dust would be remedied ASAP (we're big on acronyms in the DOE)--went ignored for the third straight week. The three referrals I sent to the vice principal last week (referrals supposedly being the strongest action a teacher can take to discipline a kid) have never been acted upon, so the Mean Girls to whom I've been promising a come-uppance get off without a scratch for calling me a f-ing bitch and drawing a cartoon of another student as a crack whore on the board, among other things. Least supportive work environment ever? Check.

For the next three weeks, most of my students are taking the Hawaii State Assessment, the battery of tests that will determine whether our school "meets standards" or whether, according to No Child Left Behind, it is a failing school and must be restructured. I don't know exactly what this would mean for the school, only that the results will be directly traceable back to me, and my competence judged accordingly. Oh, and since the kids found out it has no effect on their grades or graduation, they don't give a fig. In fact, I suspect many of them will choose to get stoned for the occasion, just to make it more interesting. Outrage with no avenue for action? Check-arooni.

Just before I leave school, I have a long chat with my favorite colleague, who tells me that the lines (slates of classes for next year) are up, and not only are there none open for me, the woman who came back this quarter to fill in for an English teacher with cancer will most likely get any spot that opens up. Wind sucked from my already flagging sails? Che-eck!

Then, finally at home, trying to unwind with my giant Hershey's Kiss (a student Valentine I've been saving), I open up a Title Nine catalog (fitness clothes for lesbi--I mean, women) and happen upon this caption, which would make a middle school yearbook editor cringe:

[over a photo of a black woman doing jazz hands]
"Shawn takes hip hop dance classes. Watch out folks, don't try this at home!"

I spend my weekends writing funny and topical vocabulary quizzes, study guides and friendly essay-margin-comments that no one ever reads; I will probably be waitressing in 3 months; and this hack gets paid to write the lamest captions ever, and probably gets all kinds of free sports crap to boot? This is irony. I guess I'll file it away to put on a worksheet someday.

Oh, wait. I won't be writing worksheets, because I WON'T HAVE A JOB.
I don't want to sound like I'm begging for sympathy. Eh, what the hell. GIVE ME SYMPATHY!

Or maybe this will be the kick in the pants I've long needed to start Jillding's Buildings.