Ich Bein Ein Office Cleaner

Oh, dear Imaginary Reader. There are so many annoyances, so little time.

You know, I never really was one of those fussy people who cared what they wore, or about their hair of what kind of car they drove. I tried not to judge people, lest I be judged. I lived, and let live. Went with the flow. But lately, that flow seems to be backing up in the sink. And it smells.

Yesterday in class, we had a discussion about college students and grade inflation. We talked about being graded for effort, showing up, all that good stuff. A lively debate ensued. I like lively debates. Especially at 2:20. It's like the free throw in overtime. Tick. Tick. Tick. Game over.

Then, a student said: "If the student shows up, and does the readings and the  homework, then it's the teacher's fault if they don't understand it."  What?

Yes, it's the teacher's fault. It's the teacher's fault that the student is taking 5 Advanced Placement classes and puts English last. It's the teacher's fault that the student is doing two or three sports, and playing in the jazz band, and doing all those great extra-curriculars that make school so much more than just classrooms.  And I guess it's the teacher's fault if the student doesn't have the aptitude for a subject, and doesn't realize it. Because they have been told that they can do anything, try anything and that they will always be rewarded for it. With an A.

One student piped up that putting forth an effort would be a reward in itself for any student, that it would change the mindset of the student, and therefore be a benefit. I thought that was really well said. 

BUT: The two boys who sit in the back of class and talk to each other didn't hear her. The girl who draws on her notebook, big loopy letters that spell out her name didn't hear her. The boy who had practice after school didn't hear her. The girl texting her boyfriend didn't hear her. Half the girls who are going to prom didn't hear her. 

Then the bell rang.

As I pondered those last two comments, another teacher came into the room. The teacher needed to speak with one of my students for a moment. Since this teacher also works at a local community college, I gave the teacher a copy of the article. The teacher  and the student commiserated about students and their unrealistic expectations.

"Don't worry" the teacher spat out in consolation to the student. "Some day those kids will be cleaning your office."

I could feel my spine start to prickle. That's what happens when someone gets their Irish up. And mine was definitely upright and locked. "Cleaning your office" is derogatory now.Really?

Because I don't see anything wrong with being an office cleaner. The world needs office cleaners. Most people who work in offices are too busy doing their work to clean their own offices. And office cleaners are nice people. Sometimes they are nicer than other teachers.

Someone can be an office cleaner and provide an income for their family. They can contribute to society. They can take pride in their work, they can learn new skills, get promoted- they can try to be the best office cleaner they can be. And they can have friends, and birthday parties, vacations, baby showers and happy hours. They have families, and talents and troubles and joys and sadness, just like the rest of the world.They can be just as swell and sharp as someone who teaches Physics or Chemistry or Math or English. But probably not as smug.

I suppose the thing that really and truly bothered me about the entire encounter was the big, black cross that this teacher wears significantly every day, like it means something important. Really?  Because if anybody would have been an office cleaner, it probably would have been Jesus.

Here's a poem, Imaginary Reader. Go thank a teacher office cleaner while you are at it.

The History Teacher
Billy Collins

Trying to protect his students' innocence

he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.
The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.
The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,
while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.