Tag Archives: Keurig

Coffee is Teacher Crack

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English: Cute coffee.

English: Cute coffee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Coffee is teacher crack. I’m about to make 30 cups and line them up on the back of my desk. I don’t only double-fist cups of coffee, I “quad” them. This is a technique I saw once in college, where the individual rehydrating himself carried four cups, two in the left hand, two in the right hand, drinking from the front two while the liquid from the back ones cascaded into the front. It works nicely for coffee.

 

Some days, I wish I could come into school with a flask, but even if I could, there’s no point. I don’t really drink. If I filled it with coffee, I’d just get mocked. It’s not really gangsta or effective.

 

I can’t be a drug addict. I know crack’s bad for you; I don’t even like the plumber crack I endure as a result of tall students busting a sag. So, since drugs and alcohol aren’t a possibility, coffee’s the only thing left.

 

Coffee’s a drug, I guess. When we were little, my sister discovered that in her health program. Caffeine is a drug. She loved to help educate others, “My mom’s a drug addict!” she’d scream in all public places. Mom loves coffee, too.

 

I get half my calories from coffee. That’s no joke. I used to drink it black when I worked in restaurants, but now, I enjoy a little cream and agave to provide that “Calgon, take me a way,” moment. The American Medical Association, the New England Journal of Medicine, or some publication with a ton of doctors, at any rate, recently said I could drink as much coffee as I could physically consume.  That’s good, because I drink way too much. I’ve got a fair-trade farmer at the ready with a beeper.  On a normal day, I drink a lot, but lately all this testing, grading, benchmarking, and evaluating is making me drink even more. When I’m actually teaching, I’m never at my desk–I’m moving around, so I don’t drink as much. When I’m dealing data and numbers and piles, I’ve started to vacuum it in. I feel like a kamakaze pilot on his last mission, “BONZAIIIIIII” Another cup of coffee hits the deck. I sure hope Mayor Bloomberg doesn’t walk in and take away the big mug. That’d be a disaster.

 

I’m not here to talk about testing, I’m here to reflect upon whether I have a problem–an addiction even–or whether, in fact, my coffee consumption might be beneficial to my students. Some days I drink so much coffee that I can actually teach two weeks of lessons in fifteen minutes,  giving the test before the activity is complete. That’s speed. Efficiency. The mark of a good educator. Other days I hear my inner voice, and know I should slow down a bit. Pause. Breathe. Drink more water or something. Then I rationalize that water is in coffee and I make…just…one….more…cup. Tomorrow I’ll have less. I promise.

 

That’s the mark of an addict.

 

“It’s good coffee though,” I think. An addict would have that three-dollar bag cut down with the cheap stuff. Reuse the grinds. I never do that. I spring for the best. An addict would steal, rob, and lie to get his coffee. I don’t do that either–I just walk over to the Keurig station I’ve set up in my room and push the button. Simple.

 

I think coffee might be good–it’s the only time we see each other as faculty. We see each other so seldom sometimes that I introduced myself to someone I actually worked with at a conference. If we didn’t have museum tags on our doors, “Mrs. So and So,” we probably wouldn’t even know some of the exhibits in the rooms.

 

Drink More CoffeeCoffee makes people talk. They pilgrimage to the Keurig and make coffee while I teach. I like when people do this–I like to be social and see my coworkers. Coffee helps me do that. I don’t mind keeping the place stocked up for that reason. I put coffee under my “friendship and happiness budget.” Sometimes I wish I could sit down and actually have coffee and talk, but I can’t because there are 25 kids behind me who say otherwise about me concentrating on one coherent thought at a time.

Today I’m on cup two. That’s not enough. I’ll make one for the drive, and restock the Keurig for the TGIF caffeine extravaganza. If you work with me, come in. There’s cream in the fridge, and agave and sugar on the table. Even some honey for you teetotalers. Because when you have “coffee” with someone, you don’t always have to drink coffee. But I always do–seems a waste to do otherwise. Smile and say hi on your way out. It’s probably the only time we’ll get to converse. I want to remember your name.

 

[image: squidoo.com/cafetieres]

 

 

 

How to Scare Students on Parent Teacher Night

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image: nohomers.net

Last night was parent teacher night.  I love parent teacher night, but I don’t really love the format–basically, a million parents line up for ten seconds of my time. I feel somewhat like a cross between really, really rude, and a rock star.

We put out appointment sheets, but they never work for me, because they contain five-minute slots over the course of two hours, and I have 252 students this year.  That math just doesn’t hold up.  But, I do the best I can. I smile, thank them for coming, tell them I’ll be quick and that next year I’ll move the Keurig out in the hall with snacks. They smile and nobody yells at me to get moving. Many times the students come along, and often there are brothers and sisters who have been dragged out into the night to see me, too.  For them, I have a supply of crayons and my awesome fish tank to keep for entertainment and I say that I look forward to teaching them in seven years.

Holding parent conferences is a fine art–I’ve been on both sides of this aisle–the receiving end of conferences you know aren’t going to go well, and the facilitating end of thousands of conferences that I insist bring some modicum of joy to the adult who is seeing me at the end of a long day and who is entrusting me with their child.

But the students are always terrified. “What will she say?” That, I don’t mind, because it buys me at least two days of good behavior in advance. The quickest way to put the fear of God into a student who dares to brave the conference with their families is—to be really, really nice.

It starts out like this: The day before the conferences, I ask, “Hey, anyone coming to see me or am I going to be sitting here drinking coffee pondering the meaning of life by myself.”

A kid will approach, “I might come. What are you gonna say?”

“You know, the usual.” I say.

“What’s ‘the usual’?” usually the Student in Question has some inner conflict–did I do my homework? Did I fail to shut up in a timely manner? Did I forget my watch at home while meandering to her class? Do I come prepared? What will she SAY?

That’s the beauty. I never, ever say anything but nice things. No parent wants to drive from three towns away to see me for five minutes after working all day. They probably rushed home to have a quick dinner and collect kids–they don’t want to hear bad things. Parents hear bad things all the time. “Your son didn’t do his homework.” “Your daughter talks while I’m teaching.” “I think your child will be on the news someday, and it won’t be good.” You’ll never hear that from me. It’s not that I don’t express concerns–I do. I just find the greatness in each student and state it in caps with an exclamation point.

Sometimes, when a family member is clearly expecting to hear bad things I’ll come right out and speak to the question, “Listen, your son has amazing creativity–he organizes a little differently, but heck, so do I, and I’ve been successful in life. We all have our styles–I’ll help keep him on task.”

When I state things like that, I can see the hesitation leave their faces.  I see that years of negative meetings are opening up to the possibility that parent-teacher dialogue can be productive and positive.

Last night I said things like, “I can help you (student) to focus better, but honestly, your boss won’t fire your dad. He’ll fire you. It’s my job to prepare you so that doesn’t happen and you call the shots in your career. Can we achieve that goal?”

“Your daughter is respectful and has a great group of friends. You should be proud.”

“Your son hates school–let’s be honest. But that’s okay. [To student:] I daresay you’ve missed some skills–we’ll catch you up on the side, if you come at these times. No one will ever know.”

“Your daughter is very intelligent–she will always get A’s. But I don’t want her to get an A from me, I want her to imagine that scholarship in four years–I’d like her to work on college-level writing and research–we’re going to shoot for that goal instead. Here’s how…”

and the granddaddy of them all…

“Your son should consider performance. He is talented beyond measure.”  I know–where’d that come from? It’s something I’ve said only one other time in my entire career teaching. But when I see it, I have to acknowledge it.  ”Consider researching the greats, reading about the greats, finding local people to mentor you, and starting small.  You should be very busy practicing and improving your craft if you’re serious.”  Basically, I sentenced that boy to four years of extra work if he does it right. Which I hope he does.

What does every adult want to hear at a parent-teacher conference? They want to hear that their student has potential. That their student is kind and respectful. That their student will not be stuck living at home playing video games them forever.  Families have different values–certain cultures value academics so much that I always include “always works hard in class.”  Others value respect above all.

“Well, your daughter has a 110% in all classes, and she found the cure for cancer yesterday,” I will say.

“Yes, but is she respectful?”

Parents want to know that their children have good friends. While I’ll never talk about someone else’s student with another family, I might say, “Your son is getting involved in school and making a lot of good friends–I hope you’re proud of him and that you have a chance to meet his friends.”  That puts families at ease.

Setting up those relationships is always, always important.  I wish I had tons of time to just sit and converse with families, and thank them for lending me their students for a year or in some cases more.  I now see families where I’ve had multiple members. I’m not old enough to start having children of students–when that happens, I’ll probably be that old hippie-looking teacher with the silver braid talking about how in my day MTV was just invented and we only had one pair of sneakers, and computers hadn’t been invented so we had to read books. And when we communicated with friends, we had to pass notes on paper–and we liked it.

Today, I’ll go to school and thank everyone for bringing their families–it’s an honor that they did, because I like to assume that people have much better things to do than traipsing out to see me for such a small time. And then I’ll laugh and say, “What did you think I was going to say? Did I scare you?”

They will laugh with uncertainty–always keep them guessing–it’s the key to performing, to teaching, and to life–and then we will have a great class.

[Note: Please see my board on Learnist about having a successful parent-teacher night. This should be a time we look forward to on both sides, never a time of dread. Hope it helps!]

Give Me Some #$%&@*% Coffee, Not an Existential Experience!

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Most Rhode Islanders would swim in their iced coffee if they were just one more size larger.

Coffee has a special place in Rhode Island.  Coffee milk is the state drink.  Dunkin Donuts, once regional, went from a local caffeine fix to a national institution.  ”America Runs on Dunkin.” And yes it does.

Even though Rhode Island has been surpassed by Washington DC and Baltimore as having the worst drivers in the nation, there are still tons of accidents and near misses, most related to Dunkin Donuts parking lots. It is a fact that most of the traffic accidents in the state do not occur because people forgot to purchase the blinker package on their new cars (yes, you do have to request it separately in this state) or because they thought the moon roof was for the middle finger. They happen due to a lack of Dunkin Donuts coffee.

I know, I used to investigate claims for a major insurance company.  Everyone crashes in a Dunk parking lot because they do not properly process the law of physics that states “two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time” until their coffee has actually been consumed. And even though it’s impossible to travel more than 5 mph in the space between the entrance and the drive thru, the before-coffee accidents are never pretty.

Coffee is so important in Rhode Island that even the old Providence Civics Center has been renamed–in an age of corporatization, it seems only fitting to name it “The Dunk.” I used to think that was because the Providence College basketball team was pretty good and people enjoyed the players slamming the ball into the hoop (ergo, “dunk”). Incidentally, they should be good with the tuition they are charging these days.  But that’s not the reason for the name. It is because Dunkin Donuts bought, I mean sponsored, the renovations to the Civics Center, doing an excellent job including all the typical shades of pink and orange one associates with a hot, steaming, fresh cup of coffee.

Except that most Rhode Islanders drink iced coffee in all seasons. The fact that someone shoveling snow does so with an iced coffee in hand used to mystify me, but I’ve come to realize that there are things about Rhode Island I will never understand–like the accent and why Del’s lemonade forgets to peel the lemon, leaving in chunks of sour rind.  Iced coffee in winter, I can accept. What I can’t accept is the seven-cup insulation system that Dunkin Donuts uses to keep it cold until the next polar freeze, killing a little piece of the environment with each large satisfying cup.

We have Starbucks here, too, but that’s expensive. A West Coast subversion, actually. Most locals can do without it.  Rhode Islanders aren’t fancy people creating grunge music and investing in four-dollar lattes that no one can spell let alone pronounce.  I love Starbucks, but I STILL can’t translate which size is which into Italian. Just give me a really big coffee that doesn’t cost half my paycheck. Sorry, that doesn’t exist? Well, give me the one over there, then.

My friend and almost-colleague agrees with me on that point.

“I just want a %$^* cup of coffee, not an existential experience.”

I agree.  I do think it’s super cool to see people obviously much smarter than me dressed entirely in black, huddled around books and electronic devices–the types of people who have hair sticking straight up on one side of their head because they are constantly tugging at it while ruminating about the root cause of human suffering.  Sometimes it gets in the way of getting my caffeine, though, because each one of the beverages they order takes roughly five hours to make. When I need a “coffee quickie” to boost my spirits, I can’t wait behind people talking about the meaning of life.

I know that the reason they are there is because either someone paid a lot of money for their particular breed of graduate school or because they are truly smart enough to order their cup of coffee properly–and that, I respect. Not me, I always get it wrong. I was advised that using the right word order is actually part of the Starbucks’ training program. The size, kind, flavor additions, exclusions, and cream choice must go in the right order and flow like the most elevating spoken-word. I don’t know what that word order is. I don’t flow. That fragments the harmony of the universe causing everyone to frown before taking my fifty dollars and asking me if I’d like anything else.

I don’t want a coffee that requires a sentence, paragraph, personal statement or membership to Mensa to order.

I also don’t want a coffee that requires me to buy an additional Rosetta Stone language system to order correctly.

I don’t want a coffee that has exclusions like, “no whip, half-decaf, just a touch of soy, light on the styrofoam.”

And I don’t want a second mortgage. The first one’s enough, thank you.

I just want a really strong cup of coffee. And once in a while, when I’m certain no one is looking–even a flavor.   I usually make my own coffee with my Keurig or French press, but sometimes I go to my local joint–Brewed Awakenings. They’re a small business in the community getting much bigger. I’m rooting for them.   They always smile, grind my pounds of coffee when necessary so I can use it in my Keurig environmentally friendly-kill-no-spotted-owls refill cup, and tell me to have a nice day. Because if they forgot to tell me, I’m sure it wouldn’t be as good.

And no one even crashes into me in the parking lot.

[image: Amy Sussman of Getty images via CNN Money. This photo sums up Rhode Islander's worship of coffee perfectly. Thanks, Amy--we give you a key to the state]