T-minus 10 days to Christmas-- I mean Winter-- Break. Not that anyone's counting.
Today I approached you, 'at in 'and and very 'umble, guv'nah, and asked you if you knew a kid who was on your counseling caseload. I am concerned about this kid because he is acting spacy and out of it, he's missed nearly eight days of school in the last two weeks, and he is definitely not his usual self. He came to school the other day bleeding and didn't even know it.
You said you did not know this kid. Now, I suppressed a comment about how, since he's a senior, maybe you should at least KNOW him since he's been on your caseload for four years, but I didn't. I simply asked you to speak to the kid and see if you could find out anything, because the mama's in denial and the kid claims nothing's wrong. Even the other kids in the class have come to me and said that they think he's out of it.
Your response? For me to fill out three different forms that will take three weeks to clear and shunt him off onto someone else. Those forms clearly state that the kid is supposed to have been referred to the counselor before I refer him to the crisis team.
Now look, I am already mentoring/counseling/wiping the noses of four other kids on your caseload for whom you haven't had time, and dealing with the one unmarried pregnant girl who hides herself in my room at lunch and the other girl who is no longer pregnant (--by the way? Has anyone thought about this sudden spike in pregnancies??) and the one kid from last year who comes by every day and today was so excited to show me the 83% he got on his paper in government after scraping by with a 60% all last year and emailing the helicopter mom who strangely thinks it's a great idea to take her son out of school the last three days of the semester before finals to go with her to a baby shower in Omaha when he's missed my class 4 times in the last two weeks, and to whom I must point out to her that her son has
On top of teaching 140 kids and grading their papers and preparing my lessons and my finals-- none of which you have to do. I'm not complaining. About that, at least.
I come by your room, and there you are, NOT counseling someone, every time I walk by. Or you're not there at all, but are walking in the building with a bag of fast food, the aroma swirling around your head like visions of sugarplums.
I'm just saying, "Do. Your. Job."
Either that, or grab a red pen and a stack of essays on the influence of the railroads in the late nineteenth century, brush up on your editor's marks, and get cracking.