The End of Semester Boogaloo

Yes, the semester has stumbled its way to the end, and once again, the praying, the wheedling and the dealmaking with God has begun again--and that's just the teachers struggling with the crash of the servers that store our grades for only the bajillionth time. On the student side, here come the kids who suddenly want to give me assignments that are months---MONTHS!-- overdue.

Sadly, some of my students did not earn their credits and failed the class. I find this absolutely mind-blowing. I had one little darling's mother call me and begin to breathe fire all over me since she claimed that I had refused to stay after school to help her kid even though the kid had told mom she had made repeated appointments with me. It is rare to have so breathtaking an example of falsehood directed my way. I explained to the parent that I am available every day after school for at least 45 minutes, that I had asked the kid repeatedly to take advantage of this time, but she did not, and I also pointed out that I had emailed the mother herself five times with no response. Well, her kid couldn't meet with me until 4:00, the mom claimed, because she was involved in an after school activity. I then reminded Mama that I had contacted the coach and gotten the okay for the student to miss a few minutes of practice to come see me (can't play if you are not eligible due to GPA, and mine wasn't the only class in which this students was sinking) but still the young lady did not come. Still the mother claimed that I refused to stay after school to help her daughter who had BEGGED me for help, so I forwarded her on to my administrator-- who personally could vouch for the fact that I had repeatedly contacted the daughter, the coach, and the mother and had been at school for the amount of time I had stated. I did warn the poor man ahead of time that Mama would be calling. And meanwhile, let me just state that I will not be staying after school for two hours on the off-chance that this young lady might show up, given that a) I awaken at 4:30 am to be at school on time, and b) I have my own children to care for after school.

Oh well. Then another kid asked to turn in any missing assignments because otherwise MS. CORNELIUS would be the reason he didn't get into Dartmouth. Yes, me--NOT his lack of certain completed work, and the corresponding drop that then followed on his tests because he had not done the work to prepare himself for the tests.

Kid C at least asked nicely if I could check over his grades and see if I could see how close he was to an A, since he was sitting at an 89%. And I did. He was actually sitting at an 88.6 that had been rounded up to an 89. Then I went and looked at his test average, and there had not even been one test score above a 90%. So unfortunately, no, I figured the grade was pretty representative of his actual level of mastery.

Have you evah?

... felt like you are a mere cog in the machine existing for the convenience of others?

... wondered if your body can physically take the demands placed upon it in this job, where we don't even get to pee until 4 pm?

... tired of suffering fools not even gladly?

... awakened and thought you just couldn't drag yourself into your sick building for one more blasted day because your allergies are just that bad?

... thought that if one more kid who doesn't pay attention while you're teaching and who writes down nothing you say asks you what they can do to raise their grade the day after grades are due, you are going to snatch hanks of hair from your head?

... realized that you are tired of being the only person who asks kids where they are going or what they are doing when they are out roaming in the hallways in the middle of a class period?

... feared losing the joy of a job you love under a mountain of paperwork and other soul-deadening tasks that are, of course, unremunerated?

... feared that the administrators in the Central Office really don't seem to care about what students are really learning as long as school is made as easy and simple as possible to keep those butts in the seats in the cash from the state rolling in?

Vesuvius erupts....

... and that does not refer to the big zit shining on my chin like some blasted solar flare. No. But...

1. Holy SHIT! Will someone-- ANYBODY-- walk two steps from their AP office to the bathrooms in the new wing and chase out the five kids who skip their last class of the day and hang out in there each and ever' day???? Because I am TIRED of running into them and chasing them out myself. I just want to go the can in peace! I only get to go once a day, and I'd like to be off duty when I take care of this little function.

2. I would politely ask that Redneck Mother, my inestimably inert department chair, to please go SOAK HIS HEAD. And since you've gotten my Okie up, that last word is pronounced, "HAY-UD."

3. How is it that my colleague Mr. Clapton (as in Eric) didn't get even an interview for Teacher of the Year finalist? This guy is what TOY should be all about! (I didn't even turn in the paperwork, since until Mr. Bipolar Helicopter Parent leaves the school board, I am the proverbial snowball in terms of chances, and that's fine.)

Gripe, whine, growl.

Questions to ponder....

Does Florida not have telephone service? or email? They ought to have to give up something this time of year to make up for their idyllic weather. In fact, Floridians should be grateful that disgruntled wives can not call up the wrath of nature, or there would be a very small and localized hurricane that would hit a small part of Tampa right now.

Why would the electric company decide to cut power to the house of a temporarily single mother and her three kids while her husband is in FLORIDA when the temperature is not supposed to get out of the thirties on the day they've chosen? Why can't repairs be made in fall or spring, when it's in the sixties?

As a matter of fact, why do electrical workers leave handwritten and misspelled notes on doors asking if they can take down my fence so that they can get to an electrical box that was previously installed facing said fence instead of the other three directions facing common ground? And why can't they just OPEN the FLIPPIN' GATE that faces the electrical box? And then CLOSE IT when they're done?

Why did it take ME an hour to deal with the fallout of catching four students cheating on another teacher's assignment? And yes, the irony of this given last Sunday's post does not escape me.

Ha ha ha ha. Ha.

Dreaming of doing nothing

''Yeah, I just stare at my desk; but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch, too. I'd say, in a given week I probably only do about 15 minutes of real, actual, work.''

"The thing is, Bob-- it's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care." -- Peter, from Office Space



How many of you out there have ever worked with someone who said, "I know we should do _________, but I really don't want to work that hard" and clenched your teeth so tightly in frustration that you cracked a molar?

Anyone?

And this is certainly not just a problem in education, not by a long shot. There are also two levels to this situation: it's annoying when it's merely one of your coworkers, but it's absolutely maddening when it is someone with oversight capacity over you. If one of your coworkers (or even worse, a critical mass of them) has this attitude, then you know that you are going to get more work dumped on you to make up for your colleagues' lack of output and accountability.

But if it's a supervisor, good gravy! Sadly, my experience in my working life (and yes, in education) has been that we teachers have not really been led so much as herded. Moo.

If one employee abuses the sick leave policy, then everyone and I mean everyone has to fill out three forms and bring in doctor's notes even though the health insurance plan we get through work encourages doctors to merely dispense prescriptions over the phone because they see an average of 35 patients a day. And if a teacher punished an entire class for something that one student did, how well would that be received?

It's trendy to talk about principals as instructional leaders, but when they have no actual experience in instruction that lasted longer than five minutes or was from twenty years ago, then there's not much hope of that, is there? And really, to be fair, those that DO want to accomplish something are hamstrung-- when do they have time to be instructional leaders with all the reams of paperwork they are required to juggle and the endless meetings they have to attend and the data they have to gather-- all at the direction of someone else who has no actual experience in instruction that lasted longer than five minutes or was from twenty years ago?

Meanwhile, I have heard many of these same slacker coworkers dream of moving up to administration so that they "won't have to work that hard." They especially look forward to never grading papers again and never again having to use calculus in order to figure out when they will be able to go to the can without risking a bladder infection. Fair enough-- that WOULD be nice. They want to become department chairs so that they can arrange their own schedules so that they have time for their hobbies or can concentrate on their stipendiary duties, and that's the real attraction. One of the worst offenders with whom I have ever taught, of whom I believe it can be safely said never taught one iota of actual information to the students in this person's charge (and who told the students that high tide and low tide are the result of earthquakes on the ocean floor or some other such rot) was just given a job as an assistant superintendent-- and better yet, this person will be in charge of human resources at a nearby school district. Wow, that bodes well for the future of education!

In the business world, the dream is to move out of a cubicle to an office with an actual door. So that one can then close that door and stare at your desk for endless minutes in peace and comfort. I would like to even have a cubicle sometimes... that's sad.

And I? I and a few of my friends are delusional in our own way, because we can't imagine not trying to do an good job and trying to be responsible. Yes, I AM hopelessly idealistic and out of step with the mainstream. And to psychoanalyze myself, it is because part of my self-identity is defined as being a teacher. The people of whom I speak probably do not think of themselves that way. When they think of who they are, other words come to mind: "fisherman," "dirt-bike racer," "baseball coach," "carpenter," or whatever. And absolutely, this causes more work for myself. I am considered a chump because my attitude results in more tasks being dumped on me with the expectation that they will -- actually-- be-- accomplished.

Like Donna Summer said, "She works hard for the money."

How do I get off this ride?

Let me be blunt with you, oh internets: for some reason, I have provoked churlishness from a colleague, Redneck Mother.

I have endeavored to ignore his incessant gender stereotyping (and besides, I guess this stereotype is correct-- he and his pals think baked beans are a fun thing to give someone with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and think it's funny not to warn someone that their zipper is is as open as the mouth of a dead bass during a presentation to the school board, but I am not one of them.) I try not to get defensive or annoyed, but really, friends, here's the deal, expressed just so I don't explode:

RM gets paranoid when other people ask anyone but him for assistance. He excludes department members that he doesn't like from curriculum writing workshops. He refers to any and all spine-possessing women as "feminazis," and "dykes," which is oh-so-original if it wasn't a) wrong and b) insulting and c) pitiable. Another favorite term is "faggot." He teaches by the dictum, "If it bleeds, it leads:" if it's a not a battle or a massacre or an act of aggression, it doesn't interest him.

His sense of humor laughs at the pain or misfortune of others, and is openly homophobic when it's not focused on boogers, flatulence, incontinence, impotence, physical deformities, and calling people words that are also used to describe female anatomical parts in the most insulting way possible. He picks on people, and when they take offense, claims he's "kidding," which fools no one.

I am living with this, but I am not liking it; but now that I have written this, I can move on. Thanks.

It's never too late for the Airing of Grievances

Okay, okay, okay, I missed the deadline for Festivus, which is on December 23 (and is the only thing from Seinfeld I ever found funny). But I still has me my grievances to air, and air them I will! To wit:

1. I was just informed that I can not designate part of my United Way donation to Camp Fire USA because there is no local council in this benighted town in which I live (see? no dangling preposition!). This required talking to some young female person who could not pronounce my name correctly, as well (see grievance number 2). Even though I have given money to Camp Fire USA on my United Way donation for over 17 years, suddenly, it's a problem.

So guess what this means? I shall be reducing my United Way pledge, so that I can give money to Camp Fire USA my way. I was a member of Camp Fire (back then we were called Camp Fire Girls) for 11 years. If I wanted to give money to the Girl Scouts, I would have BEEN a Girl Scout.

2. I am tired of people not being able to pronounce my name. It's "Kor-NEEL-yus," NOT "KRO nel-shus," fercryinoutloud. It's just that simple. From now on, telemarketers beware: I shall mock you unmercifully.

3. I have had it with kids coming to school sick. I actually rearranged my seating chart three times during November and December to move the kids who kept coming to school hacking and feverish so that they would be as far away from all the rest of us who wished to remain well. I listened to one kid snort his mucus back up into his sinuses every two minutes for three weeks-- until I actually felt nauseated. You will give yourself a sinus infection! And it's gross!

And if your kid had a fever, you need to keep her at home until 24 hours AFTER the fever has broken, NOT send her to school so that the nurse and the teachers can take care of her so that you don't miss your yoga class.

Then there's the pink eye outbreak we endured. Oh, dear God. There is NO WAY a parent could have missed the gray ooze coming out of both peepers of the first kid. Thankfully, I diagnosed and rerouted the kid before he entered my classroom. (What? You don't see the medical degree on my wall? It's from Common Sense U.)

4. I loathe "Reality TV." Stop it. That one with the lie detector that's going to be starting soon is beyond the pale. Boo.

5. I am tired of parents and students complaining to me about grades and/or test scores when they admit the students have put very little effort into their work because they are so "busy." You get what you put into your education. You need to start by trying, and even then, that may not get you an A-- but certainly makes the odds more likely than playing Halo for four hours a night.

6. I am also wearied by parents attempting to get their child diagnosed with some sort of disorder solely for the purpose of getting them more time to take the SAT. Shameful. I received such a form (in which the mother ADMITTED the scheme to me) a while back, and it's just appalling.

7. I would like to create a special lane for drivers of minivans and Buicks. It would be padded and segregated for their safety and ours. I write this after I just watched some wizened driver flatten the stop sign at the end of the lane after flying downhill on ice. Classic.

And I would appreciate a hood-mounted bazooka for use on people observed doing any of the following behind the wheel: shaving, reading the newspaper draped over the steering wheel, texting, putting on mascara, eating food that is so hot that when one burns one's mouth one then swerves into my lane, blasting misogynistic rap music in traffic, racing motorcycles singly or in packs, drinking beer or liquor, or taking pictures with one's cell phone.

8. I would like to send out a special thank you to the security personnel at the airport who opened my checked luggage, tore open the wrapping on a present I was bringing back, removed the packing material, and broke two of the glasses inside the box. The tiny shards of glass left on all my clothing was a nice touch.

I can see clearly now, so put down the scalpel and back away slowly....

Well, I have just been over to Polski3's place, where he has been told by his doctor to shape up. I so empathize with him and with the feeling that this kind of news engenders.

I am a reasonably mature person, of above-average intelligence, if I do say so, and the only reason I do is to underscore the fact that I strive to be reasonably informed and cooperative with the health-care professionals in my life. Intellectually, I understand that I am no longer 17, and that therefore the old chassis might require less benign neglect and more maintenance. I understand this, I do.

But!

Picture, if you will, being trapped at a doctor's office for two and a half hours every two months. This has been my life for the last four years. During this time, I have to stick my face into all kinds of fiendish machines and look at all kinds of weird lights and am told not to blink for what seems like a half-hour at a time. These people keep refusing to believe that I don't wear glasses. They also keep refusing to believe that I have better than 20/20 vision, so they keep giving me eye exams, and I keep reeling off the letters at 20/10 and they keep making surprised noises. I swear, I oughta go up to the machine sometime and memorize the manufacturer's information down in the corner and reel that off at them nonchalantly. That would really freak them out. And since they leave me in these little rooms for half-an hour at a whack, I could have plenty of time. That might be fun.

I can see really well. I can read tiny print from all the way across my classroom with ease. I can see kids misbehave from the back of my head. And I (probably) have glaucoma.

Why do I say probably? Because of the 8 eye doctors I have seen, 5 hem and haw a lot and say things like "Hmmm!" and "Strange!" and other sorts of non-comforting words when looking at photos of my optic nerve. They do not seem to understand the effect that this has on their patient, whom they have made blind with all kinds of nasty yellow eyedrops that must have come from a spitting cobra somewhere.

How do I feel when they keep acting so shocked and puzzled? I'll tell you: I feel like the owner of a ten year old Honda whose car starts making strange noises and when she finally takes the thing to a mechanic, the guy pops the hood, takes a quick step back and hollers to a colleague "Hey Earl! Come get a load of this!" and the next thing you know they are uncoiling a thirty-foot long boa constrictor from around the fan housing. This should not be. I would rather be told that my eyes are mind-numbingly boring. But no. My optic nerves are not "normal." My pressures are low as long as I take my eyedrops every night. Yet still they act like I've got a boa constrictor under the hood. I do not want a boa constrictor under the hood. I want them to go, "Of course," and replace a belt or something and send me on my merry way. I do not want to be a medical oddity. I want them to be able to tell me that nothing is wrong, dammit.

But even of the doctors that won't definitively say I have glaucoma, two want to shoot lasers into my eyes.

So when some adorable young doctor nonchalantly tosses off, "Well, I don't think an argon-laser would work well in your case, because you don't have much pigment somethingsomething, instead I think that a mrflthump laser would work much better blah blah blah....." Now, why do I mention a "mrflthump laser?" Because the blood starts pounding in my ears every time someone mentions surgery on my eyes, and I can't hear what Doogie Houser is saying for all the thumpthumpthumping of my heart. And I can't write down what he has saying, because.... wait for it.... he's made me blind by dilating my eyes to do all these freakin' tests.

I love that. The last doctor, who is no doubt very good and very patient and everything, nonetheless kept trying to show me the tiny lines and dots on a graph of the results from one of my tests, and when I started laughing she no doubt thought that I had lost it and yes, there was a bit of the hysterical in my laugh but really it was because... I! COULDN'T! SEE! She herself had dilated my eyes so wide that I looked like one of those sad little waifs or kitties on those black velvet paintings or perhaps a lemur. So, you know, expecting me to process anything visually at that time was really a bit much.

Now, like everything else, I am of decidedly strong opinion regarding surgery on my baby blues. I am not in favor of lasers being shot into my eyes, in case you were wondering. Lasers are for killing sci-fi creatures and making cool light shows to entertain crowds of people, half of whom have been smoking something. My mama taught me when I was a wee lass that sharp things should not be tolerated near the eyes, and that advice has stood me in good stead. I agree with Mom on this one, and also on her advice that one should never allow oneself to gaze at very bright lights. Lasers are very bright lights. Ergo, this girl wants nothing to do with surgery or lasers near her eyes. I've never even put a contact in my eye. When I first had to start putting drops in my eye, it would take an average of 6 attempts before I could get the drop in without closing my eye before the thing dropped onto my cheek. I've probably put half as many drops up my nose as in my eye. I am sure that shooting a laser into someone's eye is nothing-- to them. But to me, it's like expecting me to bungee-jump. Why would any sane person want to do something crazy like that? Falling is not a form of entertainment. Falling is something that can end badly. So let's avoid that, shall we?

No one knows why my eyes are "possibly" damaged. It could be a massive blood loss I exprienced after the birth of my first child.

(And a word to the wise: if you have ever experienced a sudden blood loss, please promise me you will go get your eyes thoroughly examined. It will save you grief later. Trust me. Don't get so busy with kids and life that you blow it off, because nobody else might tell you that this could affect your eyes.)

They may not be damaged at all. They may just be weird. I am so used to being told that I am weird that this doesn't even cause a blink. But doctors are trained to act based on the typical case, and so it seems to stump them when someone comes along who confounds all expectations. But we are all individuals. None of us is perfectly normal. This goes along with the fact that I have some sort of completely safe but abnormal structure deep in my brain that was found by a CAT scan once, that I have such low blood pressure that they sometimes think I don't have a pulse even though I am in a stressful occupation and weigh more than I should, and that I can carry a grown man around in a fireman's carry even though my BMI is appalling. And my eyes are aparently the bearded lady in the carnival of opthamology.

So that's where it sits right now. I have promised to return in two weeks to sit in the doctor's office all day so they can check my pressures during the day. But hey, they say they have wi-fi. I can bring my laptop and blog to you, my friends, whilst they torture me. Won't that be fun?

Why gender stereotypes are bull@&t

So I asked a bunch of students to generate a list of adjectives and phrases that describe males, and a list that describe females. After we generate these two lists, we categorize the adjectives and phrases according to positive, neutral, and negative comments. Some of the comments that came up over and over again for females is "holds a grudge," "petty," and "pouty."

Ha.

I am currently dealing with a colleague-- a big, burly, he-man type-- who got his skivvies in a wad over a misunderstanding over some inconsequential -- really-- request that I made to a principal. He actually used the term "chain of command," which is odd, given that A) I am not going to get a fellow teacher's permission to email a principal, ever; and B) he is not actually my "commander" in any stretch of the term. This was six months ago. I promptly and sincerely apologized for his upset at the time. I was extra solicitous of his needs and helped him out on some other matters. He is still acting like a baby.

I have to work with dis guy, and he is still in full pout.

See, I just don't get it. Someone does something you don't like. First, you decide if it's worth getting upset over. If yes, communicate displeasure to miscreant. Accept apology. End of story. This is how I operate. You know there are myriads of eamples of times when he hasn't done what he was supposed to, or he's made an error, and jeez, I've let bygones be bygones.

Jeez. What a prima donna.

All You Zombies*, Or why do I keep chasing my own tail?

Subtitled: When is consistency just a hobgoblin of little minds?

Do you ever feel like you are the only person who expects kids to abide by the very simple rules of the school? I feel absolutely crazy for saying this, but yes, I do ACTUALLY expect students to:
1. wear their IDs;
2. put up their headphones during the school day;
3. stay off their phones;
4. keep their britches pulled up and their unmentionables covered;
5. not call each other the "f" word that rhymes with bag, the "s" word that rhymes with but, or the "n" word that rhymes with bigger but sometimes is pronounced with an final "ah" sound;
6. be on time to class;
7. remain awake for the entire class period;
and so on.

I am bugged because:
--twice today, I actually asked a kid where his or her ID was-- while an administrator had been conversing with his or her for several minutes each time and had not been saying a word.
--I had a kid tell me that he didn't know he couldn't listen to his headphones in the hallway because he sees so many other people doing it-- and I looked around, acknowledged his point, and reminded him that there is only so much of me to go around, and that nonetheless the policy is clearly spelled out in his handbook on the inside front cover.
--I had to insist for the fifth time that I was NOT going to give a student credit for an assignment that he copied from another student.

Yes, I am obviously trying to make myself crazy.

What things are peeving you right now? Let's dish! Shared misery is therapeutic. Or, as one of my favorite movie characters said: "Express, not repress."

* Title from a Robert A. Heinlein short story

Time is on my side

Last week was parent-teacher conferences. As if that wasn't fun enough, I also had to go in for my semi-annual eye checkup, because I have an eye condition.

The appointment was for 2:30. School lets out at 2:15, so I asked one of my colleagues to watch my class for the last 10 minutes so I could be on time. I had to be back at school at 5:00, freshly pressed, rested, fed, and refreshed.

Got there on time. The waiting room was not that full. I had brought my iPod and a book, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, by James Agee and Walker Evans, which is about sharecroppers during the Great Depression.

After 20 minutes of waiting, I was ushered in to take my field vision test. They tell you that blinking will not affect the test results, but does that still apply when your eyeballs feel like they were dipped in sawdust coated in Tabasco sauce? I'm not sure.

So I clicked the little button every time I saw an micron-sized light, for what seems like forever, but was actually about 5 minutes. Then I'm ushered into an examination room, where the nurse/tech puts more Tabasco sauce in my eyes and then attempts to start sticking devices ON MY EYEBALL!

On an instinctual level, I do not wish to have devices actually placed on my eyeball, and no matter how much I talk to myself, my brainstem, which in this case behaves like a recalcitrant toddler in front of a plate of sashimi ("Don't WANT to!"), takes control of my eyelids and neck muscles and avoids this procedure until finally the tech rolls her eyes, sighs, and grabs my eyelids and pries them apart herself and then holds them that way while she shoves this shiny thing onto my eye. I mean, I feel like that guy in "The Pit and the Pendulum."

After she finishes fueling my nightmares, she leaves. Everything is blurry because my eyes are dilated by the Tabasco sauce. But my iPod battery gives out, and I try meditating but my eyes are streaming orange tears, so I finally give up and hold my book two feet away from me, squint, and start reading. My butt gets numb, the chair in uncomfortable, and I'm reading condescending, flowery prose poetry about a girl who is married to a man who doesn't deserve her.

After I've read 87 pages in this fashion, I get up. It is now 4:15, and still no doctor. I square my shoulders and walk into the hallway, look up and down, no doctor, and I decide that I have commitments elsewhere. I walk up to the appointments secretary, who is chatting with another nurse. No one should read 87 pages of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men at one doctor's visit.

MC: I have to leave now.

AS: Ummm.... what?

MC: I have to leave. Right now.

Nurse Ratchet: (Obviously thinking, "Holy crap! She's still here!") I'm sure the doctor needs to talk to you, though.

MC: And I need to talk to her, else I wouldn't have made this appointment. But I have to be back at work in 30 minutes, driving through rush hour traffic, I need to change clothes, wash my face, put on new makeup, and now you people have made me blind, which should increase the fun factor of accomplishing these tasks exponentially. But I have to leave. Now.

AS: Well, do you want to schedule a new appointment now?

MC: What would be the point of that (thinking to myself, "since this one has obviously turned out so well,")? Look, I'm not angry, although I should be, but I must go. Right now. Not five minutes from now. Now.

Right about this time here comes the doctor with some woman who was not in the waiting room when I came. I can tell she's thinking, "Hey, the cattle have stampeded their pen." She pulls me into a room for fifteen seconds, shows me the printout of my field vision test, says there's an area of concern, but that I "aced" the test (How can these two statements be compatible?) and that we'll just check it again in six months, and then disappears again. I pay (yes, that was stupid, but my default mode is good girl/pleaser) and then I leave. I manage to weave through the hellacious traffic, clean myself up, and speed to school for 3.5 hours of alternating boredom and talking, all the while with eyes like an alien's.

For this I waited nearly two hours? And why is there this assumption that my time is worthless? What is the point of an appointment if I have to wait two hours? Why can't I call them before my appointment, ask how far behind they are running, and show up then? I paid a total of $18 for aftercare for the thrill of NOT being seen by the doctor. Meanwhile, there's an "area of concern," and I start having anxiety attacks about going blind, because I'm too tired to be rational.

Then I realize. Some people get treated like this during parent conferences. They line up like cattle, and get their concerns ignored. I resolve to not be one of those teachers.