Finding middle schoolers strangely funny

BY Pat Van Dyke

Whenever someone discovers that I spent 34 years in education and they ask me what were my favorite grades to teach are, I state with confidence, “Middle school!” They look at me sympathetically and share, “I’ve heard that middle school is the toughest level with which to work.” My answer is always the same, “If I were still teaching, it’s the only level that I would consider.”

What I love about middle school is that they are just taller preschoolers. The girls can’t decide if they should jump rope or chase after a boy. The boys laugh at slime, burps, and girls that chase after them.

I am proud to say that I love middle school kids. I love their energy, I love their inquisitiveness and, most of all, I love their humor. They get my jokes!

When I was a classroom teacher, I secretly wanted to be a stand-up comedian. But I then found as a teacher, I had it all! I had a captive audience that couldn’t leave the room, had to sit in rows, had to listen, and if they valued their grades, it was wise for them to laugh. It was the perfect situation and each year, I honed my craft and gained new material.

I also discovered that middle school humor is unique and when things happened that would upset other staff members, I found them strangely funny.

I loved it when students would disturb the class with their humor. I loved the girl in cooking class who put one cup of salt into her cookie dough instead of one teaspoon. She then tried to convince me that adding one more egg would solve the entire situation.

I laughed until I cried when a student seamstress showed me her impeccably sewn-in-sleeve except that it was upside down. I told her that it was perfect if she planned to walk around all day with her hand in the air.

I still chuckle when I think of the student whom I told to take the extra desk out of the closet to use to take his test. Ten minutes later, I opened the closet and there he sat, in the desk, in the dark, trying to read the test. He and I both doubled over with laughter.

Then there was the student who hid in the cupboard under the sink so that I would think he wasn’t there. When I realized that he had wedged himself in that tight spot, I taught the rest of the class standing in front of the cupboard door only opening it if I needed him to respond to a question about prepositions.

Every day, one of my favorite students would ask unrelated questions to the lesson at hand. For example, we would be identifying adjectives and he would ask me to name my favorite candy bar. Instead of telling him that he couldn’t ask any more questions, I gave him a DQQ: Dumb Question Quota. He was allowed to ask three questions during each class and when he raised his hand for a fourth, I would look at him and say “DQQ.”  We would laugh and the problem was solved.

I loved grading the test in which one student answered the question with “I don’t know.” The student sitting next to her wrote, “I don’t either.” The second student knew that I would get a laugh out of that one, and I did.

After 16 years in the classroom, I reluctantly accepted the position of middle school principal. I knew I would miss the daily interaction with the students but I was rewarded by having more contact with the ones who misbehaved. It gave me a feeling of accomplishment if I was able to break through their tough shell and find a caring, thoughtful student underneath.

I loved the girl who had lied to me about an incident. When I asked her if she was lying, she responded, “I’m not lying about not lying.” Later that day, I had the evidence clearly in place that she was indeed lying about not lying. When I called her back into the office, she decided to “come clean” and shared, “I was lying about not lying before but I’m not lying about not lying now. I will not lie about not lying and I’m not lying about not lying ever again.”  I was confused and blamed it on too much mental traffic in my brain.

Laughter abounded but other times I would find myself reaching out to a student who was facing a difficult time. I cried after dealing with the distressed student who that morning had to say good-bye to his dying dog.

As a principal, I often had more knowledge about a student’s home life than the staff. It was very difficult when a teacher insisted that a student complete his homework when I knew that “home” was a battleground and homework was last on the list for this student.

Being asked by a mother to tell her daughter that her father had died from a heart attack that morning was life-changing not only for the family but made me realize what was really important when dealing with these young lives.

How to stand in front of a student body and inform them that one of their classmates had died in a car accident that morning was never discussed in my Educational Methods class.

And how did I end my 34 years as an educator? The last day, I found a “super soaker” in my office closet. I filled it with water and at lunchtime, I hid in the bushes outside the cafeteria.

As the students would exit, a stream of water let them know that someone was lurking in the bushes. I discovered that several students who over the year visited my office more than others, had a tendency to continually walk in and out of the cafeteria door until lunch break was over, they were drenched, and my super soaker was empty.

The rewards were many and my love for my students never wavered. I’m still in contact with many of them and hope that each will remember just one little thing that I said or laugher that we shared. I pray that I may have made a positive difference in their life so that they could make a positive difference in a life placed in their care.