I have a student this summer over whom I am obsessing because I can not help him. This does happen occasionally and I beat myself up over it each and every time. Even though I know better in my head, in my heart I just know that if only I were smarter and more compassionate and better prepared and kinder and more considerate and less snarky and more willing to let the class standards go by the wayside and less inclined to raise my left eyebrow in derision and in general a nicer person altogether, maybe this student would make it.

I also know that even with all those things together, he isn’t going to make it. He isn’t going to make it because he doesn’t have what it takes, and this time it isn’t the fault of all the years of schooling behind him, or his parents, or his former teachers, or his upbringing, or any bad habits he might have, or peer pressure, or drugs, or alcohol, or any of the things educators like to draw attention to when a student isn’t going to make it.

It isn’t my fault, either. Or his.

This student isn’t going to make it because whatever fates might be screwed with the combination of genes and chromosomes and brain cells allotted to him at birth, and what the kid does have, ain’t working right.

This breaks my heart, and even understanding this, I still blame myself for not knowing how to reach him.

The other students are complaining now, and something must be done. I’ve reported it, and all we can do is wait.

Once a decision is made, I will have to live with that, too. The way will be made clear for the rest of the class, but I will always see an empty seat and wish I could have had what it took to reach him.

It isn’t me, but it IS me. Why can’t I help this student?

I know that sometimes the best way to help is to allow someone else to do it, but I don’t like acknowledging that I can not find the key to unlock the door to a student’s head.

I also do not like myself for being annoyed by his mannerisms and outbursts and inability to do the simplest things and his coming to class without pencils or paper and his tendency to get up and walk out several times daily and his coming to class twenty minutes or so late every day even though I saw him in the hall an hour before class started, and the way he follows me around shouting and laughing until I have to duck into the restroom to ditch him. I don’t like myself for wanting to ditch him. I don’t like myself for not being able to help him control himself so the other students can learn.

This isn’t fifth grade. This is college. How did this happen? There are no IEP’s at this level, but we do have “accommodation sheets.” This student does not have one.

The others in the class can’t work well with the noise and the movement and the shouted statements that are so blatantly age-inappropriate, and already one of the female students has complained about the staring. And no, we do not make our way around Venice “on a WOCKET!!! Pwanets gots WOCKETS” I had to count that one wrong, too.

If this were middle school, I would know what to do. It’s not middle school, however; it’s college, and these kinds of behaviors can not be tolerated. I know how to handle children and teens who behave like this, but these students are adults, and I, as well as the other students, are thrown for a loop.

Does anyone have any advice for me? What could I have done? What should I have done? Does one student have the right to disrupt and slow down and upset the other students at the college level? At ANY level?

I will hear back from people in an official capacity soon, probably tomorrow. I know they will know what to do.

I also know that I did not know what to do. Right now I don’t like myself very well. I feel like a failure. I would not hurt this student’s feelings for anything, but there are other students with feelings, too. These people paid a lot of money to take this class, and it’s not fair for them to have to put up with this. I had to report it. I hate it, but I did it.

But what else could I have done? Anybody?

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

Many of the Blogosphere neighbors participate in Ten Things Thursday, but I never had until tonight. It’s not that I deliberately turned my back on it or anything; I just didn’t do it. I could make up a better excuse, I suppose, and say that every time I started to make my list, something catastrophic happened and I was forced, much against my will, to cease and desist immediately, but I don’t think any of you would be fooled. Besides, it’s still Wednesday.

Gotcha.

Ten Things Thursday, by Mamacita:

. . . and by the way, these are in no particular order.

1. Every few days, I drink the juice of a dozen or more raw lemons, over ice. Sometimes, if I have more lemons, I have another glass. Lemon juice satisfies something in me. I’ve tried to figure out what it might be but still haven’t come to any conclusions.

2. Sometimes I get so lost in thought that I don’t want to ever come back.

3. It’s a good thing I don’t have to pay interest on all the trouble I’ve borrowed.

4. I kill myself daily, worrying about other people’s problems and assorted things that I have no control over.

5. I prefer the smaller, “original” roads far more than the impersonal interstates. Unless I’m in a hurry.

6. When I’m away from home, I love to eat in local restaurants. Why would I choose some chain that I could lunch at right here when there are so many tantalizing NEW places to try, someplace else?

7. Cooking for a crowd is one of life’s biggest pleasures.

8. I tried to count all of my books once, but finally had to admit defeat. I consider this an awesome thing.

9. In the summer, I like to re-read my favorite children’s and YA novels. I began as I always do, with Frances Hodgeson Burnett’s “A Little Princess,” (for whom I named my daughter) “The Secret Garden,” and “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” I’m plowing through Judy Bolton right now; she’s far superior to Nancy Drew, although I like the Nancy’s, too.

10. I have been fascinated with astronomy since before I was in kindergarten. When I was in the second grade, I fell in love with a book called “Young Visitors to Mars,” by Richard Elam. I checked it out from the library every single time I went, until Mom finally forbade me to bring it into the house again. I searched for this book for many years with no success, but when I was in my late twenties, I took my children to a huge library sale, so big it was held at the Armory. Public libraries from all over Indiana had contributed to it. There are no words to describe how thrilled I was to find this book at the bottom of a box of old novels: unclaimed, and unwanted by anybody but me. I bought it for a quarter, brought it home, and read it again. It was corny as all get-out but the thrill was still there. It still is, in fact. Published in 1953, it was. Old sci-fi is great fun; I love to read the author’s predictions and assumptions about life in the. . . 1970’s. Apparently, we had colonized Mars by then.

I really don’t know how and why my obsession with the night sky began. Dad showed me a few constellations, and Santa brought me a telescope when I was a little kid, but the rest I did by myself. Well, me AND the public library. I’m still in love with the night sky.

I do not fear the dark. The darker the night, the brighter the stars.

Speaking of which. . . .

Please remember that tonight’s moon is brought to you by Solstice Illusion and MUST BE SEEN BY YOU AND BY YOUR CHILDREN – Yes, let them stay up late enough to see it – in fact, all of you should watch the moonrise tonight; it will be a memory-maker for you all – your kids will still be talking about it when they’re old and grey and you’re long dead – it’s going to be FANTASTIC – and when did anyone ever see such a dreadful sentence anywhere, ever?

I mean besides right here.

I have. Sigh.

It’s going to be a long summer session.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

I love to walk on the track at night.

I like the darkness, and the privacy, and the fact that nobody can see me in my shorts. I love matching my steps to the rhythm of whatever song is playing on the tiny clothespin Mp3 player clipped to my collar. This means I change my pace all the time which I’m sure looks goofy but who can see that in the dark?

I think about books I’ve read or want to read, and movies I’ve seen or want to see. I put myself inside books and movies I’ve seen and loved, and in my head, everything has a happy ending.

I think about the people in my life, and how much I love and appreciate most of them, and how I wonder why lightning hasn’t struck some of them dead.

Tonight, the moon was full and the air smelled like freshly mown honeysuckle. I associate the smell of honeysuckle with walking on the track, in fact.

I need to get different earphones; the ones I used tonight were made for someone with ears like bat wings.

Four laps equals one mile on the high school track. Tonight I did a mile and a half and might have done more but I made the mistake of stopping, and this messed me up. As long as I keep going, I can keep going, but once I stop, I’m done.

I don’t like to wear sneakers. They make my feet feel huge and heavy. I’m a sandals and loafers kind of gal. Better still are the bare feet, but only in my own house. Other people’s homes deserve more consideration than that.

I’m not the kind of person who requires people to remove their shoes before entering my house, however. In MY house, people are welcome, not considered soilers of my sacred carpets.

I feel contented tonight. Conversation and walking on the track and music. Nice. If YOU had been there, it would have been perfect!

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly