Guidance conference

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo ....

Ahhh, there's no greater sound in education – if you're a teacher, anyway – than that 2:20 dismissal bell. I'm not into any organized religion, so I'll never make it into someone's prescribed heaven where some white-haired old dude sits on some garish throne as he leafs through his ledger book while he makes me sweat out admittance into his Club Eternity, but I'll wager that the holiest of holy rollers won't ever know the shangri-la type bliss I get to experience every day when that final bell goes off. It means I've survived another day of all the bullshit, and, if I make it to 30 years, which I fully intend to do, as I pretty much know how to not get fired by now (which is fodder for a future column), it means I have 2055 days of work left. That might sound like a lot, but considering I've done 3511 days so far, I feel pretty damn good about that number. Okay, I'll be honest. You can subtract about 165 days from that second number, as that is my estimate of how many sick days and personal days I've taken since I started this thing I laughingly (and through tears of anguish and regret) call a career.

Most days, I can make it to my car before the bell has stopped echoing through the halls. But some days, before I can throw on my jacket and throw the day's busywork into the trash can ungraded, I hear a sound that's more of a buzzkill than a Sally Struthers commercial while I'm watching TNT's all-night 80's movie marathon stoned on my latest stash of chronic.

That sound I refer to and dread? Boop...boop...boop...boop... "Will the following teachers please report to the guidance office for a parent conference." At this point, if you're any kind of quality teacher, which means you hate parent conferences, you freeze and wait for the seven names. "Mrs. No Personality, Mr. Late Every Day, Ms. Still Pathetically Sporting Too Much Cleavage Despite Her 46 Years, Some Asshole, Some Other Asshole, The Douchebag Who Is Always Tying up the Copy Machine First Thing in the Morning and Mr. Bitters ..." NOOOOOOOO!

When I was a young teacher, the parent conference filled me with more fear than any other part of the job. I can fake out most of the kids all day, and since I get observed by my superiors so infrequently, I can fake them out, too, by raising my game a notch or three on those days when an administrator comes into my classroom unannounced. But the parents used to scare me. That is, until I figured out how to finesse my way through the parent/student/teacher/counselor conference with the deftness of a Bush (any Bush) massaging the masses into an unjust Middle East war.

First of all, I look at my desk calendar for the reminder I jotted down two weeks ago about this conference. Once I have the kid's name, I immediately find him in my computer gradebook and check out his grade. You might think a high grade will make the conference easy, but that's not always the case. I might go to the conference ready to report on Billy’s 92 percent, which he earned by not pissing me off, laughing at my jokes and turning in a bunch of papers with his name on them. However, the other teachers, who are probably real teachers, might have given the lazy little shit the grades he deserves, which are D's and F's, hence this time-wasting charade we are all going to perform in a few minutes. If the kid's grade is high, there is only one way to play this. Wait about 10 minutes before heading to the conference. This lets all the other teachers have their shots at Bozo Billy first, and teachers usually leave the conference after saying their piece. If I get there early and the other teachers hear how well he is doing in my class, they hate me. But if I go late, I get to look like the only teacher who really understands and reaches Mrs. Billy's braindead son, because I gave him his only good grade. At this point, the parent nearly breaks into tears and says how she wishes the other teachers were the teaching whirlwinds that ol' Mr. Bitters is. Then I leave the conference, go pick up my jacket, toss Billy's busywork from today into the trash and head home to fill up my rocks glass with two handfuls of ice, which I then douse in Dewars and begin my nightly sedation.

Now, if Billy's grade is low in my class, this is a problem, too. Parents want to see why their misunderstood Einstein has a low grade, which means they expect me to produce a printout of his grades so far that semester. Under no circumstances do I ever print the gradesheet! I just look at Billy's grades and see why he has a 32 percent, then change some of those zeroes to make his grade a 62 percent, then head to the conference and explain how my printer isn't working, but that Billy surely is, what with him raising his grade to a stratospheric 62 percent with all of his hard work. Don't worry about Billy ratting you out with a surprised look. In any conference, the kid is so overwhelmed with hearing what a useless piece of shit he is that he stops listening and just concentrates on getting home to his bong, his Play Station, his iPod, and his much-abused and recently discovered pecker.

On some occasions, the teachers all remain until the end of the conference, and this is where things get really painful for the kid, the parent and any teacher who sees the student as an actual person and not just a Student I.D. Number with a grade attached to it. After each teacher spends several minutes explaining how Billy won't amount to a good squirt of piss, the meeting can't just end. At that point, after everyone has bombarded Billy with "Here's Why You Suck" soliloquies ("backed by hard numbers, mind you, right here on Billy's gradesheet!"), the counselor and parent have to figure out a plan. This plan will, of course, turn Billy's life around and have him challenging for valedictorian status by semester's end. What plan do they always come up with? The contract. (Cue The A-Team theme song! Sorry–lame 80s reference.)

Yes, the contract is the guidance counselor's answer to every problem. "You see, Mrs. Billy, all Billy has to do is pick this up in our office each morning, and at the end of each period, each teacher signs off and notes if Billy worked, if he misbehaved and if he has homework each night. Then he'll bring it home to you each day, and you can ..." What, wipe her ass with it? That part is never explained. If you are a teacher, you know just how useless this is, right? But the parent and kid always buy it. Of course, at this point, the totally defeated kid will agree to damn near anything just to get out of the room, which has been renamed the "Billy Will Never Amount to Anything" Conference Area. He is usually sitting there with glazed eyes and a half open mouth, and when the contract idea is offered, he'll usually just nod and try to speak, but nothing comes out. He isn't even listening at this point. The counselor could suggest, "I think if all the male teachers took out their wangs and slapped Billy about the face, that might whip him into shape. Whaddya think, Billy?" And Billy would nod and mouth an "Okay."

Of course, at this point, with the kid's soul dismantled and the parent near tears, most of the teachers leave the conference and strut back to their classrooms with extra bounce in their steps and smug smirks on their faces. When I see that, I wish I could put them on some sort of Mean Spirited Asshole contract. Or better yet, maybe give them a certain kind of slap across the face.

Ned Bitters teaches high school and dreams of one day seeing one of his former students on stage at a strip club. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.