One thing most new teachers don't realize is the breadth of their job. Not only do you get to plan lessons, teach, correct papers, manage discipline, communicate with parents, attend meetings, and coach something, but your most demanding job will be as a supply clerk.
Yes, students will request just about every item needed for any school assignment or project: paper, folders, pens, pencils, sharpener, markers, colored pencils, construction paper, poster board, note cards, paper clips, glue, rubber cement, Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, stapler, three-hole punch, scissors, Post-its, erasers, paint brushes, etc. Jump drives and DVDs have become a popular request too, especially when a video project is due. Oh, and hats, wigs and costumes are in demand as well. And, let's not forget the extra books because they lost theirs.
Some students pride themselves in being able to successfully complete a day of school and not carry a thing. They walk from class to class, swinging their arms, no backpack, no nothing. And, sympathetic students and well-meaning teachers enable them to mooch.
Mind you, supplies do not only relate to school needs. I have been asked for money,finger nail clippers, nail files, lint rollers, dental floss, tampons, safety pins, band aids, rubbing alcohol, spot remover/ laundry stick, air freshener, cough drops, breath mints, gum, needle and thread, hand sanitizer, hair spray, mirror, tissues, paper towels, and the ever popular: hand lotion. (Note: free hand lotion samples from hotels work perfectly, as they can choose their favorite scent.)
What do they think we are, Wal Marts?
One student wondered if I had a phone charger so he could charge his phone in my room. Yeah, right.
And food. OMG! Whatever you do, don't feed them. Once they find out about your stash of Ritz Crackers, Tootsie Pops, M&Ms or whatever in your desk drawer or filing cabinet, they will stare you down and whine daily like shameless puppies, until you toss them a scrap.
And the best request, yet, though it wasn't for a supply, persay: "Mrs. Kies, can you give me your password so I can get into YouTube and show you and the class a funny video?"
Yes, they will ask for just about anything. So, new teacher, it's up to you to immediately set up the boundaries and decide how willing you are to supply them with things other than knowledge.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hazy, Crazy, Lazy---at last!
Summer feels like waking up to a new day. Lots of them. Anything is possible! But, one has to complete a year of teaching to feel that utterly joyous exhileration of accomplishment and freedom.
I liken the school year to the nine months it takes to have a baby. Fall begins with limitless potential and antsy anticipation of great things to come, and I'm happy and priveleged to have signed the contract that allows me this opportunity to teach teenagers: the writing lesson I've been perfecting for 15 years, the sure-to-inspire reading technique I read about in The English Journal, and the organized computer files last year's student teacher created. (No more of my precious time spent looking for misplaced folders.)
Even the 1st quarter parent/teacher conferences cause my heart to beat faster, as parents and I conspire to turn their children on to the miraculous world of writing and reading. Pink or blue? Makes no difference.
In the second trimester, sticking to those organizational routines becomes a little troublesome, and I notice the piles have appeared on my window ledge and a stack of papers next to my computer. I'm feeling a little bogged down with the extra weight of morning meetings and Literary Magazine deadlines. At this stage, though I HATE cold weather, I consider myself fortunate to live in the magical Midwest where a zealous weather forecaster and reluctant school superindendent can work together and bless us with a SNOW DAY due to blizzard conditions. Instead of tackling tasks to get me ahead, though, I loll at home and catch up on rest, watching movies, and baking chocolate chip cookies. (One's appetite increases midway through a pregnancy.)
And, then there's the third trimester.
The downward---which feels like upward---slope to the end. After spring break, time slows to counting the weeks and days; and, if the weather turns nice early, like it did this year, look out, for summer fever sets in. Eighty degree temperatures tell the brain it's quitting time, and convincing it to continue to think and complete school tasks is a ponderous propostition.
And, after Memorial Day, each hour of labor is documented. It's time to get this baby outta here, and that's all there is to it!
Then, the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and the jubilation of being done rejuvenates the exhausted body and mind. No papers to correct. No lessons to plan. No classroom to organize. Sheer and utter joy.
Until---the baby blues set in for a brief stay while adjusting to the weight loss. I miss the students, mourn their parting.
But, not for long.
My list of projects becomes feasible because I have TIME. Let's see---there's the picture for the living room I've been wanting to paint, the upstairs closet to clean, my mother's stuff in the garage to sort, the gardening, the endless list of books to read, and, of course, the writing to do and blog to write, just to name a few. Oh, and my teacher's license needs renewing by next summer, so I need to either take classes or finish my PDP, Professional Development Plan. Whew!
I'm sure I'll be glad when fall comes around again and I won't be faced with any more summer projects and vacations to plan, just another nine months of hatching.
Until then, a little deck sitting and tree watching seems in order.
I liken the school year to the nine months it takes to have a baby. Fall begins with limitless potential and antsy anticipation of great things to come, and I'm happy and priveleged to have signed the contract that allows me this opportunity to teach teenagers: the writing lesson I've been perfecting for 15 years, the sure-to-inspire reading technique I read about in The English Journal, and the organized computer files last year's student teacher created. (No more of my precious time spent looking for misplaced folders.)
Even the 1st quarter parent/teacher conferences cause my heart to beat faster, as parents and I conspire to turn their children on to the miraculous world of writing and reading. Pink or blue? Makes no difference.
In the second trimester, sticking to those organizational routines becomes a little troublesome, and I notice the piles have appeared on my window ledge and a stack of papers next to my computer. I'm feeling a little bogged down with the extra weight of morning meetings and Literary Magazine deadlines. At this stage, though I HATE cold weather, I consider myself fortunate to live in the magical Midwest where a zealous weather forecaster and reluctant school superindendent can work together and bless us with a SNOW DAY due to blizzard conditions. Instead of tackling tasks to get me ahead, though, I loll at home and catch up on rest, watching movies, and baking chocolate chip cookies. (One's appetite increases midway through a pregnancy.)
And, then there's the third trimester.
The downward---which feels like upward---slope to the end. After spring break, time slows to counting the weeks and days; and, if the weather turns nice early, like it did this year, look out, for summer fever sets in. Eighty degree temperatures tell the brain it's quitting time, and convincing it to continue to think and complete school tasks is a ponderous propostition.
And, after Memorial Day, each hour of labor is documented. It's time to get this baby outta here, and that's all there is to it!
Then, the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and the jubilation of being done rejuvenates the exhausted body and mind. No papers to correct. No lessons to plan. No classroom to organize. Sheer and utter joy.
Until---the baby blues set in for a brief stay while adjusting to the weight loss. I miss the students, mourn their parting.
But, not for long.
My list of projects becomes feasible because I have TIME. Let's see---there's the picture for the living room I've been wanting to paint, the upstairs closet to clean, my mother's stuff in the garage to sort, the gardening, the endless list of books to read, and, of course, the writing to do and blog to write, just to name a few. Oh, and my teacher's license needs renewing by next summer, so I need to either take classes or finish my PDP, Professional Development Plan. Whew!
I'm sure I'll be glad when fall comes around again and I won't be faced with any more summer projects and vacations to plan, just another nine months of hatching.
Until then, a little deck sitting and tree watching seems in order.
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Penis Syndrome
I taught sophomores for 17 years, and as most teachers will attest, they not only learned from me, but I from them. One bizarre behavior I observed was that boys at that age were enamored by, proud of, or obsessed with their penises---to the max. They drew them on folders (not necessarily theirs), in books, on posters I had in the room (Shakespeare would have been thrilled with his endowment), on the board when I wasn't looking, or even when I was.
One year they nabbed my poster putty, the whitish gray sticky stuff I use to hang posters, and for several days I found tiny putty penis sculptures hanging indiscriminately throughout the room.
One would think that after sixteen years living with this body feature that they wouldn't be so hell-bent on displaying crude replicas. All males have them for heaven's sakes, and all females by this point know they have them. Are they reminding us or themselves? Is this a display of mature potency or male immaturity? (My vote is for the latter.)
In my 19 years of teaching, I've never once seen one girl draw anything resembling a vagina anywhere. When you think about it, wouldn't you think that boys would be drawing girls' vaginas instead of their own penises? There's probably some sex psychologist out there who knows the answer to this, but it surely is hard for me to understand.
When I switched to teaching juniors two years ago, I thought the whole penis syndrome would subside. And it has---somewhat. I no longer see penises all over the place, but every so often one pops up.
Take, last week. As a reward for reading, studying and giving my class their all, I took the AP class outside to fingerpaint. The educational connection was that we had studied movies and stories where water was the main theme, either in a romantic or realistic or naturalistic way: Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Melville's Moby Dick, Crane's "The Open Boat," and Norman Maclain's A River Runs Through It.
We took out the paints, water and paper and they went to work. Their objective was to make a piece of art by finger painting, and it had to have water in it. They had to be able to explain to the class whether their work represented romanticism, realism or naturalism and why.
It was cool to see students kneeling on the ground using the different colors, making different shapes, and getting their hands into the mess. As I walked around and looked at the creations, I noticed Matt was making a big gray whale whose fins were suspiciously round, and whose smile was suspiciously positioned at the end of the big whale in just the right place to look like---Moby Dick, literally.
And just when I thought boys matured by the time they became juniors. (Deep sigh!) Thanks, Matt.
One year they nabbed my poster putty, the whitish gray sticky stuff I use to hang posters, and for several days I found tiny putty penis sculptures hanging indiscriminately throughout the room.
One would think that after sixteen years living with this body feature that they wouldn't be so hell-bent on displaying crude replicas. All males have them for heaven's sakes, and all females by this point know they have them. Are they reminding us or themselves? Is this a display of mature potency or male immaturity? (My vote is for the latter.)
In my 19 years of teaching, I've never once seen one girl draw anything resembling a vagina anywhere. When you think about it, wouldn't you think that boys would be drawing girls' vaginas instead of their own penises? There's probably some sex psychologist out there who knows the answer to this, but it surely is hard for me to understand.
When I switched to teaching juniors two years ago, I thought the whole penis syndrome would subside. And it has---somewhat. I no longer see penises all over the place, but every so often one pops up.
Take, last week. As a reward for reading, studying and giving my class their all, I took the AP class outside to fingerpaint. The educational connection was that we had studied movies and stories where water was the main theme, either in a romantic or realistic or naturalistic way: Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Melville's Moby Dick, Crane's "The Open Boat," and Norman Maclain's A River Runs Through It.
We took out the paints, water and paper and they went to work. Their objective was to make a piece of art by finger painting, and it had to have water in it. They had to be able to explain to the class whether their work represented romanticism, realism or naturalism and why.
It was cool to see students kneeling on the ground using the different colors, making different shapes, and getting their hands into the mess. As I walked around and looked at the creations, I noticed Matt was making a big gray whale whose fins were suspiciously round, and whose smile was suspiciously positioned at the end of the big whale in just the right place to look like---Moby Dick, literally.
And just when I thought boys matured by the time they became juniors. (Deep sigh!) Thanks, Matt.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Readin' Write
Been readin' a lot lately, that is, compared to what I usually get done during the school year. Need to get writin' now, too.
Every time I get into a book I like, I get inspired to write a book like that book. I remember reading The Shipping News by Annie Prouilx and get sucked in by the the non-pretty, but alluring characters and charmed by the illustrations of little knots at the the beginning of each chapter.
I was writing a novel at the time called Closing Words about a woman who gets raped and identifies the wrong man, and I got the idea to begin each chapter with a different postage stamp because each chapter alluded to closing words from a letter or note, e.g. always, sincerely, etc. I sent for a brochure from the Postal Service which had pictures of every kind of stamp one could order, and my plan was to choose one that was symbolic for the closing words or the chapter. The novel is finished, but the postage stamp idea? Didn't quite happen.
Most of the time I don't even get the writing finished because I'm on to reading another book that inspires me in a different direction. Last summer I began a series of essays about teaching because I was romanced by Michael Perry's Population 485. It's my goal to finish those this summer.
But, I recently met fictional Olive Kitteridge thanks to Elizabeth Strout, and went to Italy, India and Indonesia to Eat, Pray, Love with Liz Gilbert. Both deposited some fine, rich starting soil over my ideas, so now I need to plant and water them so they grow into fine, strong stories. And, this morning I did yesterday's paper's cryptoquote puzzle, and it was by Albert Einstein: "Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind." Hmmm. Have to be blind not to see some writin' potential in that topic.
So many ideas---so little time!
As the end of the school year winds up, I find myself tired but inspired. This summer I will make a list and check the piece off when I'm finished. Yes. This summer I will write everything I ever wanted to write and finish everything I start!
I suppose I should put blogging on that list. Right, AZ?
Every time I get into a book I like, I get inspired to write a book like that book. I remember reading The Shipping News by Annie Prouilx and get sucked in by the the non-pretty, but alluring characters and charmed by the illustrations of little knots at the the beginning of each chapter.
I was writing a novel at the time called Closing Words about a woman who gets raped and identifies the wrong man, and I got the idea to begin each chapter with a different postage stamp because each chapter alluded to closing words from a letter or note, e.g. always, sincerely, etc. I sent for a brochure from the Postal Service which had pictures of every kind of stamp one could order, and my plan was to choose one that was symbolic for the closing words or the chapter. The novel is finished, but the postage stamp idea? Didn't quite happen.
Most of the time I don't even get the writing finished because I'm on to reading another book that inspires me in a different direction. Last summer I began a series of essays about teaching because I was romanced by Michael Perry's Population 485. It's my goal to finish those this summer.
But, I recently met fictional Olive Kitteridge thanks to Elizabeth Strout, and went to Italy, India and Indonesia to Eat, Pray, Love with Liz Gilbert. Both deposited some fine, rich starting soil over my ideas, so now I need to plant and water them so they grow into fine, strong stories. And, this morning I did yesterday's paper's cryptoquote puzzle, and it was by Albert Einstein: "Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind." Hmmm. Have to be blind not to see some writin' potential in that topic.
So many ideas---so little time!
As the end of the school year winds up, I find myself tired but inspired. This summer I will make a list and check the piece off when I'm finished. Yes. This summer I will write everything I ever wanted to write and finish everything I start!
I suppose I should put blogging on that list. Right, AZ?
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Mom
Three weeks ago today I last saw my mother the way I want to remember her: smiling, hugging, joking, walking, driving.
She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.
One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.
The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.
My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.
She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.
She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.
She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.
I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.
Love ya and miss ya, Ma!
(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)
She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.
One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.
The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.
My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.
She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.
She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.
She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.
I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.
Love ya and miss ya, Ma!
(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Spring is Springing?
Every year at this time, students come out of their shells---not like snails peeking out, but like nuts cracking open.
Could be the weather.
Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.
Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.
One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.
Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.
The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.
One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.
Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.
Could be the weather.
Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.
Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.
One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.
Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.
The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.
One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.
Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Teaching Trials
Part of the women's literature unit that I teach in AP Language and Composition consists of students performing a mock trial based on the play by Susan Glaspell called Trifles, also written as a short story called "A Jury of her Peers."
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
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