My talk to 8th graders a near debacle (at first)

(676 words)

Something happened to me yesterday that hadn’t happened in 38 years: I was sent to the middle school principal’s office.

Just the recollection of the last visit made my butt start to sting.

I believe I was maybe the last 8th grader to get paddled in the Mt. Lebanon School District. It happened to me about five times and I’ve heard it hasn’t happened since.

Mt. Lebanon today is much more enlightened. They no longer paddle disruptive 8th graders. Today they are more famous for luring, penning and slaughtering local deer who’ve had had the temerity to nibble on posh Lebo shrubbery.

Anyhoo.

I can’t remember what I did for the beefy, humorless principal to paddle me, but I’m sure it was something funny.

I was really funny in 8th grade. It got me into lots of trouble

My fear yesterday was I hadn’t been funny enough.

My much-ballyhooed talk to 200 area 8th graders looked like it was going to be a total debacle. I’d front-loaded all my best jokes into the opening. I figured if I could get them laughing right away I’d have them with me the whole time.

Nothing worked. I was bombing. They hated me.

I’ve never before been the focus of such an intense concentration of visceral hate — and I’m the guy who once stood up in a banquet hall full of Pennsylvania’s top journalists and said, “Hi! I’m Chris Rodell and I write stories for National Enquirer!”

And, remember, this was the speech I’d planned to break free from using notes and a podium. On stage it was just me and a mic. If they were going to start hurling their smart phones at my noggin there was no where to hide.

It was going so bad I remember at one point thinking, man, I may one day again accept another invitation to talk to 8th graders but I’ll never again try and do it sober.

And the whole thing was being filmed. I’d paid my buddy, a professional videographer, a stipend to tape it.

I’m eager to see the tape to pinpoint when it began to turn. I think it was after I’d exhausted all my sappy platitudes about being nice and started to tell them how so many otherwise successful adults admit to struggling with many of the same concerns and insecurities as do they, and that there are attitudinal ways we can overcome all that to enjoy rich, happy lives regardless of our earnings.

It was either that or they began to feel pity for me when I began sarcastically moaning how nice it must be for them to get a weekly allowance when I did not.

I wonder if I subconsciously sabotage myself so when I finally start to make sense the comeback seems all the more spectacular.

That’s what happened. They eventually began cheering and by the end rushed forward to meet me. At first they wanted to kill me and then they wound up praising me for the warmth of my message.

So it was sort of like parts of the Easter story only in reverse.

Then came word the principal wanted to see me and all the old ghosts began to rise. Had I screwed up? Was I in trouble?

“No! You were great!” she said.

So was she. She was pretty, vivacious and said the nicest things about me. She looked nothing like the mean old bastards who paddled me for being funny. In fact, she said I was funny and didn’t reflexively reach for a ruler.

Then it got better.

“The school would like to buy a copy of your book for each of our 8th graders.”

An already very nice payday had just like that quadrupled.

I sat there silently for so long she must have thought I’d been considering a bone-headed counter offer.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “I was just sitting here thinking how this is the best time I’ve ever had in the principal’s office.”

Funny how things change.

Related . . . 

I’m getting paid to talk to 8th graders

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My Saturday speech: a surprising success

My most humiliating book signing ever

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

I speak: Some laugh, some cheer, some snooze

Hookin' up with my old 4th grade teacher

(611 words)

I got the hots for my 4th grade teacher and — guess what? — she’s digging, me too!

The situation reminds me of the obscure, but funny 2011 movie “Cedar Rapids” where Ed Helms is playing a nimrod who later in life starts screwing his old sixth grade teacher.

After they’ve done their on-screen love rumble he sits there and giggles, “Did you ever think about being with me when you were my teacher?”

Sigourney Weaver looks incredulous and says, “You were 12.”

It’s a little different with me and Mrs. B.

I’m 51. She’s not.

We have a history. I was her first.

Her first class, that is. She was the new teacher at Julia Ward Howe Elementary in Mt. Lebanon.

I was a hot shot 4th grader who’d just mastered tying his shoes so I was pretty full of myself.

I guess of all the teachers I’ve had, she’e one who either made the greatest impression or at least made the first great impression.

It was in her class I began becoming the person I’d always be — and I mean that in the parts of me I like to think people like: creative, cheerful, out-going. These were the aspects of me she encouraged and it was in her class they began to flourish.

When I say I have the hots for her, I don’t mean that in the tabloid way. She was the first teacher I remember liking enough to want to spend free time. 

She laughed at my jokes. She didn’t talk down to me. She challenged me to become conversational. She read stories that made books an indelible part of my entire life.

The last time I saw her was Jan. 14, 2004. I remember her telling me she always knew I’d wind up the way I am because I was, as she said, “born with the happy gene.”

That’s a wonderful thing to tell a person, especially one who is grieving. See, Jan. 14, 2004, was the day of my father’s funeral. She and her husband both came to pay their respects. It was very thoughtful.

So, of course, I’ve been eager to track her down so she could read my happy little book.

I spoke recently at a South Hills church and a woman rushed up to me and said, “Oh, I know a woman who is so disappointed she couldn’t be here. She’s your old 4th grade teacher.”

Mrs. B. and her husband were vacationing in Ireland.

The woman gave me all her contacts. I sent her a book and called a few days later.

We had a wonderful chat. She told me she thinks she was a terrible teacher her first year, and she wishes she could go back and do it all over again because she knows she’d be better.

I told her she was perfect.

It’s very satisfying to know I’m friendly with someone who so long ago made such a pivotal impact on my life and that she is proud of her role in the result.

I am now friendly with many of the wonderful teachers who’ve shepherded our daughters through elementary school.

I wonder if they feel they’re not doing as good a job as they should. I’ll bet many of them stay up late at night trying to divine ways to get precocious 4th graders to learn their daily lessons.

I wish I could tell them to not fret so much. I’m sure they’re doing fine.

Just like me and Mrs. B.

Our lives have progressed like so many of the vivid stories she read to me and my runny-nosed little confederates.

We’ve lived happily ever after.

Related . . .

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Mr. Fancy’s 30th high school reunion

Don’t ever say don’t ever change

Taking my worms to elementary school