The End of The Year and "Buffy"

       Every year at this time I am in the same state of mind.
       It's pretty much finished. I have awards to have engraved, an office to dig out and a theatre that has been sadly ignored for the last two months.
       I hate all the seniors. Even the ones I love, I hate.
      The first time this happened, five years ago, the first year I was in charge, I thought I was crazy. I actually went to my AP and said "I think I need therapy, I hate everyone." She didn't even bat an eye, she just handed me the name of a therapist and said "It's through the district, it's free." I was so taken aback, I never called.
       Because how do you explain to an entirely new person what it's like to teach theatre at LHS? Just the basic back story would take a year.
       This is not a normal theatre teacher gig. I get them for all four years.
       Four years.
       I have these beautiful Butt Heads for four years.
      And I have allowed them use the theatre as their second home. To eat lunch, create cubbies for their backbacks and unending hoodies and food and jackets and pants and underwear and notebooks and power cords and phone chargers and tennis shoes and dress shoes and tuxes and dresses and medicine cabinets. Sometimes it's only one shoe. Mo used to leave her bras in my office, I'm still not sure how that happened. Doron and Lexi shared antiperspirant and swimming goggles, both of which they left on my bookshelf.
        And I set only a few rules.  And I throw them out when they have broken them too many times. And I let them back in.
        And sometimes they are truly rude and break a rule that throws me for a loop.
        And sometimes they are truly exceptional and bring me coffee, or ask what they can do to help.
        And every year at this time I hate them.
        And I realized today why. It's that damned word allow.
        I use it in theatre constantly. Allow the character to emerge, allow your voice to emerge, allow the emotions to come through, allow your body to respond, allow me to direct you.
        And the results when directing and teaching are stunning. High school kids who know how to allow? Seriously? Here, have $32,000.00 a year for college as a theatre major. Bam.
        But that bleeds into  room 146. Into the classroom. Allowing them to keep food in the fridge, to have a coffee maker, a toaster, a hot tea maker. To have cubbies and eat their lunch and do their homework. To use my pens and not give them back, use my computer and "forget" to ask, run through a printer cartridge and reams and reams of paper without a second thought. My day is filled with "Kmart do you have..." and "Kmart can I borrow..." and I never see whatever I hand over again. I average $200.00 a year in new play purchases because they take them off the shelf and don't return them. Why should they?
        I thought they needed this freedom, this second home. At first it was great, it was a smaller department and the kids were respectful. The previous teacher had locked them out, they lived in the hall and were only in 146 for class. Those first few years of kids had seen what came before and they were grateful to be allowed.
         Five years later that has changed.
         They know that the consequences are weak. So what if I kick them out for a few weeks? They'll make a mess in the hall, go to Starbucks, wait until class starts to eat their lunch. They know I can't keep them from working on a show because they do not retrieve their stray clementines, found months later under the lost and found or behind the counter? They know I complain to their parents; they do not care. They know I'm annoyed, and they watch as the few Beauties Who Give A Shit and I tirelessly clean up after them, run bags of crap to the lost and found, sort screws and order more gaff tape and they do not care.
       And so, I hate them.
       There are teachers who love and support and tirelessly try to convince these kids that they matter, that they are relevant, that they are smart and talented. And I look at these teachers like they are Crazy Pants and shake my head and return to my wrecked cinder block room and empty printer cartridge and broken stapler and tear myself up for not loving them the way other teachers do.
       This passive aggressive crap is not a trait I am enjoying. I have raised my children with very similar principals and it has also backfired. They have no respect for me. So why am I surprised that the ones I teach also have no respect?
       When I first started nine years ago, one of my greatest traits was "iron fist, velvet glove." I was stern and effective but managed to love them and support their lives. At some point the tables flipped, and I have no control. The lunatics are truly running the asylum.
        So what is the point of this blog post?
        The same as every other one: reflection. I cannot reflect without an audience.
        You're welcome.
  
        All I ever wanted was to be Yoda. Or Giles. Buffy was nothing without Giles. Also he had that cool secret life thing where he played The Who songs on his guitar at a coffee shop.
        Or at the least I want to be the voice in their heads when they create future roles. "COMMIT!" "Do or do not, there is no try!" "Get your hair out of your face." "ALLOW!"
      I get it now. The last two years of self absorbed, disrespectful kids has burned me out. I get it now.
      I do not have to kick them out. I just have to create consequences that matter.
      Anyone know how to contact Giles? 'cause I cannot raise an X Wing Fighter from out of the swamp to prove my point. I tried. All I got was a headache.
      Maybe then I can sit here on 26 April 2014 and say that my beautiful, respectful and scholarship college bound students are leaving and I Love Them.
        Lemme work on that and get back to you.