Prozac in a Pez dispenser

A couple of years ago, my wife and two children visited the school district’s central office during the summer months to update an address change. Six-year-old Emily and her three-year-old brother, Jake, stood quietly by their mother’s side (also a teacher in the district) as she made small talk with the administrative assistants about our kids and summer plans. Rarely is the office of the superintendent a funny place. There is really nothing awfully comical about pending litigation, state and local curriculum alignments, non-tenured contracts or emergency bus routes. Even so, as long as the chance for human interaction exists, humorous moments are possible. In fact, we long for them.

So when the superintendent of schools appeared like a sudden visual of a three-dimensional puzzle with a background of three-ringed binders and file cabinets, the ingredients for a light moment coagulated. Dr. Leachman, in an attempt to be cordial, stopped mid-stride, looked at my son and asked in third person, “How’s Jake today?”

Normally in public, if addressed personally, my son disappears faster than a bottle of bourbon at the Kennedy Compound. This time, however, he clamped onto my wife’s thigh, looked directly at our boss, and with delight and conviction…stuck out his tongue.

Of course that quiet office exploded with laughter, and even though he blushed in embarrassment, Dr. Leachman appreciated the moment. I stopped by his office that August and apologized for my son’s Gene Simmons impersonation, assuring him I hadn’t trained him in such antisocial behaviors. The younger of his two children was midway through high school, so this innocent insult brought a refreshing perspective to an earnest environment. As far as Jake knew, my superintendent may have been the one responsible for inventing green bean casserole. My wife tried to spin the situation by saying “Well, at least he acknowledged you.”

Without humor, my soul would succumb to drought.

As a kid, I was fortunate enough to grow up in a home rife with jokes, puns, malapropisms and intentional misunderstandings. I remember being in a restaurant somewhere in Wisconsin, and the server, who was bringing our salads and bread, asked my father, “Do you wanna roll?” Dad looked perplexed, briefly glanced at either side of his chair, and quipped, “I don’t think there’s enough room.” The vitality and longevity of those lessons can be found in my teaching because I continually use language creatively to both connect and cope with my students and colleagues.

Two years ago I was introducing Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Julius Caesar to a class of sophomores. Ironically, the PARADE section of the Kansas City Star published its yearly list of the “World’s Ten Worst Dictators.” After we discussed the differences between a dictatorship and a senate-based government, I read through parts of the article and pointed out some commonalities among the regimes. I quoted the following from the number-four ranking, which was China:

“China executes more people than all other nations combined, often for non-violent crimes. The death penalty can be given for burglary, embezzlement, counterfeiting, bribery, or killing a panda.”
I concluded, “You know class, if Martha Stewart lived in China, she may have been executed for her crime.…”
After a moment passed, a boy named Rudy, who was sitting front and center, raised his hand and asked with a flat sincerity, “Martha Stewart killed a panda?”
The class erupted.
“Yeah, Rudy,” I said, “she’s starting a new line of rugs.”
As you can imagine, it was sheer pandemonium after that.

This is my life.

True, unpredictable zingers from students and teachers add liveliness and color to class discussions. I remember taping off a nine foot by seven foot section on the floor in the front of my classroom during a unit over Sister Helen Prejean’s Dead Man Walking, hoping to illustrate the typical living quarters on death row. After sharing ideas about the potential psychological effects from living in such a limited proximity, I found myself standing in the middle of the cell. A sudden realization came over me, and I couldn’t pass up the chance to say, “Hmmm. I always wondered what it was like to be a nucleus.”

Words alone, though, won’t keep students attentive, so I beseech the help of the greatest behavioral manipulator and the Mother of All Cavitymakers: Pez. What is it about offering a minuscule piece of candy to 16 year olds that gets them to participate? An occasional method of behavioral conditioning, this positive reinforcement tool quadruples class participation at any given time. Forget UnitedStreaming and PowerPoint. There is no professional fulfillment quite like seeing an advanced literature student yank a sugar cube out of Yosemite Sam’s neck as a reward for reminding the class what verisimilitude means. Because it doesn’t take long before it resembles feeding popcorn to carp, I have to offer this communion in moderation. The good news—by the time their hyperactivity peaks, they’re already in Algebra. I do confess to sometimes fantasizing about substituting the Pez with Prozac or Ritalin, but that would require using a Maryln Manson dispenser, and they thankfully don’t make those.

Humor also keeps a person loose and helps sustain one’s emotional health during turbulent times. In 2002, my mother, while in the final stage of terminal lung cancer, was having sharp pains in her right forearm as a result of the previous day’s chemotherapy treatment. Having recovered from operable cancer several years earlier and then enduring bouts with experimental chemo for the recurrence, she picked up her tired body and stood before me, oxygen hoses dangling to the floor. After she regained her balance, she looked at her arm, the source of the nagging pain, shook her head and then looked at me. With raised eyebrows and a gentle smile, she said, “Gee, I hope it’s not too serious.” I hugged her, and we laughed together. Working in the capacity of a healer, humor connected us at a time when pain and helplessness dominated my family’s collective consciousness.

All of this feeds directly into my teaching because despite any dilemmas I may face, I have learned to make room in my day to share the universal virtue of laughter with my students and colleagues.

I think, when carefully planned, teachers can work humor into their assessments. Every year, I teach The Tragedy of Julius Caesar to 125 10th graders, and I am on a constant search for ways to keep their attention without sacrificing the integrity of the Shakespeare. One of my methods was to develop a “performance event” portion of the final assessment of the play. Students assume the role of an amusement park developer whose job is to introduce and explain a new park concept called “Shakespearean Theme Park: The Caesarean Section.” Demonstrating knowledge of Renaissance drama Julius Caesar, students must discuss the significance of each attraction as it relates to the play. Rides include the “Microcosm Mauler,” “Tragic Hero Terminator,” “Warning Sign Whipper,” “The Unkindest Cutter” and “Caesar’s Faults Ferris Wheel.” I am annoyed with the behavior of those educators who enjoy using examinations as a plate on which they serve an enormous portion of fear. Although they need to understand the significance of an assessment, students will perform better if the origins of any anxieties are their own and not further perpetuated by the very people who want to see them succeed. Assessments can be rigorous without being daunting.

A frequently used color on my teaching palette, humor can be one of the most powerful tools in establishing a memorable and meaningful learning community, but when it is inappropriate or insensitive, it can just as easily alienate and ostracize.

Outlining clear behavioral parameters early in the school year, maintaining focus on the day’s objective and planning lessons that go “bell to bell” are the keys to its inclusion. It’s not a carnival; it’s a classroom. And while kids need to know their voices are important, it is the teacher’s first priority to make each student feel safe emotionally. This understanding may result in a safe and enjoyable learning environment where teachers are likely to observe an increase in student engagement and learning outcomes. Kids are more apt to listen and learn from a teacher who can laugh with them frequently.

In a time when teacher recruitment and retention sit at the forefront of educational issues, humor can be a significant variable. On the front wall of my classroom somewhere between Twain and Thoreau is a large photograph of Groucho Marx with one of his more memorable witticisms: “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” While I am unsure of how my philosophy measures in as a factor of student achievement, I think my outlook has allowed me to stay a few lengths ahead of burnout. That means I will persevere, even when a kid shows up unprepared for class claiming she “dislocated” her grammar book.

Geez, that must really hurt.

by Darryl Johnson, Smithville NEA
2006-2007 Missouri Teacher of the Year