Month: May 2025

Teaching is part science, part art, and—on most days—a solid dose of stand-up comedy.

We’ve all been there. You ask a question. Blank stares. You rephrase it. Still nothing. Then you toss out, “Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was outstanding in his field!” Suddenly, the tension lifts. A few groans, a few chuckles—but now they’re listening.

Why Humor Works
Humor isn’t just for laughs. It’s a powerful tool that:

*Builds trust and relationships

*Reduces anxiety (especially around tests!)

*Encourages participation

*Makes learning stick

Studies show that students remember information better when it’s delivered with a smile—or a pun.

Classic Classroom Comedy
Here are a few of my tried-and-true favorites:

“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?”
A stick.

“Why was the math book sad?”
Because it had too many problems.

“Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”
They don’t have the guts.

And of course, the infamous:
“I planted some birdseed last month. Still no birds.”
(You’d be surprised how long it takes them to get that one.)

The Student Side of Funny
Kids are hilarious—intentionally or not.

One of my students once said, “I wish school had a snooze button like my alarm clock.”
Honestly? Same here.

Another time:
Student: “I forgot my homework at home. Can I bring it tomorrow?”
Me: “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be rich enough to retire. Yesterday.”

Humor helps students feel seen, safe, and part of the learning process. When they laugh with you, they’re more likely to trust you. And when they trust you, they’re more likely to try.

Teachers: Wise and Witty
While we may deliver bad jokes with wild abandon, don’t mistake our humor for a lack of depth. Teachers are walking treasure troves of wisdom—about life, learning, and the human condition.

We’ve seen students at their best, their worst, and their most honest. We know when “I don’t know” really means “I’m scared to be wrong.” That’s why one day, I asked Zack a question, and he gave me the usual out:
“I don’t know.”
I smiled and replied, “Okay—but if you did know, what would the answer be?”
He paused… and gave the correct answer.
Turns out, the brain works better when fear isn’t in charge.

Wise Words to Live By
Let’s end with a gem:

“I asked the teacher if she could teach me to procrastinate… she said she’d do it later.”

Final Bell
So go ahead—crack a joke, tell a pun, laugh at the chaos. In the end, humor isn’t a distraction from learning. It is learning. It’s connection. It’s courage. It’s what helps students take risks, try again, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember your corniest jokes twenty years from now.

An angry parent uses this classic line on a teacher, “I pay taxes. That means I’m your boss!”

The teacher replies, “You’re my boss? Then boss, where are my promised classroom supplies? Where is my updated curriculum? Where’s my reimbursement for the professional development I paid for myself and did on my own time? Where’s the teacher’s aide I was promised because my class size is above the state maximum? When can I expect my extra pay for all the hours I worked outside of my contracted hours?”

The parent’s response? *Stunned silence*

As a teacher for 20 years, one of the most important lessons I tried to model was this: when you make a mistake, own it. If I raised my voice, blamed the wrong student, or reacted unfairly, I had a rule—if the mistake happened publicly, the apology needed to be public too. I wanted my students to see that everyone, even teachers, can make mistakes—and that a sincere apology is part of making things right.

At one school, however, I encountered a troubling practice. Students were required to apologize whether they meant it or not, and the other student was forced to accept the apology and shake hands. It didn’t sit right with me. What message were we sending? That saying the words “I’m sorry” is enough, even if your actions don’t change? That children must accept an apology, even when it’s clearly insincere?

I stood firm in my belief that apologies should come from the heart. I taught my students the four parts of a sincere apology: say what you’re sorry for, explain why it was wrong, express genuine regret, and describe what you’ll do differently next time. I also told them something few adults say out loud: you don’t have to accept an apology that doesn’t feel real.

To drive this point home, I created a classroom lesson using a beautiful ceramic plate. In a planned moment, a student (in on the lesson) smashed the plate on the floor and casually muttered “sorry.” The class was stunned. The next day, I brought the plate back—poorly glued, chipped, and clearly damaged—and asked, “Is it all better now?”

We all agreed it wasn’t.

That simple, powerful moment helped my students understand that real apologies are more than words—they require sincerity, accountability, and change. Saying Sorry Isn’t Good Enough was born from that experience. It’s a story to help children, parents, and teachers understand that we do children a disservice when we teach them that “sorry” fixes everything. It doesn’t. But a heartfelt apology? That’s a step toward real repair.

I’ve been a teacher since before standardized testing became the end-all, be-all measure of student success and teacher effectiveness.

I taught before there were phones in classrooms. I remember handwriting report cards, using duplicating machines, and teaching with overhead projectors. I watched the shift from handwritten grade books and planners to early computerized systems—back when we still had to print everything and send it home with students. I remember the day we got our first classroom computer, the day district email arrived, and the moment they installed the first teacher-only phone line in our classroom (which still couldn’t receive outside calls). All of this has happened in just the last 30 years.

But as technology advanced, something else changed too.

Discipline became a dirty word. Consequences became seen as punitive and unacceptable. Expectations became impossible. Standardized tests began driving everything, while real learning, creative thinking, and handwriting quietly disappeared from the curriculum. Teachers became overloaded with requirements that never stopped piling up. More was added every year—nothing was ever taken away.

Then came the pandemic. And everything that had once felt difficult became unmanageable.

Behavior in classrooms declined sharply. Students who constantly disrupted learning were no longer removed, instead, they triggered class-wide evacuations called “room clears.” Teachers were expected to meet the needs of 30 or more students, including a third or more with IEPs, while tracking behavior charts every 15 minutes for 10 or more students. We were told these were “non-negotiables,” even when they made quality teaching impossible.

We were told to “differentiate for every learner,” but never given the time, support, or resources to do it.

Meanwhile, our planning and grading time was stripped away. We were pulled to cover for absent colleagues without compensation. Many teachers had fewer than 20 minutes to eat lunch—on a good day. And when we got sick? The burden of writing sub plans often meant we came in anyway.

All of this while our pay stagnated—or declined. For six straight years, I saw my take-home pay shrink as insurance premiums rose and salaries stayed flat. And yet the demands kept growing. The level of education required increased. The stress mounted. And the respect for teachers vanished.

Let’s be clear: Teachers don’t choose their students. They don’t control who walks through their classroom door, or how far behind those children might be. But when test scores don’t measure up? Teachers are blamed.

We are asked to do the impossible. New teachers burn out quickly and leave. Veteran teachers hold on until their health gives out, or they retire early, or leave the profession entirely—often taking second jobs just to make ends meet along the way.

The system is collapsing under the weight of unrealistic demands, unfunded mandates, and a legacy of low pay for what was once dismissed as “women’s work.” And no one in power seems willing to make the structural changes needed to save it.

Where does it end?

It’s no mystery why teachers are leaving in record numbers. Or why fewer young people are choosing to enter the profession. They know what we know: It’s not just hard to make a living as a teacher today—it’s nearly impossible.

Because of extensive radiation damage, I lost most of my small intestine and several sections of my colon. As a result, eating has become one of the hardest parts of daily life. My body can no longer handle most foods, and I have to prepare almost everything I eat myself. I follow a highly restricted diet—not by choice, but by necessity. It’s not easy, but it’s my reality, and most of the time, I manage it with grace.

Being alive is worth every challenge. It’s worth the complications, the cravings, the limitations. Over time, the longing for foods I can’t have has mostly faded. But not entirely.

There are still moments when the smell of crispy fried chicken or a hot slice of thin-crust pizza takes me back. About a month ago, I gave in and had a single piece of fried chicken. I paid for it with nearly three weeks of feeling miserably ill. I miss cinnamon rolls. I miss pudding and cheesecake. I miss bacon, tomato sauce, creamy sauces, and yes, even something as simple as a Triscuit. I miss sandwiches with deli meat and soft sub rolls. I miss when food tasted the way I remember it—before radiation from my metastatic cancer changed my mouth, tongue, and throat, robbing me of both saliva and flavor.

My diet now is functional. Scrambled eggs. English muffins. Carefully cooked lean meat. I rely on processed carbs because I can’t digest whole grains, seeds, or even rice. Croissants, biscuits, and coffee cake? Off-limits. Beans, legumes, raw fruits and veggies are also on the no-go list. The few veggies I can eat have to be cooked until they are mush, and there really isn’t much of a point because all the vitamins and fiber are gone at that point.

I no longer eat for pleasure—I eat to survive. Most of the time, I’m at peace with that. But I’m also human. Every once in a while, I chase a memory—of a flavor, a texture, a feeling of fullness and satisfaction. The foods never taste the way I remember. And they always leave me in pain. Still, I miss the warmth of sloppy joes, the comfort of spaghetti with meat sauce, the heartiness of pot pies, and oh—how I miss chocolate and ice cream.

I do what I must. But until you’ve lost the simple joy of eating something you love and feeling good afterward, it’s hard to understand just how much that meant. What we used to call “comfort food” doesn’t bring comfort anymore. I miss that part of life—not just the food itself, but the memories, the moments, and the feeling of being full in the best possible way.

It seems like a very trivial thing to miss but consider how much of our lives we spend buying groceries, planning meals, prepping for meals, cooking, baking, and of course, eating. Going out to eat or sharing a meal with a friend is something that only happens a handful of time in year now. The warmth of a good meal with good friends and family is such a distant memory. It makes me smile the way good memories do, but I try really hard not to think about it too much.