Monday, October 23, 2017

Discipline with Humor: Elvis's Belly Button Lint

EARLY IN MY CAREER I came up with a humorous approach for dealing with minor violations of classroom decorum. 

I realized essay punishments could be humorous and effective. 

In most cases, I wanted kids to quit goofing around or talking too much. No sense treating breaches of etiquette like criminal infractions. I could just stick them with a 150-word essay as a simple reminder. Making it comical allowed peers to share a laugh and showed students you wanted to have fun in class, while still expecting them to abide by the rules. When Kayla was tardy too often, I had her write about how she became a fashion icon by inventing concrete shoes. On another occasion, Josh seemed to be writing a love note instead of doing his assigned reading. I had him write an essay about falling asleep in class and getting his history book stuck to his face for a week. 

As you might expect, he explained in his essay how his rare affliction made it impossible to flirt with the girl of his dreams.

One day, Angie got in trouble for some minor matter. I had her write: “I Collect Belly Button Lint for a Hobby.” Angie didn’t stop at 150 words. She was a collector in the truest sense. Her essay filled five pages. She had lint from actors, from every president in the last twenty years, and dreamed of finding the Holy Grail of lint—from the button of Elvis Presley (assuming Elvis was still alive). 

IN MOST CASES punishment fit the “crime.”  One day, Rob came flying through my door, with a friend in hot pursuit. Before I could tell them to slow down Rob tripped and somersaulted across the linoleum. He dusted himself off without injury, but I made Rob write about his life as “The Human Cannonball.” 

Wendy R. (a straight-A student) had to write an essay after laughing once too often and disturbing class. I forget the title; but she pinpointed her friend Wendy M. as the source of her difficulties 

“At times Wendy’s nostrils will go in and out as if they were controlled by a motor.” That was her reason for laughing.

Max tended to turn around too often and talk to friends. One day I grew tired of viewing the back of his head. 

I had him write about having a giant tongue. In his essay he called Landon, the friend who had lured him into sin, to inform him of his tragic condition. The essay followed the conventions of a popular Budweiser beer advertisement:

“Hello.” [Landon answers.]

“Wattttttttthhhhhuuuup!!!”

“Hey, man.  I would finish the lines in the commercial but I just gotta ask. What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Miy tung.”

“What?”

“Miy tung iz big,” I said angrily.

“Oh, I see.

“Wat sod I du?”

“Gee, got me.”

“Tanks, yor no hep.”  Then I hung up…..


ONE LAST EXAMPLE deserves mention. One day a young man got in trouble for talking during detention. I asked him to write “The Life of a Cucumber.”

His story began: “I started out the first part of my life in a little cold plastic bag. The bag sat on a shelf in the store, for a long time before some one decided to buy the bag of seeds.”

This essay was not particularly funny, but carried the name of the author, Brian ----.  Only Brian’s handwriting was surprisingly good.  

Normally, Brian’s handwriting was abominable. 

I still have my notes describing the incident:  “Caught Brian ---- lying today because his mother wrote his punishment essay. Brian claimed, in declining order:  

1) he wrote it; she corrected it 
2) okay, no, mom wrote part 
3) well, yes, she wrote it all

I called Mrs. ---- that evening and she offered lame defense: “I don’t see anything wrong with a mother helping a child.”

“Nor do I,” I responded. “But you weren’t helping. You did the essay for him and let him off his punishment entirely.” 


I told her Brian would have to write a different essay entirely; but if it had been in my power I would have given her a topic all her own to complete: “What Happens to a Boy when Mom is an Enabler?”

*

If you found this useful you might also enjoy: The Best Seating Chart Ever. That post also deals with discipline and a dose of humor.

Angie was in search of the Holy Grail of Lint.

7 comments:

  1. Kelly Hester, a former student commented on my Facebook page: "Yes but your topics were always fun and thought provoking!"

    ReplyDelete
  2. Shelley King, another former student responded on Facebook, "I loved those essays!" (She once told me she tried to get in trouble so she'd have a chance to write.

    Okay, so my discipline system wasn't perfect!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Chris Simons, a former student whose mother was also a fine educator and friend of mine, responded via Facebook: "My mom saved the one you had me write. It brings back many great memories."

    If he can remember the topic I'll post it here.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Entirely true! Mr. Viall’s unique disciplinary efforts were the source of many fun-filled, creative evenings in my house and in turn, I discovered my love for writing at a very early age. I owe him a great deal of thanks for his “punishments”; they opened up a world of wonder and joy I might not have realized until much later in life. Kudos to Mr. Viall for caring enough to develop young minds through the wonderous world of writing!
    - Shelley King

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Wow; thanks, Ms. K. You were always fun to have in class.

      Delete
  5. A teacher on the Badass Teachers' Association Facebook page decided she'd like to try an essay herself. So I have her the topic, "My Life as a Marshmallow." Here's Susan Dunlap's response:

    The process sounds painful, so I’m glad I don’t remember my earliest days. I’m told I’m made of sugar, gelatin, and vanilla. Also part water, yet I’m deathly afraid of liquids of any kind. Rain. Hot chocolate. Saliva.

    My earliest memory is darkness. Some rustling, a box cutter, then light. For another eternity, my siblings and I sat on a shelf in a plastic bag, and for the longest time I could barely breathe.

    The highlight of my life was the fast-paced trip from that shelf into a variety of containers to get here, the place I now call home. A kind giant human tore an airhole in our bag. Half my brothers and sisters are gone. I catch rare flashes of light but I fear I’ve been forgotten. Every day I feel myself growing a little bit more stale. What is my purpose? Have I lived a good life?

    ReplyDelete