I’m The Illest First Grade Teacher You’ll Ever Have

 by Kate Schulman

By: Whitney Stevens (that’s Ms. Stevens to you, because if you didn’t already know, I’m the raddest teacher you’ll ever have)

Okay, kidsies. Let’s f*cking learn some sh*t. Sorry. Oh God. No, Preston, please don’t cry. I didn’t mean… I was just feeling the moment. All right, Olivia. Don’t call your mom. Yeah, like she is actually going to sue me. Really? Your mom is a f*cking media analyst. I don’t know what the f*ck that is, but I highly doubt your mother has––oh. You’ve already got her on the phone. Wait, where the f*ck did you get the iPhone 6+? Yeah, right. If anything were Steve Job’s muse, it was his Islamic background.

Anyway, let’s get back to learning some sh*t. You see this f*cking number line right here? Pointless. Ripping it up. Watch me make this hella cool LeBron James shot into the green recycling bin. Yeah, don’t put your sh*tty little juice boxes and string-cheese wrappers into the green bin. Green bin for paper, blue bin for all your other sh*t that may or may not be recyclable. I’m really not sure. I’m feeling nice today. Jack, come over here. No, come over here. Put down the bug book and get your ass over here right now! I’m your teacher! Oh dear. Don’t…don’t cry. Yeah, it’s okay. Come over here and shoot this crumpled up number line into the trash. Can you do that for me? Great. Now on the count of three. One, two…SIIIIIKE!!!! I F*CKING PWNED YOU, YOU LITTLE NERD! Sit your ass back down and read about honeybees, or whatever the f*ck it is you spend your time doing. I don’t care. I’m just here to rock sh*t. I’m here to f*ck this joint UP. Y’all ain’t better than me.

Why am I using so many expletives, as you have so articulately explained, William? First of all, you’re a little sh*t. Don’t use the word “expletive.” That makes you seem like a pretentious member of the bourgeois. I’m opening your eyes to the real world. To all the 7-Elevens. Macy’s. Exxon Mobile. Nordstrom. Your In-and-Out Burger’s, your McDonald’s, your high-quality bay leaves. This is the world we live in, kidsies––and it is gonna hit you once you leave this school. This school is a safe haven. It’s like a Barnes and Noble up in here, people. So many books. So many zany workers. So little time to look around and enjoy…like, take time to smell the f*cking roses, y’know?

Hey, Howie–your name is totally old school. I’m digging it. You have the same flair and panache as my great uncle Howie. He died in ’93 after the goddamn Puritans destroyed his land and crop. Yeah, you heard me right: 1693! I always used to rip into my old man like that.

So. Shapes. So you’ve got the trapezoid. You’ve got the parallelogram. The square. The circle. And guess what? They all mean NOTHING! Piece of sh*t, shapes are. You don’t need those in the real world. You know what you do need in the real world? A f*ckin’ trust fund. You guys know that show, The Nanny? Well, Brighton, Maggie, and Gracie are rollin’ in the dough, while the rest of us are just real-life imitations of Val Toriello, sitting around eating crackers and talking to the wealthier class we so look up to, like Fran Fine A.K.A Fran Sheffield. But we ALL know who the real Mrs. Sheffield should’ve been; Sylvia. It is so f*cking obvious it makes me want to scream.

Ugh, what the hell is next on the agenda. Let me check my obnoxiously large white binder. I honestly get so stressed out by just looking at the f*cking thing. It’s a monstrosity.

All right, let’s dive into reading some sh*t. Picture books. Langstong Hughes poems, or whatever his name is. The Common Core seems to dig it, so let’s f*cking do it. NOT! Instead, we are going to read Allan Ginsberg’s epic poem, Howl. I want you to highlight every time you think Mr. Ginsberg is making a reference to homosexuality or Studio 54. Just have fun with it, y’know? Get some culture into your diet, kidsies. Yeah, Patriot, I know your mom like owns the f*cking Metropolitan Opera or whatever. I don’t care.

Sadie, get your hands out of your mouth. This isn’t art class where you can express yourself in whatever way you want. This is real life. If you have your hands in your mouth all the time when you’re my age, people are going to think you’re a performance artist and maybe eye you on the street while you just stand there with your hands in your mouth while wiggling your hips because your hands are stuck in the wet den that is your mouth and you have absolutely NO other way of getting your keys out of your pocket besides shimming your hips to and fro.

This quarter or semester or however the hell we divide sections of the year, we’re studying the Algonquians and the Iroquois. They’re Indian tribes. Or rather, they were Indian tribes. Then the white man came and f*cking took all their maize and herbal medicines and NOW we have Jamba Juice and Yogurtlands as far as the eye can see.

I’m the best teacher you’ll all ever have. I’m the dopest teach’, doc, copper, whatever it is you wanna call me.

Max, stop pulling on Lydia’s shirt. It is obviously from The Children’s Place and is very expensive. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to pull on people’s shirts. It’s called working for the corporate league of gentleman. What about gentlewomen?

Ah, f*ck. It’s time for lunch. Everyone, just get your lunch boxes from the cloak closet, like this is some f*cking school from 1905 where we have a f*cking cloak closet. Actually, fun fact, this school was built in 1903. Yeah, I’m pretty sure every bathroom and rickety indoor-window that lets you see into the hallway even though it’s really high up and opaque so you really just see a blurry view of the top of the window across the hall is haunted.

‘Kay, go to lunch. Have fun, I guess. NOT. I hope one of you has a peanut allergy. Who am I kidding? Hope? I know. Like, thirteen of you are allergic to peanuts. It’s a f*cking mess. I’m terrified to have birthday parties in class because what if that specific cronut has peanut oil in it? Then it’s my ass to the man downstairs known as Principle D’Angelo and your new teacher will be some guitar-playing, skirt-wearing ray of sunshine named Mrs. Tyler. And she’s a Mrs. Because she’s married and actually did something with her life instead of putzing around 42^nd street looking for work until SOMEONE stumbled into P.S. 35 because she saw a cute scruffy guy who turned out to be Romeo’s hedge fund-owner dad who SOMEONE could’ve ended up with if she didn’t tell him he looked like a carbon copy of that guy from Downton Abbey which led him to get all offended because who would’ve known that his poor servant family in England had a really hard time with the English royals and then everything got f*cked up.

And now here she is, all of two years later.

So go to lunch, kidsies. Eat SH*T. Both literally and not. Seriously though, I think the lunch ladies are doing some The Help-style sh*t to go against the grain of society. And I’m with it, man. I’m so f*cking with it.

I am Ms. Stevens, and I am the home-skillet bizkit of teachers. Let’s f*cking learn.