Category: Work

Feb 20 2026 2026-02-20 2026-02-20 NoComment by Ross

The “No Good Deed” Boomerang: A Masterclass in Being Lujacked…

Posted in Work

Everybody knows that no good deed goes unpunished. In fact, if you do a good deed long enough, it eventually becomes a permanent line item on your soul that you can never truly delete.

For the past few years, I’ve organized a field trip for our female students to visit the courtrooms, observe the legal process, and see what a career in law actually looks like. It’s a great trip. But this year, I decided to test my theory. I didn’t seek out the invitation. I didn’t go looking for the work. I figured it was time for someone else to step up—specifically a female lead, considering I’ve been saying for years that a female-empowerment trip should probably be led by a woman.

The organization sent the invitation to someone else. She accepted. Great. I thought I was free. I thought I could just exist in my classroom and let someone else handle the logistics for once.

The Request

Then came the request: “Can you help chaperone?”

Sigh. Fine. I said okay. I can sit on a bus. I can stand in a courtroom. I can do the “support” role. That was my first mistake.

The Hijack

A day later, the other shoe didn’t just drop; it kicked me in the teeth. I got a request for a list of the girls who want to go on the trip.

Me: “Weren’t you coming to my classes to talk to the girls today?” (You know, to actually inform them about the trip she is supposedly organizing?)

Co-worker: “I have a meeting now, so can you do it?”

And just like that, I’m the organizer again.

The Lujack

Here’s what burns: If you prioritize a meeting over the actual legwork of the event you accepted, that should be on you. Don’t lujack your choice of one meeting (with who knows who) over the meeting you had planned to come talk to the students on to me!

By “helping” her because she’s too busy with a meeting to talk to my students, I am now the one doing the recruitment, the list-making, and the logistical heavy lifting. The “Meeting” trump card shouldn’t mean I suddenly inherit your responsibilities.

I knew I should have said no. I saw the trap, I walked into it anyway, and now I’m back to square one,

Will I ever learn? Probably not. But for today, I’m just annoyed.

I will learn, though. I will learn to NEVER do anything outside my own classroom again.  Every time I do it ends badly for me.


Jan 15 2026 2026-01-15 2026-01-15 by Ross

Grumpy Old Man Is Grumpy

Posted in Old Man Yelling at the Sky, Work

I wasn’t a great high school student. I get it.

But it was different.

We’d come into a classroom loud, talking, laughing, finishing a story from the hallway. But when the teacher said, “Okay, let’s begin,” or even just cleared their throat, we quieted down. We faced forward. That was the signal. Class had started.

I don’t remember students deciding to rearrange furniture. You didn’t drag your desk over to face your buddy. You didn’t turn your chair away from the board to socialize. You sat where you were told to sit, facing the front, and you either paid attention—or pretended to.

And we did the work.

Maybe not well. Maybe not enthusiastically. Maybe an essay was half-assed or a worksheet was rushed. But we did it. We listened to lectures. We read along in textbooks. We read silently. We filled out worksheets. We dissected fetal pigs. Whatever the task was, we did something.

Today, many students treat work as optional.

They’ll spend an entire class period on their phone—watching a movie, playing a game, scrolling endlessly—while groups of friends just hang out and talk. I walk around nonstop policing it, redirecting, asking for phones to be put away. Five minutes later, the phone is back out. Again. And again. And again.

We aren’t allowed to take phones. I can ask a student to hand it over—one did today—but if they say no, there’s nothing I can do except call home. And about 90% of the time, the parent either doesn’t care or tells me the kid needs the phone.

This semester I rearranged the desks to all face forward.  Two students per desk.  Every class but one has been great.

Face forward. Work in chunks. Worksheets and projects completed in front of me and turned in the same class period. No computers. No phones. No cheating. Structure. Accountability.

And honestly? It’s been great—in most classes.

But every year, there’s that one class.

This year, it’s my 8th period. Last period of the day. Ten students. Two who care. Three who are mildly interested. And five who want to sit in a group and do absolutely nothing.

This is a financial literacy class. “Adulting” stuff. Budgeting. Rent. Cars. Insurance. Saving. Investing. Things they will actually need when they leave high school.

Today’s task was straightforward: research average rents across different Chicago neighborhoods. Consider how safety, commute, entertainment, and location shape rent. Pair that with a starting salary for their chosen career. Calculate net pay (simplified). Apply the 30% rule for housing.

Every other class did it.

They all reached the same conclusion: The rent is too damn high. Maybe roommates are necessary. Maybe living at home for a bit isn’t failure—it’s survival.

This group? Learned nothing.

And here’s the part I don’t like admitting: it frustrates me because I know I’m going to pay for it.

Teachers and administrators are trying to prepare these kids for college, the military, the trades, or the workforce. In my class, I’m trying to teach them how to function as adults—how to budget, save, invest, rent an apartment, buy a car, pay utilities, and understand insurance.

They won’t learn it.

They won’t develop executive functioning skills. They won’t build basic competencies. They won’t leave with the reading, writing, or math skills needed for an apprenticeship, let alone anything beyond menial labor.

And then—my tax dollars will support them.  I’ll pay the housing, food assistance, medical care, and all the welfare-type benefits.

That’s the part that burns.

They have the opportunity to improve their situation. They have access to education. They have a chance to rise above poverty. Whether the reasons are systemic, cultural, personal, or motivational—I’m not here to assign blame.

I’m just saying this situation exists.

Now that it’s off my chest, I’ll add this: the other four classes are good. My AP kids are fantastic. I stay in touch with former students who’ve gone on to do meaningful things and improve their circumstances.

Focusing on them keeps me motivated.

But banging my head against the wall every day with the others?

That part is soul-sucking.  I’m ready to retire.


Dec 10 2025 2025-12-10 2025-12-10 by Ross

How Hard Is It? (A Teacher’s Rant Driving Him to Retirement)

Posted in Work

Every once in a while I look around my workplace — a public school in Chicago — and ask myself a question that has become almost a mantra:

How hard is it?

Not in the philosophical sense.
Not in the “teens are complicated” sense.
I mean… literally… how hard is it to do the absolute simplest things?

Because lately, the gap between “this should be easy” and “apparently this is impossible” feels wider than the Grand Canyon.

1. The Master Calendar That Does Not Exist

Let’s start with the calendar — or rather, the lack of one.

My school does not have a shared, school-wide master calendar. That means I often have no idea when field trips are happening, when testing is scheduled, or when some random event is going to hijack half my class.

Imagine trying to run a class with structure and planning while operating in an administrative environment that seems allergic to… well… structure and planning.

And here’s the part that drives me nuts:

A shared calendar takes ten minutes to set up.
Google Calendar → Create → Share with staff → Done.

How hard is it?

Apparently very.

2. “What Can I Do to Raise My Grade?” (Asked With One Week Left)

Another classic:
Students approaching me a week before the end of the semester, asking what they can do to raise their grade.

Not in week two.
Not in week five.
Not even in week ten.

Week seventeen.

And the answer — the simple, painfully obvious answer — is always the same:

Do the work during the semester.

It’s astonishing how foreign that concept feels to many of them. We’ve created a school culture where deadlines are flexible, missing work can be made up months later, and every consequence can be negotiated.

So kids have learned that nothing actually counts until it’s too late.

But still… how hard is it to keep up with assignments as they come?

Harder than I thought, apparently.

3. Being Where You’re Supposed to Be

You’d think this one would be simple:

Be in your class, not your girlfriend’s class.
Be in Civics during Civics, not wandering into the gym.
Go where you’re scheduled to go.

And yet, every day I have students drifting in from hallways, from other rooms, from places they absolutely shouldn’t be — usually with an expression that says, What? Why is this a problem?

It’s not that the rule is complicated.
It’s that enforcement is inconsistent, consequences are rare, and many kids have learned that rules are more like suggestions.

So again:
How hard is it?

Too hard, it seems.

4. Why This Feels Like a One-Way Ticket to Retirement

The truth is, none of this would bother me if it were the result of complicated, unsolvable problems.

But these aren’t complicated.
These are the easy problems.
The low-hanging fruit.
The quick fixes.
The “we could have solved this in 2009” issues.

What wears me down — and what makes retirement look more attractive every day — is living in a system where:

  • the simple things don’t get done
  • the obvious things aren’t enforced
  • the preventable problems repeat endlessly
  • and the people who notice sound like the unreasonable ones

I’m not asking for perfection.
I’m not asking for reinventing the wheel.

I just want a calendar.
Students who do their work.
Kids who go to the class they’re assigned to.

How hard is it?

Hard enough, apparently, that I’m starting to think the answer might be:
Too hard for me to keep doing this forever.

 


Nov 01 2025 2025-11-01 2025-11-01 by Ross

They look different on TV….

Posted in Humor, Work

Maybe I won’t use AI to help update my presentations for class.

 


Oct 28 2025 2025-10-28 2025-10-28 by Ross

The Slow Death of Accountability…

Posted in Work

I’m just tired.

Tired of walking into a classroom every day trying to make good lessons, trying to make something that might actually matter — and getting apathy back.

They don’t care about learning. They aren’t curious. I know they’re teenagers. I know I wasn’t perfect either. But I wasn’t this. I didn’t treat school like background noise.

And if a kid truly doesn’t want to learn or go to college, fine — give them a path out. Let them graduate at sixteen and spend two years in trade school. Why force kids who don’t want to be there into classrooms where they drag everyone else down?

Yesterday was report card pick-up day. Seniors rarely bring parents, but when they do, it’s the same scene: the parent’s surprised, the kid promises to “do better,” and everyone nods like something’s been accomplished. I’ve seen it for years. One kid out of dozens ever actually changes. The rest go right back to doing nothing the next day.

Some teachers try pep talks — “You’ll regret not trying harder.” No, they won’t. I’ve never seen it happen. They’ll blame the system, their parents, or anyone else. Never themselves.

That’s the real problem: we’ve built a system where no one is allowed to fail. We push kids forward whether they’ve earned it or not. Teachers are pressured to pass them so the school’s numbers look good. We shield them from consequences, then act shocked when they crumble later.
It’s always someone else’s fault this happened to them.

You see it every day.

I had two guest speakers in class — real people with real stories — and a handful of students still scrolled through their phones or slept. I stop class and call them out. I tell them it’s disrespectful. I ask them to put the phone away or sit up and engage. Sometimes they do — for a minute. Then it starts again.

I write referrals. I log incidents. I contact parents. And nothing happens. Admin shrugs. Phones are allowed, and if a kid’s asleep, I’m told they “might have outside issues.” Write-ups get closed in minutes. No follow-up, no consequence, nothing.

The message is clear: it’s not worth enforcing rules when no one else will back you up.

This generation doesn’t even think it’s rude. It’s not rebellion — they genuinely don’t see it as wrong. They live on their phones, permanently connected to friends and family. The boundary between social time and learning time has vanished.

Until schools ban phones completely — lock them up all day — it’s not going to get better. I’ve even tried incentives: kids earn tokens for locking up their phones that can replace a low grade or earn snacks. You’d be amazed how many have D’s or F’s and still won’t do it. They don’t care enough to trade their screen for a better grade.

Maybe I’m just an old man yelling at clouds, but I don’t think so. The divide in this generation won’t come from wealth. It’ll come from attention — from values. Some will learn to focus and care about something real. The rest will have their lives outsourced to screens, and they’ll never get them back.

We call all this compassion, but it’s really sabotage. We’re raising a generation of learned helplessness.

I still love my AP Government class — the kids who care, who ask questions, who think. They remind me why I started doing this. But the rest? It’s hard not to feel like I’m part of a broken system, propping up a fantasy of “equity” that’s really just avoidance.

Maybe burnout isn’t hating the work. Maybe it’s realizing the work doesn’t mean what it used to — and wondering if it ever will again.


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Sep 30 2025 2025-09-30 2025-09-30 by Ross

The Apathy That Will End Me…

Posted in Work

There’s a moment every teacher reaches — not a dramatic explosion, but a quiet one. The moment when the silence in the room isn’t thoughtful; it’s indifferent. You’ve planned the discussion, you’ve found the connection, you’ve tried to make the material matter. But the students — bright, capable, nearly adults — just… don’t.

It’s not disrespect, not rebellion. It’s apathy. And apathy is worse than defiance, because at least defiance means they care about something.

I teach high school seniors. They are so close to the world, just a few months from voting, working, and making choices that actually matter. You’d think that would ignite something in them — curiosity, urgency, even anxiety that fuels engagement. But most days, I see heads on desks, eyes on phones, conversations that have nothing to do with the world I’m trying to open up for them.

I plan lessons that spark debate, that challenge assumptions, that ask them to wrestle with real ideas. I design experiences, not just assignments. But when the room is a wall of apathy, it starts to feel like shouting into the void.

And that’s the hardest part — not the grading, not the administration, not even the meaningless PD days and silly paperwork. It’s caring deeply in a space that feels empty. It’s showing up every day with energy and intention, only to have it bounce off glazed eyes.

I know it’s not all of them. There are always a few — the ones who think, ask, push back. The ones who remind me that what I’m doing matters. But the ratio has shifted. The disengagement feels heavier, the spark rarer.

I’m not angry at them. I’m just tired of caring more about their learning than they do. Tired of carrying the weight of a classroom where curiosity feels like an endangered species.

It’s not that I’ve lost love for teaching. I still believe in its power. But belief alone can’t fill a room with life. And if something doesn’t change — not in policy or curriculum, but in culture — I think this apathy might be the thing that finally drives me out.

Because it turns out, the opposite of inspiration isn’t ignorance. It’s indifference. And that’s what breaks teachers — one quiet, unblinking classroom at a time.


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Sep 16 2025 2025-09-16 2025-09-16 by Ross

Lock It Like You Mean It…

Posted in Work

You know what I don’t understand? We have two bathrooms at work. Each one requires a key to open. Fine. That’s normal. But inside each bathroom is not one, but two locks:

  • A slidey lock (classic, reliable, like your grandma’s screen door).
  • A turny lock that, when engaged, lights up the outside like Times Square and proudly announces: “IN USE.”

It is the Cadillac of locks. The HIPAA of bathroom privacy. A lock that literally communicates your presence to the world.

And yet… nobody uses it.

Instead, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve unlocked the bathroom door, key halfway in, only to hear the desperate, panicked cry of a co-worker from within: “I’m in here!”

Oh, you’re in there? Funny, I couldn’t tell. You know how I could have known? If you had turned the freaking lock designed for this exact situation.

I swear, if I got a dollar for every “I’m in here!” scream, I’d be a millionaire by now.  Wanna bet they don’t use their turn signals on the road either?

It’s not hard. One motion, one flick of the wrist. Twist. Done. Problem solved. It’s easy as pie.

But no, apparently that’s too much to ask. Instead, we live in a society where bathroom roulette is a daily game. Will the door be locked? Will Karen be inside mid-squat? Will you both leave traumatized? Place your bets.