Grumpy Old Man Is Grumpy
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.