MUD WRESTLING WITH HARRY WONG

Teacher Alert! If you are a teacher, you might be able to relate to this one. I wrote it just before the 2004-05 school year. It's a little different in that I wrote it from my wife's perspective.




Mud Wrestling With Harry Wong



The bell rings and my heart leaps. It is the first day of school and in a few seconds I will hear the growing crescendo of the multitudes as they trod toward the initial class of their penultimate high school year. Will yesterday’s nervous apprehension be a case of “much ado about nothing”, superseded instead by my current feelings of guarded optimism? Or will the day end with me lying on the floor, trampled by their attitudes and apathy. Teenage Wasteland indeed. Well, I’ll soon know because...here they come.


The television program 60 Minutes has always provided me with a mixed bag of emotions. While I get totally absorbed in the investigative pieces and Morley Safer’s occasional light and humorous forays, I am also abruptly reminded that it is six o’clock on Sunday and the weekend is, for intents and purposes, over. Monday, and school, is lurking just around the corner. This Sabbath is especially traumatic because tomorrow is the first day of a new school year. To add to my anxiety, the feature article this evening is an hour long interview with (yawn) Hillary Clinton.

“I’m Mike Wallace”.
“I’m Ed Bradley”.
“I’m Debbie Crane and I am in deep doo-doo because I am unprepared and don’t have a clue what I’m going to do tomorrow.”

I’ve managed to fritter away the entire summer without giving Junior English or Creative Writing a second thought. And just where did the summer go? I vaguely remember watching a fireworks display...then there was a teaching seminar...followed by Gifted/Talented training...now this.
Instead of enjoying Andy Rooney’s ponderings and reflections about the proliferation of 1960's and 70's rock anthems being used to advertise everything from Cadillacs (Led Zeppelin) to laxatives (James Brown), I am running through the house trying to find my new Whaley two-line grade book.

“Here it is,” my husband (also a teacher) calls out, “right where you put it last week - in the laundry room under the bag of cat litter. You know, Dear, if you would just be a tad bit more organized you wouldn’t have these last minute anxiety attacks.”
He smiled.
I seethed.
“Yes, I know,” I thought. “And if you weren’t so anal about having everything done six weeks in advance, then I wouldn’t have to suffer through another of your condescending lectures about my ‘chicken-with-its-head-cut-off’ style of management!”
“Thank you, Honey!” I chirped. Loosely translated, this meant “I hate you!”


Since he was going to be of no help in alleviating my pre-game jitters, I needed another source; another person who would help me ease my dual traumas of depression (the lost summer) and apprehension. I needed divine guidance so I dropped to my knees.

WWWD - What Would Wong Do?



Having tossed and turned through a mostly sleepless night, I find myself sitting in my classroom, awaiting the entrance of the little angels. In lieu of sleep I spent the night rehearsing everything I needed to do today. I made a mental checklist and then arrived at school an hour early.
As my husband dropped me off he said, “Be sure to be stern and don’t sway from your rules.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget to choke on the breakfast I made you. Wait...I never fix breakfast.”

Oh well, I digress. As I visually check out my room everything seems to be in its proper place. The seating chart is on the overhead, the rules are posted, the posters with inspirational slogans are plastered everywhere - the room is neat, clean, and organized. And so am I.
I’ve got on a smart outfit and my opening speech to the kids is on note cards on my podium. I’ll just cover the basics today - introductions, pronunciation of names, a tour of the room, and an overview of rules and procedures.

“Five minutes,” I mutter to myself, nervously confident that I’ve prepared myself to meet the onslaught. Harry Wong would be proud. “Bring ’em on!”


“How was your first day?” my husband asks as he picks me up from school. “Mine was great. I already know all my kids’ names!”

Amazing. After twelve years he still doesn’t know my mother’s name! “It was fine”, I respond.

Actually it was better than fine. My first-day anxieties were unfounded. The kids were wonderful. The new administration seems very supportive. I’m exhilarated, but exhausted. Our new schedule requires us to teach all day on “A” days with no conference time. Therefore, my feet hurt and my voice is hoarse. I stayed in my room during lunch and now I’m starving.

“Let’s stop at Pei Wei’s for supper. I’ll buy”
“Consider it done,” Rick replies. “You can give me all the gory details while we eat.”

The details, for the most part, weren’t at all gory. Except for First Period. There I stood in my finest Harry Wong pose, hand outstretched to greet the eager learners.
The first student to enter was Courtney Something. She smiled, said hello, and went promptly to her desk. Several kids, mostly boys, reacted to my smiling mug and welcoming arms as if I had leprosy. They grimaced, avoided eye contact, and skulked to their seats.
Once everyone was in their proper place I called roll, trying to associate names with faces. Now, I’ve never been good with names, but a few of these stood out.
There was Red-Headed Boy, Black Girl (black shirt, black pants, black hair, black fingernails, you get the picture), and of course, Whats-His-Name. The inventive and melodic African-American names wer in abundance - Terroderick, Shaqqualla, etc.
And then was Ngh Trng. I didn’t even try to pronounce it. I asked him to say his name and the reply sounded just like it was spelled - “Ngh Trng”. The only thing I could think to say was “I’m glad you’re here.”
If life was the Wheel of Fortune, his parents forgot to buy a vowel.


I made it, Harry! I made it! Regardless of how many years I teach, the first day is always the toughest. I always put myself through a gamut of anxious emotions as fears and trepidations abound.
“What will they be like?”
“Will they like me?”
“Will I make a positive first impression?”

For, you see, it is all about me. Whether or not I have a good day; whether or not the school year is successful or a disastrous; it is ultimately in my hands and in my head.
And I can do it.

No offense Mr. Wong, but it’s all about WWDD - What Would Debbie Do.