K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 4

This is part 4 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, if you haven't read Part 1 , Part 2 , or Part 3 yet, I'd advise reading them before this.

5th Grade – Mr. Sturm’s class

Throughout history, nothing has been as feared and dreaded as “the class project”. For centuries, nay millennia, civilizations have risen and fell to the beck and call of the so-called “class project”. Here are some notable examples:

Class projects in history:

Rome – 88 BC – Students are asked to get into groups and create a large model out of clay. On the day the project is due, Julius Caesar’s group stabs him in the back (not literally [this time]).

Nazareth - 0 D.C (During Christ?) – Students are asked to create a fictional belief structure and promote it. Jesus founds Christianity.

Outer Mongolia – 1173 AD – Students are asked to pick an ordinary daily occurrence and make a science experiment out of it. Genghis Khan kills seven Persians and tries to relate it to Physics.

Germany – 1902 AD – Students are asked to write an essay on their favorite season. Hitler kills seven Jews and tries to relate it to Physics.

Seattle, WA – 1953 – Students are asked to create a diorama of Colonial Pennsylvania. Jimi Hendrix gets really high and forgets to do the project.

Glastonbury, CT – 2000 AD – Students are asked to invent a helpful product to address an everyday need. Alex Traynor makes a fool of himself.

In 5th Grade at Buttonball elementary, every student is required to participate in what I refer to as “5th grade inventions” A class-wide project where every 5th grader is asked to “invent” something. How did the projects turn out, you ask? Exactly as well as you’d expect: utter shit. But that’s what happens when you ask a bunch of 11-year olds to come up with innovative ideas. Half of them invent useless crap, and the other half forgets to do the project.

To illustrate just how bad these “inventions” were, I’ll venture back in time and review the most noteworthy:

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Inventor: Alex Traynor
What it’s called: “The Portable Air Conditioner Shirt!”
What it really is: A poorly constructed shirt made out of plastic and hot glue, with a pocket for ice cubes, and a makeshift Soda Can drainage system.
Intended Use: To cool you off in the hot summer heat.
Actual Use: To make you look like an idiot.
What it looked like:

How was it made: I spent about a week constructing a shirt made out of thin plastic, when it wouldn’t stick together, my mom bought me a Hot Glue Gun. Two weeks and about 48 Glue Sticks later, it successfully stuck together. Five Weeks after that, the burn wounds had finally healed.
Did it actually work: Nope, it leaked everywhere. Also, since I made it out of stiff, rugged plastic, it wouldn’t move enough to allow anyone to actually fit in it.
What the inventor was thinking when he had to present his project to the class: “Please don’t ask me to demonstrate it, please don’t ask me to demonstrate it”
Verdict: Useless Crap.
Usefulness: 1 Creativity: 6 Ease of Use: 1 Practicality: 1 Overall: 3

Inventor: Charles Sims
What it’s called: “The Squirt Bottle I bought at Wal-Mart”
What it really is: A squirt bottle Charles bought at Wal-Mart
Description: The title pretty much says it all; Charles bought a squirt bottle, and then invented the squirt bottle he bought.
How was it made: Paraphrased from Charles’ display, “How I made my invention: Step 1 – I bought my invention. Step 2 - I brought my invention to school. Step 3 – I got thirsty and drank from my invention..”
Verdict: Ignoring the fact that Charles didn’t bother to hide that he didn’t “invent” anything, it was still probably the most functional invention of them all.
Usefulness: 8 Creativity: 0 Ease of Use: 9 Practicality: 8 Overall: 2

Inventor: Nick
What it’s called: “The Pencil Box Opener”
What it is: A complex contraption made out of pencils, paper-clips, and gum. Once you press down the “switch”, pull the lever, crank the pulley, and push the other switch, your pencil box is opened.
What’s easier: Actually opening your pencil box.
Time it took Nick to make: 4 minutes.
If Nick were to make a commercial advertising his invention: “Do you enjoy opening your pencil box? You do! Well, do you like opening it so much that you wish you could spend thirty minutes a day trying to figure out how to open it? You do! With ‘The Pencil Box Opener’ all your dreams are answered!”
Verdict: Crap.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 3 Ease of Use: 0 Practicality: 0 Overall: -6

Inventor: Frank Hickey
What it’s called: “The Underwater Pocket!”
What it was supposed to be: A waterproof pocket to store your valuables in while you went swimming.
What it turned out to be: A plastic bag with stickers all over it.
Verdict: Crap.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 4 Ease of Use: 1 Practicality: 0 Overall: 0

Inventor: J.J
What it’s called: “J.J’s Dog Food”
What it really is: A brand of Dog food made almost exclusively out of clay.
Was it only a prototype and not an actual invention: Yes.
Does that mean it won’t kill dogs if they ate it?: No.
Verdict: J.J is a sick fuck dog murderer.
Usefulness: -7 Creativity: 5 Ease of Use: 5 Practicality: -37 Overall: -84

Inventor: Lauren
What it’s called: “Safety Star”
What it really is: An “On-Star” knock-off that’s placed in the center of the steering wheel of a car.
Are you telling me that Lauren actually built a computer and then welded it into a car: Nope, she was the only person who got to “draw” (I use quotations because it was a crappy drawing) her invention.
And you’re still bitter about it?: Hell yes I am. I slaved for a month putting hot glue onto my invention, and that whiny little bitch got away with a fucking drawing!
It was almost 8 years ago, maybe you should see a therapist, you psycho: Shut the fuck up, it’s a very touchy subject for me.
How so?: Well, first of all, getting over the fact that she only drew it, where would the airbag go?
You make a good point: Damn straight I do.
You have a lot of violent thoughts toward Lauren, don’t you: Maybe.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 0 Ease of Use: 0 Practicality: 0 Overall: Negative Five Million

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Another thing I learned in 5th Grade (as opposed to learning that hot glue + plastic = useless crap) is why I shouldn’t over-react so much. Now it may come as a surprise that I’ve had a longstanding history of over-reacting, and beside from a few isolated incidents, (“I told you to not put lettuce on my fucking cheeseburger you Fast-Food piece of shit! Do you know how much money I make on my paper route?! Enough to buy and sell your ass into slavery! Fuck you! And fuck your fucking lettuce!”) over-reacting is mostly in my past.

Frank (The inventor of The Underwater Pocket!) and me started to become friends towards the end of the year, when we co-created the recess playground game “Booboo Monkey”. It consisted of one person being “Booboo Monkey”, while everyone else was an animal control officer. The aim of the game was for the animal control officers to track down Booboo, and use excessive force when necessary (or unnecessary). Basically the game was just a big excuse to beat the crap out of Frank. Eventually, the game was banned by the teachers after things started to get out of hand (I threw a chair at him), but just because the game was banned didn’t mean the bond between me and Frank just died out. For weeks our friendship grew. And then, it happened.

I’d like to state upfront, the following: Birthday parties are the bomb, yo. The “birthday party” is the place to be when you’re in grade school. Being invited to one is an almost surreal experience, like being personally touched by God (or Allah, Buddah, Zeus, or Tom Cruise) himself. Grade School Birthday Parties are quite possibly the most awesome kind of parties you’ll ever attend (with the notable exception of Toga parties). Whether it was the exciting locations (generally it was always Laser Tag), or the cake, there was something about birthday parties that had me absolutely nuts as a child.

It was on a Monday when Frank started handing out invitations for his birthday party, which was to be held at LaserQuest™ (the happiest place in the Greater Hartford Area!) on Friday. Throughout the day my excitement was at an all time high picturing myself shooting younger kids with a laser gun (and by ‘laser gun’ I mean ‘real gun’ and by ‘younger kids’ I mean ‘Nazis’). I couldn’t have been more psyched about going to a birthday party, and at the end of the day, Frank was handing out invitations to my friends Mike and Dylan when I decided to join the conversation, to get my invitation:

“Hey guys! Laserquest is really cool…”
Awkward silence.
“Yeah, I like all the lasers and stuff”
Awkward silence.
“It’s all like laser-y!”
I start laughing at my own, really bad joke.
“So… yeah, it’d be cool if I could go there, you know…”
“Yeah, about that, you’re kind of not invited”
“Wh-wh-wh-WHHAT!?!?
Though that may seem like an exaggerated re-imagining of my response, I remember actually pronouncing each part of that.

Frank went on to explain that he could only invite a limited number of people, and unfortunately I didn’t make the list. I was understandably upset and bitter, so out of curiosity I decided to find out just who “made the list”. And, after I conducted my official poll, I found out exactly what Frank meant when he said “Limited Number of People”. Frank invited 25 people to his birthday party. 25 fucking people! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I wasn’t one of the elusive 25. Now, if he could only invite 5 people, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but 25?! Come the fuck on! (Yes, I’m still bitter) [Side Note: Eventually I found out that the only 2 people Frank knew that weren’t invited were: Me and Charles Sims (We could have spent the afternoon together, celebrating racial harmony!)]

Now, at that point, I was under the impression that just because Frank didn’t invite me to his party, didn’t mean I wasn’t actually gonna go to the party. I figured that if I persisted long enough, Frank would either change his mind or just decide to not have a birthday party altogether (If I don’t have fun, don’t no-one have fun) So, for the next week, I bugged the living shit out of him. I started by subtly hinting at what I wanted (such as gently whispering “Invite Alex to LaserQuest” in his ear and then running away) and then I took out the big guns: I started to beg.

And by the day of the party, nothing had worked, so I decided to use plan B: Temper Tantrum. Now, like all of my other pre-pubescent temper tantrums, this one has been repressed, and cannot be recalled without either A. a bottle of Scotch or B. Lots of Therapy. But, since I assume it was similar to all my other temper tantrums, just assume the day ended with the following:

1. Tears.
2. The F-Word
3. Thrown objects
4. Knife Wounds

But, the over-reacting didn’t just end with the temper tantrum, oh no, it continued onto the bus ride home. I enlisted the help of my possibly-retarded Latin neighbor Steve to make Frank’s life a living hell. That afternoon, me and Steve hatched all sorts of kooky revenge schemes, most of which we didn’t follow through on (Steve was too chicken to take a dump on his front lawn), but the one scheme we did follow through on still has me cringing to this day.

The single worst prank phone call of all time:

Frank’s Mom: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi, is Frank there?”
Frank’s Mom: “Yeah, may I ask who is calling?”
Me: “Alex”
*Mother gets Frank*
Frank: “Hello?”

*To the tune of the song “All-Star” by the band Smashmouth.*
"Somebody once didn’t
Invite me to their party
So I called them up
and hung up on them"

*click*

Reasons why that was the worst prank call of all time:
1. Never ask for the person you want to prank, just go with whoever answers.
2. Don’t fucking give them your name.
3. Calling someone just to hang up on them is retarded enough, but calling them to inform them that you’re about to hang up on them is a billion times worse.
4. Smashmouth sucks.
5. Don’t be retarded, just, don’t

Instantly after the phone call, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I realized just how retarded and misguided my attempts at retaliation were. Now, while the phone call didn’t have any direct consequences other than giving me an inability to look Frank in the eye for the next month, I still regard it as one of the dumbest and most ill-informed things I’ve ever done. And from that feeling of deep regret on, I’ve tried to limit my over-reacting to when it’s completely necessary (“What do you mean you don’t ‘Supersize’ things anymore!? You fucking fast food piece of shit, if I want my damn order of fucking French fries Supersized I damn well better get them supersized! I can buy and sell your ass into slavery! White slavery!”)

6th Grade – Academy School

6th Grade was a year of giant change, because not only did it mark my first year out of Elementary school, but it also marked my transition from Alex Traynor: Skinny White Nerd to Alex Traynor: Badass Motherfucker (some are still actually debating that). Academy School was a 6th Grade only public school with the purpose of transitioning students to Middle and High School. It was located right in front of the town Sewage Treatment Plant (I’m not shitting you [pun intended]), and because of that, it constantly smelled like dog shit.

Nathan Xu lived in the same apartment complex as I did, and aside from just being an annoying Asian kid whom I hated, he served a much larger purpose in the life of Alex Traynor than you’d imagine. He made me into a man (get your mind out of the gutter, sicko)

After my parents got divorced (Two Christmases!) me, my mom, and my bother moved where every newly divorced family moves: an apartment complex! “Colonial Village” Apartments is quite possibly one of the worst places to live in Glastonbury. But don’t just take my word for it, here’s a review I found off of apartmentratings.com:

“The guy who runs this place is not a nice man; he seems like an ex-convict who will kill you if you complain about your apartment. The parking is horrible, there are never any spaces. The washers are broken and it's just a trashy place.”

On top of those amenities, there was a pool (Although swimming in the pool is not recommend, since I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to yell “Someone took a dump in the pool!” on one hand).

The only things worthwhile about Colonial Village were the kids who lived there. During my time there, I became very close friends with the neighborhood children, and we formed somewhat of a bond that lasts till this day. Among the members of the group were: Me (the skinny freckled nerd), Tony (the dumb Italian), Kerry (the Tomboy), Carol (The Asian girl with an Australian accent), and Kristy (the girl who took a dump in the pool).

Nathan moved to Glastonbury in the middle of 6th grade, and instantly, he became one of the gang (mainly because he had a Nintendo). But, after a while, we all began to hate Nathan, for one main reason, he irritated the shit out of us. So, while we all continued to hang around Nathan (we liked videogames), that didn’t stop us from making fun of him directly to his face.

So, for about a month, I vented my frustration through insults about his girly voice and his uncanny resemblance to North Korean Dictator, Kim Jong Il. And then it all started to change. He started to get pissed off, and after insults he’d vaguely threaten me (my guess is his mom made him attend a “Be Assertive” seminar). Then, one day, I had had enough.

Me, Tony, my brother, and Nathan were all hanging around my house one afternoon, when I make a particularly funny joke about Nathan (“Shut up… Kim Jong Gay”). Then, Nathan takes his threatening to the next level, he puts his tiny Asian fist up to my face (a gesture so characteristically un-threatening it scared the crap out of me). And that’s when I lose my cool.

What took place next will forever go down in history as the most pathetic ass-kicking of all time.

With his fist in my face, I let the inner rage within me unleash. Since all of the fighting techniques I knew I learned from wrestling videos Logan showed me in 4th grade, I figured that the best course of action was to pin him down (either that, or throw a chair, but there were no chairs). So I decided to tackle him, but since I had never actually tackled anyone before it ended up in execution being more like, “a gentle hug that results in both of us falling over”.

When I got him on the ground and knocked his glasses off, I knew the fight was pretty much mine. But, I figured I’d get a few punches in before I let him run away, just for good measure (and because I pretended he actually was Kim Jong Il). Now, at the time, my punches were actually more like “weak fisted slaps”, but, for some reason, they actually seemed to be hurting him quite a bit. And after about 30 seconds of “punching”, Nathan threw a wrench into the equation that caused serious ethical questions to enter the brain of 6th Grade Alex.

He started to cry. Which raised the question, “Is this really what I want to be doing with my life? Beating the crap out of a tiny crying Asian kid?” So, I let the delusions of me beating up the leader of North Korea out of my head, and walked away. He got up, pick up his glasses, muttered something to the effect of “You’ll be sorry”, and then ran home.

Five minutes later, I found out what he meant by, “You’ll be sorry”. His mom came over to my house and yelled at my mom (who was significantly more proud than she should have been). The kicker is: his mom threatened to call the police if it were to happen again (a fairly baseless threat, since it wasn’t “assault” as much as it was “an unconventional massage”)

Now, while most people would laugh that kind of a victory off, it got into my head. For a while, I actually thought I was a strong, macho man, instead of the skinny Irish boy I really was. That lead to many troubling self-revelations:

• I assumed I was astoundingly strong, only to come to a shocking realization otherwise when my Grandmother beat me at an Arm-Wrestling Match
• For years, I told people that I worked out “all the time”. Now do I realize that none of them actually believed me.
• I always assumed they picked the strongest people last in dodge ball.
• I thought I had “6 Pack Abs” and was stunned when I realized that my “abs” weren’t actually “abs”, but rather “ribs”.
• I thought I could take on kids that were bigger than me. I miss not having scars.

Now, I’ve spent the entire article thus far talking about things I’ve learned, but this time, let’s talk about things you, the reader, should have learned from this chapter.

1. Ignore the last paragraph. I am an ass-kicking machine.
2. Don’t fuck with me, cause I will beat you up (Only applicable to tiny Asian 6th Graders)

To be continued...