I used to teach high school, Art and English. I taught on a Native American reservation, in kind of a rough school, and I was not all that suited to teaching high school. I found that high schoolers, with a few notable exceptions, were just like five year olds, but it was harder to take from kids over four feet tall. This is a story from one of the days that pushed me to the younger ages. And yes, I was actually this sarcastic.
Scene: A high school art room, complete with drafting desks and clay table, as well as all of the requisite paint spattered counters.
The class, already in progress, are for the most part mixing clay that they dug up themselves during a previous class period or working on bowls made from said clay. With a notable exception.
Allison: Aye, Mizz Hintsala, what we spossed ta be doin’, eh?
Mizz Hintsala: Well, Allison, I’d say you need to finish that pot you were working on yesterday. Your CLAY Pot.
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala, I broke dat.
Mizz Hintsala: Really? You broke the other one too. Huh. Well, I guess you get to start over.
Allison: Oh, but, I did it…
Mizz Hintsala: No, you broke it. Start over.
Allison: (Walks over to clay table, stands there for about thirty seconds.) Where’s the clay then?
Mizz Hintsala: Where it was the last two times, I imagine.
Allison: No! Mizz Hintsala, I mean deres no clay here. It’s all gone!
Mizz Hintsala: Ah, well then you need to mix up some more dry clay.
Allison: Oh. How you do dat, then?
Mizz Hintsala: Well, if you remember back to last week when you mixed the last batch, you’ll find that info.
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala! Your real sickining! I didn’t do dat.
Mizz Hintsala: Actually you did, and no one was more surprised than I. Do you not remember how?
Allison: Uh…no, I don’t. Will you help me?
Mizz Hintsala: Certainly. Get the dry clay.
Allison: Where is it then?
Mizz Hintsala: On the table in front of you.
Allison: Where?
Mizz Hintsala: Right there. (points)
Allison: Oh. But, it’s all dry and clumpy.
Mizz Hintsala: (looks at her for a beat) Yes dear, that’s why they call it dry clay.
Allison: Oh, yeah! But…how do I get it wet?
Mizz Hintsala: (looks at her for a beat) If you were outside right now, how would you be getting wet?
Allison: (thinks for a beat) It’s raining? I need to take the clay into the rain?
Mizz Hintsala: Well, you could, but it’s easier to get water out of the facet.
Allison:(face brightens) Oh, yeah! Okay Mizz Hintsala. (pauses) What do I put the water in?
Mizz Hintsala: Do you remember the clay mixing bags? Yes? They are on my desk. Add the dry clay, crunch out as many lumps as you can with your fingers, then add water, just a little bit at a time, and knead the bag like dough until the clay is the consistency, the way, that you want it. Okay?
(Mizz Hintsala repeats this three times, to answer the question “What?” On the 4th what….)
Mizz Hintsala: Put the bag on your head.
Allison: (Looking confused, and with a slightly mischievous smile on her face.) “What?”
Mizz Hintsala: Put the bag on our head. Add clay and water. Mix well. I am not telling you again.
(At this point Allison’s twin, Addrienne, helps her out and gets the clay in the bag, lumps and all.)
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala, it’s all lumpy! I can’t use this!
Mizz Hintsala, who has decided that Allison has indeed finished her pot, just not in art class: Take the lumps out, Dear. Use your fingers.
(Allison looks around, spots a rolling pin. She happily begins pounding out lumps, looking over at Mizz Hintsala, wating for her to ask Allison to stop the noise. When this does not happen, she asks…)
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala, you don’t mind this?
Mizz Hintsala: Is your clay less lumpy? Yes? Then I don’t mind.
(Allison pounds harder, breaking the bag and sending clay dust everywhere.)
Allison: Do I put in the water now?
Mizz Hintsala: (looking at the broken bag) I wouldn’t.
Allison: (looking confused) Oh, yeah? Why?
Mizz Hintsala: What happens when you put water into a bucket with holes in it?
Allison: (thinks for a beat) It runs out.
Mizz Hintsala: Right! Very good. Now, what would happen if you put water into this bag?
Allison: (thinks for a beat) It would run out?
Mizz Hintsala: Right again! We’re on a roll. So can you use this bag?
Allison:(looking at the bag with a slight smile) Oh, yeah! Okay, then am I done?
Mizz Hintsala: Is the clay done?
Allison: (looking at the clay) No! It’s still dry, you can’t make nothin outa dis.
Mizz Hintsala: Good. Then we are in agreement. You are not done. Get another bag.
Allison: Where are they, then?
Mizz Hintsala: (looks at her for a beat) Where they were last time.
Allison: Oh, on your desk?
Mizz Hintsala: Right! Good Girl. Get a bag.
Allison: Do I put the clay in the bag?
Mizz Hintsala: (looks at her for a beat) That’s what I would do.
Allison: Oh. Okay. (puts dry clay in the bag, spilling some, and goes over to the sink.)
Mizz Hintsala: Now, not too much water, just a little bit at a time.
Allison fills the bag with water, all the while Mizz Hintsala is telling her that her clay is going to be clay soup.
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala! Why’d you tell me to put water in this! It’s all runny now!
Mizz Hintsala: Oh, I’m just sneaky that way. Why don’t you add some dry clay, until it evens out, and no more water!
Allison: Oh, where’s dat, then?
Mizz Hintsala looks at Allison. And looks. Allison starts to get uncomfortable.
Allison: Aye! Mizz Hintsala! What the fu…oh sorry…what’s wrong with you?
Mizz Hintsala: The clay is on the table. The table with the clay. The table in front of you, dear.
Allison: Oh, Mizz Hintsala? Would dis work better in da rain?
Mizz Hintsala bangs her head on the table, laughing quietly and tries to think how does one teach sarcasm or remove it from lovely children.
I wonderful example of why I admire teachers so, but would never, ever, not in a million years be one… 
It put smile in my face. I give my highest respect to all the teachers!! I can never imagine myself in the situation
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