Dear Noodle Flicking Teacher,
I don't condone noodle flicking. Never have. Never will. But I'd be lying if I said I haven't flicked a few noodles in my day. The truth is we probably all have, and flicking a noodle every now and again is okay, maybe, but where you get into big trouble is when noodle flicking becomes a lifestyle.
I regret never getting a sign to hang over my classroom whiteboard that said, "No Noodleflicking," but then again, I suppose I didn't need a sign for a message my students always understood so clearly.
The first week of school I always told my students the legendary story of the original noodle flicker.
In college, I had a girl in my final college class named Cheryl. No offense to anyone named Cheryl, but she wasn't an excellent student. Come to think of it she wasn't even a good student.
Truthfully, she was a terribly, dreadful, awful student. Her hair was always a mess. Her clothes were unkempt. Most days she was covered in lint and looked like she had just rolled out of bed, which made it no surprise that she was the last to present her culminating mathematics lesson for our elementary math course.
Up to that point, all of the lessons had been exceptional. Hours of research and hundreds of dollars had been spent on math manipulatives. Everyone wanted to end the degree plan with a bang, well, everyone but Cheryl.
When the professor called her name, she shuffled her feet to the front without a single prop. The first indication she wasn't puttin' on airs for anybody was her scuffed up Umbro slides.
The class was intrigued as she began to dig down deep into the pockets of her black Reebok sweatpants to produce a handful of elbow macaroni. Her hair was still a mess. Even in her muffled speech, her unpreparedness was audacious. With a look of palpable disgust, she began her presentation.
"Okay...so if this was my pre-k class and they needed to learn math, I'd probably just flick some noodles at 'em."
Kid you not, she proceeded to flick 27 pieces of elbow macaroni across a table in front of her.
She followed up, "Then, I don't know. I'd probably just get the kids to grab some rulers and measure how far they went or something."
Then she sat down. That was it. That was her presentation.
She waited for applause. It never came, but a castigation of epic proportion did. I wish I had recorded the professor's lethal diatribe regarding the blatant disregard for the respectability of the profession of education as a whole.
I sure hope Cheryl is not a tenured teacher in a nearby school district, but I have a sneaking suspicion she might be.
There's a host of people noodle flicking their way through life these days. I've taught a whole slew of them.
When they turned in an assignment, I would ask, "Did you noodle flick this?" Sometimes they would offer an honest nod. The night before the AP exam I always sent a class email to ease testing nerves. At the end, I would sign off with, "Remember. No Noodleflicking."
For my colleagues and I this term has become a part of our venacular.
"How did your lesson go today."
"It could have been better, but I pretty much noodle flicked it."
This year has come with a lot of free passes. It's been a tough year. Our hands are tied in so many areas. This helpless feeling is breeding ground for noodle flicking, but a word of caution. Don't stay there too long. If you do, you're going to end up presenting a formal lesson in Reebok sweatpants and green Umbro slides.
Nobody wants to witness a demise like that, so when you spot a noodle, call it out. It's the first step.
Tell me, have you seen some noodle flicking of your own lately?
-CBD