confidentiality

I'm not going to tell you about my six-year-old charges.

Instead, I'll tell you about a student from a few years ago, who lives in a town where I no longer teach, and has disappeared into the mists of time.

He was a tough kid. Black was a mainstay of his wardrobe, and he came to me in fifth grade trailed by stories of misdeeds, from the comic to the severe. It wasn't so much that he was angry - I've worked with angrier kids. He just didn't care.

Never mind. I don't want to tell you about him. I'm suddenly reminded of the day my former principal called me into his office to give me the heads up that he'd soon be asking to speak to one of my students about a rather serious matter. Grimly, he folded his hands on his desk, leaning forward to emphasize his point. "We've had at least two calls to the school," he intoned. "As J's bus was dropping off students, he evidently dropped trou and pressed his, err, buttocks to the window." I wasn't sure what to say. "Is this characteristic of the student's behavior in your classroom?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, no..." I stammered, unsure exactly how this behavior could have been foreshadowed by my student's typical classroom antics.

My principal, almost exactly my age and in his first year as an administrator, couldn't keep up the serious facade any more than I could. "Hmm," he murmered. "This is my first mooning...probably J's too."

"The beginning of an illustrious career for both of you," I said, in what I hope were encouraging tones.