Not Lost In Translation

"Good afternoon, class. I need your attention. Let's get started."

(I'm pretty business-like with this particular class because if you don't them started, they never roll.)

Hand raises.

"Question. Donte."

"Mr. Walker, that sweater's raw."

(I've already gotten several compliments on the sweater today. Who knew? I was feeling wily, so I decided to draw this out.)

"What do you mean? What's wrong with it?" I feign bewilderment and slight offense.

"I said that sweater's raw."

"I know. So what's wrong with it? How are you gonna tell me my sweater's wrong?"

"No, Mr. Walker," another student exasperatedly schools my uneducated ear, "He said it's rawwwwww."

Now, over the past months, I’ve gotten the feeling that my students are used to adults not understanding their slang. Usually, they’re ok with it because it allows them a certain amount of stealth in their communication, like a built in transistor radio when everyone else just has snail mail. However, when a straight compliment, by way of slang, goes miscommunicated, they go to great lengths to explain and simultaneously clear their name and show off their vernacular. This in mind, I knew that––with a little well-timed theatrics––I could drive them absolutely bonkers.

"What the heck!” I bellow, ”I know what he’s saying. So What's WRAAAAWWWWWWNG with it!"

I raise my voice and shake my head as I say this last part, like a WWF wrestler might tauntingly wag his head, tongue flapping loosely, to incite a leotard-clad opponent or the cheering crowd. In one second flat, I send my class into hysterics. The class explodes into a chorus of 29 7th-grade voices, leaping to the defense of Donte, shouting to stop the train of misunderstanding, and help me acquire the new word into my (ever-growing) vocabulary. But before the seething mass spins out of control, I raise my hand. They all stop, though not because I have utter control like Ms. Dean, but instead because they can tell, when I break my expression from offended to amused, that I have something up the proverbial sleeve of this raw sweater.

I point to Donte in the stunned silence.

"Gotcha."

27 pairs of eyes widen as they realize, and then 27 bodies burst into laughter.

As Donte slaps himself in the forehead, he groans an exasperated, “Mr. Walker....”

I give him a fist pound as he still hides his smile, shaking his head. Savion, seated next to him and still laughing, takes my wrist and makes us fist pound, too. We start class.