CROWING POOPDUCKS GOT BACK

I should be able to tie up a few loose ends now that I'm done with the spring semester. There are "part twos" and "threes" of various posts hanging. I haven't forgotten.

But before that, I need to wrap up my supervisor training. The five-week course finished last week — culminating in a cheesetastic graduation ceremony — and while I'd be content to let the whole experience dissipate into thin air like a foul odor, a few things happened toward the end that are worth committing to paper.

The first is already the stuff of legend, so those of you who've heard tell can skip to the next.

• Each morning of the class began with what the instructor, in her homespun way, liked to call "crowing," a process by which you keep a positive spin on your outlook by sharing good things that have happened to you (vs. the incessant complaining that we humans typically treat each other to). I'm all for counting your blessings, of course, but the exercise has limited appeal among strangers. I mean, some people were crowing stuff like "I finally got my RV de-winterized; I'm happy about that" or "My daughter got a ride to school this morning so I could sleep 10 more minutes." I mean, even the Chief Encourager was having trouble working up excitement about this dull fare.

So she finally came up with a new strategy: Name one song that you identify with right now. The first guy up says, "Comfortably Numb." The Chief Encourager says, "What? Comfortably Dumb?" Snickers ensue. "Who sings that?" she asks. "I don't know it." More snickers, amid explanations. (The Chief Encourager has never heard of Pink Floyd). Up next, I say "Crazy" — not to make fun, but only because I was drawing a blank on all songs ever sung except the one that was playing in my car 10 minutes ago as I pulled up to the classroom. Nevertheless, more snickers. Dumb. Crazy. A theme in the making. What will the next girl say? All eyes are on her.

She's ready: "I'm gonna go with 'Baby Got Back.'"

"Baby got what?" the Chief Encourager asks.

"Back," the girl says, as if that explains everything.

"I don't know that one," the CE says, with a grandmotherly smile.

More snickers.

"I can sing it," the girl offers.

More snickers, mixed with disbelief.

The CE is obviously thrilled by this spirit of volunteerism, which has been sorely lacking up to now.

"You want to sing it? Sure. Go ahead!"

The girl straightens up in her chair, extends her elbows, does a rap-style rolling motion, then belts out:

I like big butts and I cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough
'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get wit'cha
And take your picture

Silence.

I turn to my co-worker, my mouth agape in disbelief, his agape in horror.

It's like someone farted in church. Out loud. On purpose.

The girl appears not to notice. The CE apparently has not understood a word, although her slightly perplexed face reveals a vague sense that the Precious Moments atmosphere of her classroom has been sullied.

The girl explains: "I like this song because it's about big butts and how it's OK to have a bigger butt — that not all girls have to be the same. I think it's a really positive message about women and diversity."

To keep from exploding, I release my pressure valve by calmly asking, "Who is it that sings that?"

"I don't know," the girl says, "some black guy."

• Speaking of songs: On one of the evaluations we had to fill out daily, I complained that a training video was overtly religious, which I considered to be inappropriate for a mandatory, work-related class. The video was about a guy and his severely disabled son who competed together in triathlons. The background song, played loudly throughout, was all about Jesus:

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel
Will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine

I had not complained about anything on the evaluations, because (1) I thought it would be a waste of ink; and (2) the evaluations were not anonymous— we HAD to sign them. I didn't want to stand out as a Negative Nelly, but I thought showing that video was so beyond the pale that I couldn't let it pass. So I simply wrote: "The Christian music video was not appropriate in this setting." Sure enough, the next class, the CE plops down beside me and says she "appreciated" my comment. I feel extremely awkward and say, "Well, the video would work without the sound. I think attaching the specifically Christian music to it needlessly limits the message." As I say this, I notice that she is wearing a large silver cross around her neck, and I remember what she said about her "faith" being so important to her (right up there with her sports car, which she talked about as though it was God's reward for being a "success"), and I think about all the little scroll-saw signs everywhere that say things like "Faith" and "Believe." She assures me that she found the same video but with a Bryan Adams song playing in the background. "That shouldn't bother anyone," she says, with a challenging smile. "Should it?" Clearly meaning: Even godless, pants-wearing women like yourself can't be offended by a harmless Canadian pop star, can they? I want to point out that the issue is not my being "offended" or overly sensitive or irreligious; the issue is the principle — well-regarded in most circles — that secular, professional settings should not be imbued with religious messages. But I realize that saying such a thing would only confirm in her a suspicion that I've suffered from too much "education," that I'm the classic product of God being "kicked out" of public schools.

• First the Lord. Then men. Then meat. I have indeed suffered loss at the hands of public education! But the CE took pity on me for the last one. She saw me eating a big plate of cheesy rice as everyone else was enjoying a chicken breast.

"You don't eat meat?" she says.

"No," I say, almost apologetically.

"Well, you should have said something."

"It's not a big deal," I say.

(I didn't reveal my vegetarian "lifestyle" for the same reason I didn't reveal my gay "lifestyle" every time she made assumptions that we were all married heterosexuals: I didn't want to seem too finicky.)

"We just never know how to plan because some of them don't even eat eggs or dairy," she says.

Them? What happened to the touchy-feely we're-all-in-this-together spiel?

The next class, she pulls me aside and tells me that the convicted-murderer-turned-caterer has made me an egg-salad sandwich for lunch. With cheese.

• On the last day of class, the CE was talking about "negative" and "toxic" people and how we should limit our interactions with such types because they tend to "awfulize everything." (Verbizing nouns and adjectives is really smiled upon in the self-help community). Such people inject their problems into every situation and conversation and end up sucking all the life and joy out of everyone around them. The way she advised reacting to this situation was really profound. She said: "Avoid poopducks like the plague."

When I get a scroll saw, that's the first saying I'm going to carve. And I'm going to hang it above my door.