A Little Here and Now

Hidey ho and how do you do. I’m stepping out of my stories of the past. I’m here with a little bit of recent news. I am mere single digit days away from finishing my first year as a professional teacher. I’ll take your applause now. To this day there’s a modicum of surprise I still feel about where I am in my life. I’m in Europe, and I’m getting paid to do a job that I had no prior experience in, a job that I wasn’t confident about my own capacity to do for the longest time.

Release the balloons and confetti, pop the champagne, I’ve made it. A few bumps and bruises later, but I can count on one hand the number of times I need to come into work and see those little buggers again. Then, then it happens, that fabled time of childhood. It’s the wondrous three month hiatus not just from school, the holiest and best remembered of youth’s stretches. That time when all the rules that you live by change. Beholden no longer to the bus and bell, summer is unbridled. It is the time of swimming holes and ice cream cones, the time for road trips and camps. There are bikes to be ridden down impossibly steep hills. Friends’ porches provide perfect places for lazy jesting. There are tree houses on high to be built and then scaled. There is too long grass losing its green in need of a trim. There are endless cricket songs to be sung as the sun makes its lonely sojourn from East to West.

There’s a sort of magic to it. The days linger in sunlit gold. Time seems to hold its breath in those moments, and just for that brief span your life holds with it. A parallel, reimagined state of being that you can embody for a scant few months. There’s adventure in those days. Seemingly more adventure than you’ve ever seen before. Those days of summer vacation carry greater weight and meaning than plentiful before. Maybe those days hold secret loves won and lost and left to times remembrance. It’s a collection of moments dearly held in youthful hearts. It withers though as life expands out of adolescence. I have held deep in my heart a fondness for this mythical stretch of time. It is the part of my childhood most lamented in its loss. This year though, that changes.

Being a teacher comes with its fair share of particular problems. Not an easy profession, fraught with headaches. Not a means to especially enrich yourself with monetary gains could it be considered. It makes me feel like I’m gaining back my childhood, something thought lost to the march of time. I am immeasurably excited to fall back into the wonderment.

My today is a few days late because I’ve fallen into a strange malaise waiting for the job to wrap up. Everyone I interact with is carrying this barely concealed burning anticipation. Freedom lies on the horizon, moments from grasp! Because of this, I’ve foolishly convinced myself that it has been a job well done and I deserve a break from everything that isn’t hardcore vegetating. I’m currently running a deficit on all of my constructive behaviors. If I’ve been letting actual responsibilities like cleaning the house and daily showers fall behind, it does not bode well for my self prescribed duties.

The students are exhausted and the merest mention of work books produces anguished cries of persecution. They don’t want to learn. I can’t blame them. As their instructor, I barely wish to be there myself. Strong faces are assumed. We go about our business because it is what is expected. It’s a cleverly acted charade of the usual.

Not a single man, woman, or child can state that they are not fed up and through with lessons. This is not hyperbole; I have not had a conversation with anyone that has not begun with their adamant desires for the cessation of schooling. The strange thing is that I wasn’t at the end of my patience before everyone else made it their goal to tell me I should be. Suggestion is a force of power though because I too am counting the moments to freedom. In the immortal words of A. Cooper, “No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks.”

So, that’s me today, as of this moment in time. As snapshot of attitudes briefly possessed and then wordily expressed. I’ve got a lot to look forward to; it’s going to be an exciting summer. Hopefully I can keep up my creative habits in the face of my lazy ones. If anything fun happens, you can bet it’ll end up here. Here I sit, wistfully optimistic wishing everyone out there a good day, good night, and good reading.

The Naked Mole Rat Offensive of November 2016

The little monsters were at it again. I thought that I had hit a high point in my teaching career when sixteen children simultaneously compared me to President Snow from The Hunger Games. Three fingers in the air and a whistle on their lips, mockingjaying was swift merciless, and easily crushed. Little faith did I place in the infinite creativity of the youthful mind. It was only a few days later when an enterprising group of hoodlums decided that they could top the scholastic disobedience record.

To fully explain this incident I am going to unpack a few truths.

In my job as English teacher, my instructional goals are first and foremost speaking and writing. As such, when I can get them to stop speaking it becomes time for them to do some writing, hopefully bettering their English skills in the process.

There are troublemakers in schools. Hard hitting journalism for you folks, the story broke here first. Most classes have one or two children who for some reason or another require extra attention. If they do not receive that extra attention, they will act out, usually capturing them negative attention. Some of my more difficult classes have around six students all vying for to be the top attention grabber.

The sentence, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” contains every letter in English.

Writing isn’t easy, it takes work to do in the first place, and even more work to get better at.

There are students who do not wish to do any work. Those students really hate working.

Grade schoolers would much rather play games than be in school.

With this list of information cycling through the brain, I can commence the story. Restlessness was the word from the outset of the class. To worsen matters, their ire was being stoked by one of their more spirited dissidents. Through the use of some kind of hive mind telepathy, the student body had come to a unanimous decision that learning in my class was just something they were not willing to do. They were in a mood to test my resolve. It was time to push and prod Mr. English Teacher to see how much he can bend before breaking.

I assigned a single simple writing exercise they had done a dozen times before. So, out came the complaints. There were stalling tactics of each and every schoolroom kind. Notes were passed, I was berated with inconsequential questions, friends gaily chatted away, they picked each other’s’ hair for nits or whatever it is the lower primates do for fun. Anything was preferable to the cruel and unusual punishment I was inflicting upon their poor, poor souls. Wanting them to learn on a Tuesday morning? How could I? I warned and threatened and cajoled the very least amount of effort I could out of that class, losing bits of my own sanity every step of the way. Have you ever tried to argue with a brick wall with a Talkboy taped to it, and that Talkboy has an audio recording of fifty mimes all flipping you the bird? Neither have I, but it felt like a fitting metaphor for sixth graders. Forty minutes was spent herding a band of belligerent cats down a winding mountain trail made of mice and catnip. They faced the extent of my obstinance. Their grade school shenanigans didn’t lessen the extent of their workload, it only extended the work time.

With bare minutes left on the clock the students hatched a plot. In a move so fluid it had to have been rehearsed, the lead instigator for the day rose from her seat to proclaim, “Mr. Misc. we are finished writing.” Then the workbooks rained down. Every student tossed their books into a nice little pile in the center of the room. The mewling jackals had loudly proclaimed that all tasks were done and now it was time for anarchy to reign supreme. The time was fun and games; your order is at an end. We the carrion eaters of the Serengeti wastes now rule this classroom. Weep for your lost power, old man, for the regime change is at hand all who were no longer are. they are become undone. Shackles and bonds can no longer sway our united might for we are legion. Mob rules this day. The antiquated shall be disassembled and a glorious will of the masses shall be our only true governor. At least that was my interpretation.

Throughout the class I had been climbing the scale of wrath as I fought the sixteen headed hydra of turds. This new act of open rebellion should have pushed me into a fit of rage which would see me bodily transporting children out of open windows. In that moment though, I found a strange serenity. Negative emotions had fled, for I knew the only true path to salvation. With calm demeanor I said in quiet, even speech that the class was to stand up, we were going for a walk. The principal was on the other side of the school and she would be happy to see us all.

The students had been riding a wave of naked bravado; they had glimpsed power and were vigorous with its presence. That sensation died though as they realized that their bid for power was collapsing upon them. The wicked joy in their eyes ebbed. Their open rebellion had merited a forceful reproach. Then the pleading began. They had obviously had meant nothing by their actions. All was misunderstanding. They surely had done nothing wrong, and deserved no recourse. Please oh please, they were always such good children, why oh why would this be necessary.

I opened the door wide and conducted them all out the door before taking my place at the head of the procession. The pleading continued. Then the tears began. Surely this could not be happening to them, sweet cherubic beings they were. What had happened to their dreams of utopia? How could their coup have not managed to dethrone the teacher and set up a democratic republic where all students would be equal and no man, woman, or child would be leashed so heinously to the ploughshare.

The gallows procession ended at the door where I heard their final pleas for mercy. I knocked on the door and entered the principal’s office. I apologized that I had to interrupt her work, but I had an entire class outside that she needed to yell at.

She heartily agreed.

The door opened and the rapscallion brigade was left to dance on air in the midday sun. The principal proceeded to lash the revolutionaries to within an inch of their emotional lives. Again were the tears and the pleas for mercy. She proceeded to rebuke the class in Hungarian for a solid five minutes it was a holy and righteous rebuke that she laid upon them too. Silence followed and they were allowed to drag their casualties back sniveling to the holes from which they had emerged. As they slunk away the principal and I discussed methods to proceed with punishing the students in the future. The battle had subsided and the toll had been tallied. The war had tipped rather favorably in my direction from that day forward.

Thus is the story of my quelling the Rat Fiend Revolution. It is a story that I feel every teacher has similar experiences to. So much of the day to day of this job is just making small humanoids listen to reason for hour long increments. It does make one look back into their youth to see what horrible things we put our teachers through. I will leave you to contemplate those lovely thoughts of transgressions past, but for the moment I wish you  good day, good night, and good reading.

 

For those of you unfamiliar, this is a mole rat. Enjoy the nightmares.

128593494.jpg

Detour Continues 5 km

Welcome back to another junior round of writing as led by me Mr. Miscellaneist. A miniature manuscript if you will. You see, I’m currently on the come down right now. Hot off the heels of seven days of planes, trains, and blistered tootsies. I am not sure if it’s my aging sensibilities or the fact that awaiting me at the Lisbon airport with a big name card was my personal chauffeur, respiratory infection, but I have been blessedly exhausted by the adventure. Now I am at home recuperating my much wearied constitution. It was a grand Portuguese adventure that will rest long in memory, and the story will be told in greater detail sometime down the road.

I am gazing into the coming week of work wearily, and I realize that my attitude requires alteration away from the airy and aloft attentions to turn back towards the Monday morning mundanities. I contemplate there is little better means of readjusting to the routine than to return to my written records and recalled recitations. As may have become already apparent by my abuse of alliteration and this thesaurus thumping that I terrifyingly tread through, I haven’t really much by the way of actual content to entertain and amuse you today. Flexing my fingertips in flamboyant phonetic flourishes is fanciful foible of mine, an exhaustive exercise in exacting extra expertise unto exasperation. Concerned with a questionable cancellation of the continued chronicles upon this continent, I conceived and concocted a clever contrivance to continue creating content of questionable quality.

Beginning one humble hour before vacation’s end, minutes rush to meet midnight. The hour calls for slumber’s onerous harvest, heeding me halt the happenings of my hands. However, in my hopeful hubris I happily haggle and hash hundreds of haltingly heady harmonies and half rhymes in hopes of handing out a whole essay in one humble hour.

And it seems as though my time is through. Midnight is here and slumber calls me back into the responsibility. I did manage to scrape together some semblance of a post in that limited time. This one was a bit out of left field, an entire post without any substance but words for their own most verbose sake. I did garner some enjoyment in writing this exercise in vocabulary extension, and I hope that you derived some entertainment from it yourselves. Next week will be a return to form with me delving back into the narrative I began a month ago, thank you for sticking with me through this little detour. Blame the vacation for my madness. To those of you still reading, I thoroughly apologize, I know not what I do. I’m sure you wait for my next installment with bated breath, but in the meanwhile I wish you a good day, a good night, and good reading.