After seeming disinterested for a long time, Amy cheers wildly after a home run. I give her a quizzical look.
Amy: (explaining) "I like home runs."
Kevin: (gives her another quizzical look)
Amy: "I just like cheering for things, okay?"
Kevin: "So it's not home runs, it's just things to cheer for?"
Amy: "Yeah."
Kevin: "Would you cheer for AIDS?"
Amy: "AIDS?"
Kevin: "Yeah, you know, you like to cheer for things. How about AIDS?"
Amy: "No."
Kevin: "What if AIDS was personified and hit a home run?"
Amy: "I don't think AIDS personified would be strong enough to hit a home run."
2006-09-17
2006-09-16
Take Me out to the Ball Game
Fifteen of us went to the Dodgers game tonight. Fourteen of us cheered for the Dodgers; I cheered for the Padres. I wasn't trying to be antagonistic, but practically everyone in the stadium was there to cheer for the Dodgers, so I felt like the Padres could use a little love. Don't we all deserve motivation? Isn't the drive that makes us cheer for the home team the same factor that causes us to bomb other countries for few reasons other than pride?
At any rate, as a highly religious person, I felt compelled to root for the Padres. For my gringo readers, padre means father and father means the Lord. I dare you to cheer against God. Furthermore, the fans in the seats surrounding us were compromised predominately of Spanish speakers. Why they cheered for the Dodgers when the Padres is a team name in their own language is beyond me.
The jumbotron disturbed me. When it showed a baby wearing a Padres shirt, the entire crowd booed. They booed a baby! What the hella? Worse than that is the awkard "Kiss Cam," on which couples (all heterosexual) are shown at random and obligated to kiss for the amusement of tens of thousands of people.
People are noisy. They need to shut up and enjoy the game. Most of them are not even there to watch the game, their priorities are to 1) attract the attention of a television camera, 2) get on the Jumbotron 3) participate in the wave 4) hit a beach ball. If necessary, familiarize yourself with my diatribe about why the wave is the stupidest thing ever. The beach ball phenomenon might be even worse, however. These people pay money to see a baseball game, and then they completely ignore the game for fifteen minutes at a time so that they can focus on a beach ball bouncing amongst the crowd. I used to be impressed with how Bosco could be so fascinated by a ball that seemingly nothing else in life mattered more. Apparently, it's not a unique occurrence. Some people acted as though their entire life would be fulfilled if only the ball came close enough to them that they could take a swat at it. Ironically, you know that these are the same people that, were they to be sitting and watching television at home, could not be bothered to play a beach volleyball game for all the money in the world.
By the end of the game, the Padres had totally kicked some ass. At least that jeered baby and I were happy.
At any rate, as a highly religious person, I felt compelled to root for the Padres. For my gringo readers, padre means father and father means the Lord. I dare you to cheer against God. Furthermore, the fans in the seats surrounding us were compromised predominately of Spanish speakers. Why they cheered for the Dodgers when the Padres is a team name in their own language is beyond me.
The jumbotron disturbed me. When it showed a baby wearing a Padres shirt, the entire crowd booed. They booed a baby! What the hella? Worse than that is the awkard "Kiss Cam," on which couples (all heterosexual) are shown at random and obligated to kiss for the amusement of tens of thousands of people.
People are noisy. They need to shut up and enjoy the game. Most of them are not even there to watch the game, their priorities are to 1) attract the attention of a television camera, 2) get on the Jumbotron 3) participate in the wave 4) hit a beach ball. If necessary, familiarize yourself with my diatribe about why the wave is the stupidest thing ever. The beach ball phenomenon might be even worse, however. These people pay money to see a baseball game, and then they completely ignore the game for fifteen minutes at a time so that they can focus on a beach ball bouncing amongst the crowd. I used to be impressed with how Bosco could be so fascinated by a ball that seemingly nothing else in life mattered more. Apparently, it's not a unique occurrence. Some people acted as though their entire life would be fulfilled if only the ball came close enough to them that they could take a swat at it. Ironically, you know that these are the same people that, were they to be sitting and watching television at home, could not be bothered to play a beach volleyball game for all the money in the world.
By the end of the game, the Padres had totally kicked some ass. At least that jeered baby and I were happy.
2006-09-15
A Determined Teacher - or, Failing that - Determined to Be One
Some of my best lessons happen on the spot. I suppose it's worth admitting that many of these lessons have to happen on the spot seeing as I did not sufficiently plan something ahead of time, but it can be difficult! In essence, I am to script out two hours worth of material, which is a lot of work. Film screenwriters can take as long as they want to craft an hour and a half worth of material. Sitcom writers have a week to make half an hour. Soap opera writers have to make an hour's worth of original material every weekday, so I guess I'd closest compare myself to them, but I have twice as much without the commercial breaks. Also, people don't expect much quality from soap operas, so hopefully my students and administrators will adjust their expectations accordingly.
Today my students read a story that dealt with the theme of fate. After I asked my one prepared discussion question about what they think about the concept of fate, it occurred to me that I could take this topic so much further. Suddenly, I found myself completely diving into the topic of free will vs. determinism, which is some pretty hefty stuff for their grade level; Mike and I used to debate this subject for hours. With enough explanation and examples, though, they developed a pretty good grasp on the concepts and held their own in a real philosophical class discussion. A good portion of my class copped to believing in fate because God has already determined a path for them. I ran with that thought and had us discuss the different ways in which "God" can play into determinism and free will and what it means to believe or have faith. "Are we allowed to talk about this?" a concerned student asked. "Sure," I bluffed. "I'm not telling you what to think, just asking that you do think." Amazingly, I was able to maneuver in such a way that I made the Bible-thumpers look critically at their religion without seeming antagonistic.
After the conversation lasted for more than an hour, some of the students got a bit antsy about not being able to reach a conclusion. It might take some time before I can convince them that the questions without concrete answers are the most meaningful of all. Still, seeing those students, even those who would typically rather die than participate, arguing and thinking critically about these world views was intensely satisfying. Truthfully, these were the types of things I got into teaching to do; literature is the perfect jumping off point for developing the ways we look at life.
Toward the end of the period, one student who clearly had eir mind blown (but not raped) cried, "Stop! Mr. [Kevin], you're making my head hurt. I'm thinking too much." That was the most delightfully perfect thing I could ever hear. It was so delightful, in fact, that I laughed. Except that I didn't just laugh, I kind of cackled. My students looked at me disturbed. I had to apologize and explain that thinking too much was precisely the point. Then, regrettably, I half-cackled again. All right, so they think I'm crazy... but at least they're thinking!
Today my students read a story that dealt with the theme of fate. After I asked my one prepared discussion question about what they think about the concept of fate, it occurred to me that I could take this topic so much further. Suddenly, I found myself completely diving into the topic of free will vs. determinism, which is some pretty hefty stuff for their grade level; Mike and I used to debate this subject for hours. With enough explanation and examples, though, they developed a pretty good grasp on the concepts and held their own in a real philosophical class discussion. A good portion of my class copped to believing in fate because God has already determined a path for them. I ran with that thought and had us discuss the different ways in which "God" can play into determinism and free will and what it means to believe or have faith. "Are we allowed to talk about this?" a concerned student asked. "Sure," I bluffed. "I'm not telling you what to think, just asking that you do think." Amazingly, I was able to maneuver in such a way that I made the Bible-thumpers look critically at their religion without seeming antagonistic.
After the conversation lasted for more than an hour, some of the students got a bit antsy about not being able to reach a conclusion. It might take some time before I can convince them that the questions without concrete answers are the most meaningful of all. Still, seeing those students, even those who would typically rather die than participate, arguing and thinking critically about these world views was intensely satisfying. Truthfully, these were the types of things I got into teaching to do; literature is the perfect jumping off point for developing the ways we look at life.
Toward the end of the period, one student who clearly had eir mind blown (but not raped) cried, "Stop! Mr. [Kevin], you're making my head hurt. I'm thinking too much." That was the most delightfully perfect thing I could ever hear. It was so delightful, in fact, that I laughed. Except that I didn't just laugh, I kind of cackled. My students looked at me disturbed. I had to apologize and explain that thinking too much was precisely the point. Then, regrettably, I half-cackled again. All right, so they think I'm crazy... but at least they're thinking!
2006-09-14
The Art of War
Tonight Kat came for a visit, and she brought her lovely Norwegian friend with her. Norwegian is a fascinating individual and seemed equally fascinated with my experience working at a public high school. Though she attended a California high school with Kat as well, it was an art-themed boarding school with lots of creative yet angsty theater and performing arts kids, a world of difference from the bunch you'd find at your typical public school. Norwegian was shocked to hear about the immense discipline problems and that students will not hesitate to tell me to "fuck off" if they feel like it. When I explained the problem with gang affiliation and the prohibition of certain colored clothing, Norwegian couldn't fathom this being a reality at her school. Indeed, her classmates cared more about Annie, Get Your Gun than guns. Still, I've had fun imagining the logistics that a gang presence at her school would entail:* Concealing blunt weapons (ie: clarinets) in backpacks
* Diluting rival gangs' acrylic paints
* Shakespearean graffiti on the walls
* Drive-by glitterings
* Flashing the gang sign, jazz hands, as a death threat
Of course, all of this would also culminate in the banning of all purple clothing with pink polka dots for the safety of the student body.
2006-09-13
My Magic Poe-tion
My students are largely disinterested in literature, even the honors students. I choose to begin with Edgar Allan Poe because I figured he's just creepy enough to hook them in and get them excited. It's about death! It's about betrayal! It's about morality! All right, the last one isn't so compelling to them, but I'm trying. Some of the kids find the eeriness fascinating and are engaging with Poe's material, but at least half are still drifting elsewhere, unconcerned.
As private conversations begin to overpower my lesson, frustrated, I let loose, "Poe was an alcoholic!" Heads turn toward me in interest. That's right, they want to know the dirt. So I explain the mystery surrounding his death featuring his bizarre collapse outside of a tavern. Was it murder? Alcoholism? Rabies? They want to know an answer; of course, I don't have one for them. Not wanting to lose the momentum, however, I blurt out that Poe married his thirteen-year-old cousin when he was in his 20s. There are cries of "Gross!" and "Poe's a freak!" Now that we've established Poe as a questionable character, the class is interested in reading the disturbing things that he writes.
I do fear, however, how this will alter subsequent lessons. I wonder if I'll have to drag all major authors through the gutter. I can't substantiate these claims, but I've heard that Harper Lee once gouged a man's eye out with her bare hands. And enjoys putting gerbils up her ass.
2006-09-12
Blue Diamonds, Purple Horseshoes, and Green Feces
When grocery shopping, I have no qualms about buying store brand products except when it comes to breakfast cereals. My brand loyalty has been well-established on that front, and despite being cheap, I'm willing to pay the price for deliciousness. Stater Bros. finally got me, though, with its faux Lucky Charms offering. Taunting me with a "Bet You Can't Tell the Difference" sign, I decided to take that challenge.
Well, I'm pleased to announce that I could taste the difference. As if there was any doubt, Magic Stars is an inferior product to Lucky Charms. The knowledge that I have discerning taste buds is reward enough to me, so I decided not to pursue a money-back offer. It's a good thing, too, because I noticed something noteworthy the next time I pooped. As Laura insinuated in her comment response to this post*, my poop turns green after eating Lucky Charms. And wouldn't you know it? Magic Stars produce that same foreign hue in my bowel movements. As it turns out, Stater Bros. claim is true: I can't tell the difference.
--------------------------------------
* Looking back, the spam comment beneath Laura's is quite hysterical, too. It's good to know that that person agrees with Laura about being cautious of Lucky Charms because of its effects on turd tint. Additionally, that person is a doctor, so it's safe to assume that's not just an opinion but a medical opinion. I'd guess there's significant scientific research done on the subject.
Also, fellow college graduates will be interested to hear that that Ralph's location (the one that furnished our booze for four years) has gone out of business. One summer without our biweekly alcohol purchases, and it has to shut down. Now Old Farts like me have to get our senior discounts elsewhere.
Well, I'm pleased to announce that I could taste the difference. As if there was any doubt, Magic Stars is an inferior product to Lucky Charms. The knowledge that I have discerning taste buds is reward enough to me, so I decided not to pursue a money-back offer. It's a good thing, too, because I noticed something noteworthy the next time I pooped. As Laura insinuated in her comment response to this post*, my poop turns green after eating Lucky Charms. And wouldn't you know it? Magic Stars produce that same foreign hue in my bowel movements. As it turns out, Stater Bros. claim is true: I can't tell the difference.
--------------------------------------
* Looking back, the spam comment beneath Laura's is quite hysterical, too. It's good to know that that person agrees with Laura about being cautious of Lucky Charms because of its effects on turd tint. Additionally, that person is a doctor, so it's safe to assume that's not just an opinion but a medical opinion. I'd guess there's significant scientific research done on the subject.
Also, fellow college graduates will be interested to hear that that Ralph's location (the one that furnished our booze for four years) has gone out of business. One summer without our biweekly alcohol purchases, and it has to shut down. Now Old Farts like me have to get our senior discounts elsewhere.
2006-09-11
Family Television Programming: Gather Your Klan Around
During my summer teaching experience, I worked at a school with a 99% Latino population. Though it was diverse to me, I ultimately hoped for a more racially diverse setting because I thought that may facilitate better, more enlightening discussions. Currently, I'm at a school with an amazing cross-section: no racial group comprises more than half of the student body, with substantial populations from each of our four highest ethnicities. I'm already disappointed, though, because these different student groups largely do not interact. Sure, when I force them to sit interspersed, they'll chat, but they're most interested in shouting across the room to like-color-skinned friends. Before school and at lunch, I see the students voluntarily separate into four distinct groups: Hispanic, White, Black, and Asian. As I verbalized this aloud to Jessica, I realized: oh my gosh, it's just like Survivor!
For those of you who have been living under a rock (or have lives exciting enough such that you don't follow reality television), the upcoming season of Survivor divides the contestants into four race-based tribes. When I first heard about this twist, I thought, great, this is it, I can't watch the show any more. There are certain institutions that I refuse to support, one of which is segregation. From my perspective, by categorizing people according to their race, we give credence to it being a viable way to separate people. In truth, it bothered me the three times Survivor split its tribes by gender (as does any time someone suggests breaking teams into "boys vs girls!"), but that type of division is so accepted by society that it'd probably turn into a one person crusade. People are outraged by the race division, though, which just goes to show that racism is at least societally deemed a more taboo subject than sexism.
At the same time, I'm coming to realize that it's reality. (I know, a surprising concept from reality television.) Just as my students do, it's undeniable that many people, often subconsciously, choose to group themselves by race. As much as I'd like to pretend this sort of thing doesn't happen, it does. And by putting this topic in the spotlight, at least it's forcing people to talk about it.
So thank you, Survivor. Thank you for making us reflect on the way our world operates. I have hope that this series could actually have a positive impact on America. Unless, of course, some white folk ends up winning the million dollars. In that case, I fear riots worse than those that followed Rodney King.
2006-09-09
Mind Rape
Someone uses the phrase "mind raped."
Allison: "That would have to be with an infant because only babies' heads would be soft enough to penetrate."
(Out of habit, I went to Google image search for some kind of funny picture to accompany this post, only to realize I don't even know what search terms I'd use to come up with a photo I'd quickly realize was wildly inappropriate.)
Allison: "That would have to be with an infant because only babies' heads would be soft enough to penetrate."
(Out of habit, I went to Google image search for some kind of funny picture to accompany this post, only to realize I don't even know what search terms I'd use to come up with a photo I'd quickly realize was wildly inappropriate.)
2006-09-08
East Coast/West Coast Rap Wars
During my teaching introduction, I inform the students that I'm originally from the East Coast. After class, a student tries to strike up a conversation.
Student: "Where is the East Coast?"
Me: "The other side of the country."
S: "Oh, like New York and stuff?"
M: "Yeah, that area."
S: "Oh, I thought you meant the east coast of California."
M: "I don't even know where that would be."
S: "Yeah, I know!"
As an odd afterthought, it's probably not appropriate to represent an interaction with a student with S&M.
East side!
Student: "Where is the East Coast?"
Me: "The other side of the country."
S: "Oh, like New York and stuff?"
M: "Yeah, that area."
S: "Oh, I thought you meant the east coast of California."
M: "I don't even know where that would be."
S: "Yeah, I know!"
As an odd afterthought, it's probably not appropriate to represent an interaction with a student with S&M.
East side!
2006-09-07
2006-09-06
Two Days In
How's teaching going? Well, two days in, I've already been tackled and molested.
On the first day of class, we're told to play ice breaker games with our students so that they become better acquainted and comfortable with one another. Unfortunately, students can only play so many games of People Bingo (get creative, teachers!) before they've had it up to here. Jessica taught me a game that essentially amounted to get-to-know-you musical chairs. Let me tell you, the shyest students are also the most aggressive if it means not having to share a factoid about themselves. Hence, if the teacher and a timid student find themselves running for the same stool, it quickly becomes a smack down.
On the first day, a student literally knocked me to the ground so that she could get to the stool first. Like any teacher would, however, I let my competitive instinct kick in and grabbed her ankle, holding her back long enough to get there first. Point for teacher!
The following day in a different class, in a skirmish for the last stool, a student makes accidental (yet prolonged) contact with his hand on my genitals. This action, of course, mortified him and left me unsure of what to say. Someone from the side cries, "Mr. [my last name]! You just got molested!"
Not exactly the type of incidents I would expect to be most memorable after two days of teaching, but I'm going to guess this stuff will be par for the course in my classroom.
On the first day of class, we're told to play ice breaker games with our students so that they become better acquainted and comfortable with one another. Unfortunately, students can only play so many games of People Bingo (get creative, teachers!) before they've had it up to here. Jessica taught me a game that essentially amounted to get-to-know-you musical chairs. Let me tell you, the shyest students are also the most aggressive if it means not having to share a factoid about themselves. Hence, if the teacher and a timid student find themselves running for the same stool, it quickly becomes a smack down.
On the first day, a student literally knocked me to the ground so that she could get to the stool first. Like any teacher would, however, I let my competitive instinct kick in and grabbed her ankle, holding her back long enough to get there first. Point for teacher!
The following day in a different class, in a skirmish for the last stool, a student makes accidental (yet prolonged) contact with his hand on my genitals. This action, of course, mortified him and left me unsure of what to say. Someone from the side cries, "Mr. [my last name]! You just got molested!"
Not exactly the type of incidents I would expect to be most memorable after two days of teaching, but I'm going to guess this stuff will be par for the course in my classroom.
2006-09-05
First Day of School
I'm about to leave for my first day of school. I'm not quite terrified, but I'm certainly nervous. In these situations, people always say to just picture your audience in its underwear. Normally, I'd be game, but I'm pretty sure that's an inappropriate approach when dealing with teenage students.
Wish me well. Here goes (slightly more than) nothing.
Wish me well. Here goes (slightly more than) nothing.
2006-09-04
Bad News/Good News
Michael Michael had a dream about me. We were on the subway together when armed police officers swept through the cars looking for a suspect. For whatever reason, I apparently ran at the sight of the cops, and one of the cops thought I was the guilty party and shot me through the neck.
Seeing my limp body held in an officer's arms, Michael Michael ran over to see if I was okay. "No, he's dead," said the officer. "But his journal's really funny!"
Well, at least I have that going for me.
Seeing my limp body held in an officer's arms, Michael Michael ran over to see if I was okay. "No, he's dead," said the officer. "But his journal's really funny!"
Well, at least I have that going for me.
2006-09-03
"I Found It on My Pants"
After some initial resistance, I am proud to announce that I have gotten my housemates into Arrested Development. In all honesty, I find it very hard to respect anyone who "doesn't get" the show: it's the type of thing that could be a friendship breaker for me. Fortunately, I let the show speak for itself, and it seems to have won everyone over. I make daily references to Arrested Development, and it's sucked having no one understand them. (In summer school, I had a bit of a problem with hormonal teens touching one another, so each time I observed such an incident, I'd slam on something and yell, "NO TOUCHING!" They found it amusing, but the reference totally went over their head.) But now that Michael Michael has gotten through the first two seasons, he's spitting them out even better than me. My life is twice as good now that I have someone to trade lines with regularly.
After coming home from a bar last night (yes, we seem to be doing that a lot lately), Jessica and I were ready to go to bed, but Michael Michael was ready for some Arrested Development, pouring me a drink from Right-On to entice me to stay up. As Michael Michael was discovering, the only thing better than watching an episode of Arrested Development is watching an episode of Arrested Development a second time because than you not only get to enjoy all the jokes that you missed the first time around, but laugh wildly in anticipation of the big cleverly crafted comedic climaxes. (That alliteration was not intentional, but a pleasant surprise.) It's pure joy to watch Michael Michael convulse in laughter at jokes that haven't even happened yet; meanwhile, I convulse just enough to repeatedly spill my drink on my shirt, which my friends also found to be quite hilarious. Not appreciating their lack of support, I switched to a Kohoutek shirt so that if I were to spill on myself again, it would be at the expense of the music festival Michael Michael headed at college. That shut him up.
It's important to note that Jessica was, um, "worldly" again. Mid-show, I heard Jessica spit and watched her pull a black piece of plastic out of her mouth. "What is this I tried to eat?" she said angrily. After I gave her a puzzled look, she tried to explain, "I found it on my pants," as if that would justify trying to eat it. (I'm not actually judgmental of this action as that would make me a hypocrite, but it puzzled me that other people would do it as well.) Embarrassed, Jessica stood up to walk away and then spotted what she was looking for: chip crumbs on the couch cushions (more incidental alliteration). She promptly gobbled them up. Okay - that may have been better than an episode of Arrested Development.
2006-09-01
Decoration Celebration
Jenna and Kat gave up their afternoon to help set up my classroom yesterday, for which I am eternally grateful. If anyone has ever seen my style of decorating, you'll know that Martha Stewart I am not - except for my excessive use of doilies. A fellow teacher asked if I was using them for their "feminine touch," but the truth of the matter was I needed these two gals for their brute strength. I've been put in an art classroom and have tables and stools rather than desks, so I required an extra set of arms to lift and move the furniture around. Altogether, we spent an hour and a half pushing the tables around trying to find the exact right way to organize the classroom. At the end, my whiteboard was covered with all sorts of odd diagrams that came to look like elaborate football plays. Finally, we found a seating arrangement that added elements from all three of our ideas and we declared it "done." Perhaps we were just tired by that point, but it seemed nearly perfect.
It was exhilarating to have my friends come to visit my classroom. Like, that's my classroom. And my friends get to come and see it if they want. So I'm a real teacher with a real classroom at a real school where my friends are adult friends of the teacher all looking to better the education of our nation's youth. It's freaking surreal. Just when I was starting to feel mature, I found that Jenna made her way into the band room and took the liberty of banging on the drums for a while. And you know what? That's awesome, too. I would have done the same had I found them first. Because we may be (gulp) adults, but we'll never be those stiff lame adults that resist the urge to pound on an unattended drum set.
Jenna rocked the palindromes. After mounting the sheets on construction paper, she attached them to my walls in a patterned fashion, just the way palindromes should be. (I worry that I describe this task like I am commending a third grader, but I really am impressed and very thankful.) Meanwhile, Kat and I were like monkeys, climbing atop the art cubbies nine feet off the ground to hang my cheesy posters. I needed her eye for detail because y'all know I wouldn't spend any time centering or straightening anything I hang. At one point, a custodian came in while we were both lying just below the ceiling and seemed confused.
Before we left for the day, danger occurred. I could hear footsteps coming from the floor above us, then suddenly, the Plexiglass panel covering one of my lights came crashing down from the ceiling with Jenna sitting directly underneath it. In that split second, I feared for Jenna's life and wondered whether the school's insurance policy would cover my guests' injuries. Fortunately, part of the Plexiglass was attached to hinges, so it stopped dropping and merely swung repeatedly above Jenna's terrified hand-covered head. The three of us all panted in shock; as we would say in C2, my classroom is NOT SAFE!
At night, the three of us and a dozen more went to some random shabby bar for RJ's birthday where we drank beer, shot pool, and cut a rug on the tiny dance floor to Latin music as Hispanic men stared at us/asked to cut in with our womenfolk. It was bizarre, but I need bizarre experiences like that to counteract the bizarre realities of being a teacher.
It was exhilarating to have my friends come to visit my classroom. Like, that's my classroom. And my friends get to come and see it if they want. So I'm a real teacher with a real classroom at a real school where my friends are adult friends of the teacher all looking to better the education of our nation's youth. It's freaking surreal. Just when I was starting to feel mature, I found that Jenna made her way into the band room and took the liberty of banging on the drums for a while. And you know what? That's awesome, too. I would have done the same had I found them first. Because we may be (gulp) adults, but we'll never be those stiff lame adults that resist the urge to pound on an unattended drum set.
Jenna rocked the palindromes. After mounting the sheets on construction paper, she attached them to my walls in a patterned fashion, just the way palindromes should be. (I worry that I describe this task like I am commending a third grader, but I really am impressed and very thankful.) Meanwhile, Kat and I were like monkeys, climbing atop the art cubbies nine feet off the ground to hang my cheesy posters. I needed her eye for detail because y'all know I wouldn't spend any time centering or straightening anything I hang. At one point, a custodian came in while we were both lying just below the ceiling and seemed confused.
Before we left for the day, danger occurred. I could hear footsteps coming from the floor above us, then suddenly, the Plexiglass panel covering one of my lights came crashing down from the ceiling with Jenna sitting directly underneath it. In that split second, I feared for Jenna's life and wondered whether the school's insurance policy would cover my guests' injuries. Fortunately, part of the Plexiglass was attached to hinges, so it stopped dropping and merely swung repeatedly above Jenna's terrified hand-covered head. The three of us all panted in shock; as we would say in C2, my classroom is NOT SAFE!
At night, the three of us and a dozen more went to some random shabby bar for RJ's birthday where we drank beer, shot pool, and cut a rug on the tiny dance floor to Latin music as Hispanic men stared at us/asked to cut in with our womenfolk. It was bizarre, but I need bizarre experiences like that to counteract the bizarre realities of being a teacher.
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