Sometimes I wonder what work is like for other people. I mean, people who aren't teachers. People who go and sit at a desk with other people sitting at desks. Or people who own their own business or spend their day traveling to do more business. Basically, people who spend their days in the world of grown-ups. It's completely foreign to me.
What's it like to start your day without someone running up to you, hands waving, yelling, 'Oh my God!' Or to never have someone enter your workspace, slam down their belongings, and throw themselves into a chair in a huff. Or to go all day without having your concentration broken by someone falling out of a chair or over a bag or just over themselves for no apparent reason.
I spend my days in the world of tweens; eleven to fourteen-year-olds; middle schoolers. Kids who struggle every day to remember what's suppose to be relevant, such as homework and organization and manners, but that isn't necessarily relevant to them, like their friends and fitting in and having some control over their world while still feeling like someone is looking out for them.
It's a world full of running and shouting and laughter and often tears. A lapse in attention to instructions in class is quickly followed by a surge of panic leading to frantic whispering, or blurting out for clarification, while the answers are often right in front of them. They run to lunch, call dibs on seats, swap and haggle over desserts, then inhale their food while talking non-stop feeling totally free and independent, unaware of the adults all around them. They show up for class sweaty and out of breath. They ask permission for mundane things like going to the bathroom or turning off their cell phone or getting a tissue, then write all over their classmate's arm in permanent marker or turn a backpack inside out when no one's looking. They sulk and sass and whoop and cheer.
They jump right into an assignment they love and lollygag over anything seemingly tedious. They crack their knuckles before speaking to you, totally unaware that it's a prelude to assault. They race to sign up for turns yelling things like, 'Oh, I am SO going first!' or 'NO! Seven's my lucky number, I need to go seventh!' They jump on each other, push and shove, or play with each other's hair and fawn over outfits. They're excited and shy and ridiculous and totally authentic.
My little corner of this world is tucked away in the drama studio, and I'm sure it would unnerve the most 'successful' of grown-ups as it keeps me precariously teetering on the edge of insanity. In and out of non-stop improv, my realities include finding a man asleep on the bed of my luxury hotel room, followed by my drowning of a zombie puppy in the fountain of youth. I firmly forbade my 6th grade puppeteers from exiting the room with eyeballs and poofs. I wrestled a child into a headlock, then directed another to do the same in rehearsal. And for the last two weeks I've been surround by people reciting monologues to the walls.
When I'm old and my Alzheimer's kicks in, all my crazy will just be memories of my lesson plans.
What's it like to start your day without someone running up to you, hands waving, yelling, 'Oh my God!' Or to never have someone enter your workspace, slam down their belongings, and throw themselves into a chair in a huff. Or to go all day without having your concentration broken by someone falling out of a chair or over a bag or just over themselves for no apparent reason.
I spend my days in the world of tweens; eleven to fourteen-year-olds; middle schoolers. Kids who struggle every day to remember what's suppose to be relevant, such as homework and organization and manners, but that isn't necessarily relevant to them, like their friends and fitting in and having some control over their world while still feeling like someone is looking out for them.
It's a world full of running and shouting and laughter and often tears. A lapse in attention to instructions in class is quickly followed by a surge of panic leading to frantic whispering, or blurting out for clarification, while the answers are often right in front of them. They run to lunch, call dibs on seats, swap and haggle over desserts, then inhale their food while talking non-stop feeling totally free and independent, unaware of the adults all around them. They show up for class sweaty and out of breath. They ask permission for mundane things like going to the bathroom or turning off their cell phone or getting a tissue, then write all over their classmate's arm in permanent marker or turn a backpack inside out when no one's looking. They sulk and sass and whoop and cheer.
They jump right into an assignment they love and lollygag over anything seemingly tedious. They crack their knuckles before speaking to you, totally unaware that it's a prelude to assault. They race to sign up for turns yelling things like, 'Oh, I am SO going first!' or 'NO! Seven's my lucky number, I need to go seventh!' They jump on each other, push and shove, or play with each other's hair and fawn over outfits. They're excited and shy and ridiculous and totally authentic.
My little corner of this world is tucked away in the drama studio, and I'm sure it would unnerve the most 'successful' of grown-ups as it keeps me precariously teetering on the edge of insanity. In and out of non-stop improv, my realities include finding a man asleep on the bed of my luxury hotel room, followed by my drowning of a zombie puppy in the fountain of youth. I firmly forbade my 6th grade puppeteers from exiting the room with eyeballs and poofs. I wrestled a child into a headlock, then directed another to do the same in rehearsal. And for the last two weeks I've been surround by people reciting monologues to the walls.
When I'm old and my Alzheimer's kicks in, all my crazy will just be memories of my lesson plans.
Thank you for that Kaleroy! It's midnight and I've just spent the last three days working endlessly on report cards! Your story made me laugh so much...laughter that was much needed after handing in report cards!!
ReplyDeleteMiss you lots!
Jocelyne