Home. Making.
Another weekend behind me, two weeks into class. I sit in bed eating saag paneer that my neighbor made, watch the cat sleep on a suitcase stuffed to the brim with papers. Last night I took the other half of unpacked boxes down to be recycled. I break things down, I move and strain, and the bruises that have covered my legs for weeks of bumping into furniture and tables clogging these rooms begin to fade. Finally I have space around me. Things put away. Room to sit on my gray chair and watch the storms come in.
Over the weekend, kids broke in to the school and stole iMacs from the photo and video lab. A camera, a soundboard. Over the weekend, kids broke in by throwing a chunk of asphalt through a window in my room. This afternoon in our faculty meeting, we watched the security footage of the guys nonchalantly and easily walking out my classroom door, down the hall, and into the lab. One wore a t-shirt over his face, the other a mask. They both wore gloves. They took their time. In my room at 6:40 this morning, I walked over to the hole where the window was and pulled the blinds down over the trash-bag black. My finger caught on something hard and I held up my hand, pulled away a shard of glass. I twist the rod to close the blinds to white before day has come, shutting out what is dawning.
I hear myself tell students what I am sure I heard told me. These things are a privilege. This affects everyone here. If you know what happened, please tell me or someone in the office. This is a school that believes in second chances. When students start discussing their favorite guns in class, I ask them to not discuss guns at school. Why? they ask. Because it's best not to risk someone misunderstanding you, even if you're talking about hunting. Not since Columbine. And then I realize that most of my students were born around the time of Columbine. That maybe they don't even know about it. That for them, school shootings have been relevant their whole lives. That they don't necessarily have that context, wouldn't know Pearl Jam's Jeremy video and why it was groundbreaking. Wouldn't know how we all sat transfixed in front of our televisions watching the footage, talking about it in class, crying with friends. The horror, the shock.
Even so, I make my way home and decide to put it behind me. I get online and research IB photography, find workshops for professional development, begin to formulate how to take over this town with photography, with writing. I talk with another teacher about getting more community service in the culture here, but not the kind that's just about the white Christians helping the poor black people (there are enough of those here already). We brainstorm about how to get the kids together on equal terms, kids of all races and income working to a common goal. Side by side. I seriously consider an email I get asking teachers to participate in either throwing pies or getting a pie in the face at a pep rally Friday. I wonder if I could change clothes in time to get back to my next class. May be best to stick with the flash mob in October. And speaking of flash mobs, I think it's time to get my bucket list back out.
I have a few things to check off.
Over the weekend, kids broke in to the school and stole iMacs from the photo and video lab. A camera, a soundboard. Over the weekend, kids broke in by throwing a chunk of asphalt through a window in my room. This afternoon in our faculty meeting, we watched the security footage of the guys nonchalantly and easily walking out my classroom door, down the hall, and into the lab. One wore a t-shirt over his face, the other a mask. They both wore gloves. They took their time. In my room at 6:40 this morning, I walked over to the hole where the window was and pulled the blinds down over the trash-bag black. My finger caught on something hard and I held up my hand, pulled away a shard of glass. I twist the rod to close the blinds to white before day has come, shutting out what is dawning.
I hear myself tell students what I am sure I heard told me. These things are a privilege. This affects everyone here. If you know what happened, please tell me or someone in the office. This is a school that believes in second chances. When students start discussing their favorite guns in class, I ask them to not discuss guns at school. Why? they ask. Because it's best not to risk someone misunderstanding you, even if you're talking about hunting. Not since Columbine. And then I realize that most of my students were born around the time of Columbine. That maybe they don't even know about it. That for them, school shootings have been relevant their whole lives. That they don't necessarily have that context, wouldn't know Pearl Jam's Jeremy video and why it was groundbreaking. Wouldn't know how we all sat transfixed in front of our televisions watching the footage, talking about it in class, crying with friends. The horror, the shock.
Even so, I make my way home and decide to put it behind me. I get online and research IB photography, find workshops for professional development, begin to formulate how to take over this town with photography, with writing. I talk with another teacher about getting more community service in the culture here, but not the kind that's just about the white Christians helping the poor black people (there are enough of those here already). We brainstorm about how to get the kids together on equal terms, kids of all races and income working to a common goal. Side by side. I seriously consider an email I get asking teachers to participate in either throwing pies or getting a pie in the face at a pep rally Friday. I wonder if I could change clothes in time to get back to my next class. May be best to stick with the flash mob in October. And speaking of flash mobs, I think it's time to get my bucket list back out.
I have a few things to check off.