This week in my job as a substitute instructional assistant at the local Montessori school was kind-of brutal. I was there three days straight and spent almost the entire time on my feet, employed mostly as a shusher, trying to keep an upper EL class (grades 4-6) quiet enough for academic work to proceed. This class apparently has a reputation for being overly-dramatic, but I noticed no scenery-chewing issues on my watch. I also helped supervise kindergartners at recess.
When I got to the upper EL class I discovered that one of the students had bronchitis, and was hacking up a lung. It was clear that I was doomed. The student apparently had returned to class too soon, and so now I would have a cold too. Plus, I'm just not used to working this hard!
Still, the class was interesting to me. I was their age nearly sixty years ago, and despite various superficial changes - brighter colors and newer technology - I have the sense that nothing at all has changed. I feel like I've always known these kids. They are exactly the same as we were - the furtive glances, the inside jokes, the sporadic noises they make, running and skipping across the floor, not following instructions, their easily-hurt feelings, and their occasional desire to be left alone. And the pencil sharpener, of course. Very disruptive in my day; less so now, but still there.
I got closer to trouble than I would have liked. At recess one lunchtime, I supervised the action at the Gaga Ball Court. Trouble is, we never had Gaga Ball in the old days, and I don't know the rules. A girl asked if she could join the action and I said yes, but the round wasn't over, so the other players ordered her out. She cried to another teaching assistant and I had to apologize to her for my bad decision to admit her too soon. Later, I learned that a report was being filed about some other action that occurred there. The students had been rough and I interceded several times to prevent fights, but someone complained nonetheless. I was asked if I heard specific insults, and I hadn't, but I did hear "Your Mom" too many times.
The kindergartners were fun, as usual. One girl seems to me to be ready to join society as a "Karen": a girl looking for the proper level of management to address her various irritations. She was irritated that her mom had failed to give her ready-made popcorn as a snack, but instead had given her microwavable packets of popcorn, which, of course, requires a microwave oven. Many classrooms have microwave ovens, but still, the permission of teachers had to be sought. We teaching assistants shrugged our shoulders at her distress. The girl would have to address upper-level management.
I apprehensively-watched kids on a playground teeter-totter, especially when two kids each loaded both sides and other kids tried to force the speed and make the rocking more violent, but the device was well-designed and no one got hurt. Not that students didn't try. At one point I was throwing lawn darts back and forth at one kid - probably a bad idea from a safety perspective - but his father was supervising, so we all skated.
On the walk back from the park, several students - what seemed to me to be an identifiable cohort of throwback kids from the Seventies - began leading the students in singing various older songs, edging into Classic-Rock, namely: "Last Christmas" (George Michael and WHAM), "All Star" (Smashmouth), "California Gurls" (Katy Perry), "We Are The Champions" (Queen), plus a few others. Once back in the class, the teacher played a more-recent video, namely "Replay" (from the Korean boy band SHINee).
On Thursday afternoon, I inadvertently encountered one of the upper EL girl students, age probably about eleven, several times. At one point, she was creeping underneath a metal picnic table, croaking in a disturbing, Exorcist-like way. I told her, "You seem to be possessed by a demon. Should we call your parents?" Her jaw dropped in that faux-shock way tweens have to indicate amusement.
Since I was making her laugh, the girl wanted to know more about who I was, but since I don’t come to school very often, no one in her clique of friends knew anything about me. So, during free-wheeling art period, she decided to send me a series of messages in a manner usually reserved for learning more about cute new boys in the class. I was anything but; I'm just a crusty old dude, but the template allowed her to ask questions that would normally be considered rude and intrusive (and her friends warned her repeatedly about her brazenness). Other kids served as message carriers, with one being the principal message carrier. The messages were written on one, maybe two, pieces of paper, and were public for her friends to see.
First, my name. What was my name? A message carrier answered for me, saying that my name was Mr. Dude. She replied, that her name was Ms. Bro. I said that we were The Dudes.
She asked for my favorite color, which is orange. She initially said orange too, but then changed her mind to violet; nearly opposite on the color wheel.
She said she liked my hair. A brazen lie! I replied that hair is fleeting and that she should enjoy hers. What did I use for shampoo? (She uses rose-scented shampoo). I replied Pantene Classic Clean. The principal message carrier laughed. Who took care of my eyebrows? I replied that Norm the Barber administers those. “Norm,” she repeated skeptically.
I had been rocking a bit to the music the teacher was playing in the background. She said “I like your dance moves.” I replied “I refrain from twerking.” She replied “That is probably for the best.” Much laughter among her friends. Principal message carrier literally ROFL!
She asked where I got my clothes. I replied J.C. Penney's. She replied she gets her clothes at Target (particularly emphasizing the hard "G" in the name and deliberately avoiding the faux-French pronunciation people often like). She stated she gets many things at Target. Her friend added "And at Trader Joe's too."
And so it continued, comparing coffee orders, dabbing, not liking Trump, etc. When her and her friends departed for Car Line she said I should go to Car Line too. "All the good people go to Car Line," she said, with more than a little deadpan sarcasm. I demurred and headed instead to the office.
Because I tried to be as flexible as possible, and truthfully answer questions that might otherwise be considered rude, we all enjoyed ourselves. We were edgy without being creepy, and now we know each other a bit better than before.
