Over And Done With

Well, almost anyway. I have precisely three hours of classes tomorrow with which to deal, but that's a far cry from the endless amount of time this week seemed to take. After weeks of "long days, short weeks," I was shocked, shocked I say, to have this week drag on interminably. There have been a few bright spots along the way.

On Wednesday night, the school band had their annual Winter Concert. I'm not sure I can really put this experience into words. Martin's been training these kids for years and the juniors (there are no seniors in the band) have definitely reached the stage where I can safely call them musicians. The younger kids have some work ahead of them, but that's not the point. From a technical musical standpoint, the concert was a disaster. A New York Times critic would've had a field day with the missed cues, sour notes and botched phrasing. However, that's not the point either. Not a critic in the world could've faulted these children for the feeling and emotion they put into their music. Martin has accomplished the unthinkable. He's replaced Jay-Z with jazz. The kids love music. They literally didn't want to stop playing.

After the announced program was completed, the crowd of teachers, parents, siblings and relatives clapped vigorously enough to warrant an encore, which the band was clearly prepared to give. But after that, the students kept coaxing Mr. Kelly back to the front to conduct them in one more song. They went through four encores in all. As I sat and watched them joyously blare out their rendition of "Mood Indigo," I was suddenly struck by the tragedy of the situation. This was arguably one of the best moments of their young lives. Their backgrounds don't really allow for many bright spots in the tapestry of their past. But now they were stars, and were having a grand time performing for a loving audience. This little high school show was a pinnacle for these kids who deserve so much more. I was happy for them and sorry for them all at once. The hardship of the road they took to get to this point contrasted sharply with the pure joy that they displayed onstage. I can only hope that they find bigger and better recognition in their lives ahead.

Last night, to much fanfare, was the annual MVA Staff Holiday Party. This means we got drunk. To start the evening off right, John, Chris and Cyndi and I went out early and hit a bar near the restaurant where we were supposed to meet everyone else. After said drink, we figured that we could mosey over to the restaurant a cool 15 minutes late and the party would already be in full swing. We were mistaken. When we got there, our principal was sitting with Felix at the end of a long table of empty seats. We had no choice but to sit down right next to them. Damn. John, Cyndi and I made a beeline for Felix's side of the table, while Chris bravely sat down next to Hector.

Things loosened up as Hector brought out a bottle of Ouzo he'd been saving for the occasion. At 92 proof, we were going just fine in no time. Then the wine arrived, then the sangria, and by then it was a hopping party with a crowd of more than twenty of us. Hector was buying drinks all around and we were clearly becoming a very loud and obnoxious group in the restaurant. Eventually, Kyle got to show off his salsa dancing skills, I was somehow corralled into dancing with a Flamenco dancer who was performing in the restaurant, and we all managed to embarrass ourselves in one way or another.

As things winded down, a dependable core group of die-hards remained to continue drinking, this time in the adjoining bar area of the restaurant. After much drinking of random shots, it was time to go home. After all, we all had classes to teach the following day. I shared a cab with Chris and Sarah and made it back to my place, where I promptly passed out. The upshot of all this is, since the party started at 5, it was only 9:30 when I passed out. Four hours of steady drinking will take it out of you. I slept like a baby.

Now I have but to pack my bags and ready myself for my departure tomorrow. Steve's coming into town to pick me up after school and I'll probably be gone at least until the 28th. But rest assured, there will be plenty of family drinking stories to share between now and then.

...you have much to learn.

Today, I gave my students a quiz on volcanoes and earthquakes, which we'd been studying since Thanksgiving. It was decidedly similar to the review sheet I gave them on volcanoes and earthquakes earlier this week. That fact did not actually help them on the quiz, since they steadfastly refuse to study. Ever. As a joke, I put the following at the end of the quiz:

Poll:
Which would you prefer to experience firsthand: a volcanic eruption or an earthquake?

This little attempt at humor didn't go over as I had planned. First off, the term "firsthand" had to be explained to more than one student. "Personally," and "for yourself" were two explanations that they seemed to tenuously grasp. Then there was the grade-grubbing. "Will this question be graded?" I was asked. For a moment, I was silently incredulous. "Are you serious?" I wanted to reply, "Do you actually think that there is a correct answer to this question? I mean, clearly it's demonstrably better to survive a volcanic eruption than to live through an earthquake, right? What the hell!?" Instead, I was calm. "No," I said, "It will not be graded. It's just an informal poll."

Then came the kicker. Last period, I had to field a question about the very nature of the word "poll." "What do you mean, 'poll?'" asked an otherwise capable student. I just kind of gave him a questioning glance, not sure I was actually hearing what I thought I was hearing. "Do you mean like, a pole?" he asked, and accentuated his speech with hand gestures tracing out some sort of imaginary, 3-inch gauge, vertically-oriented cylindrical object in front of him. Yup, I was actually hearing what I thought I was hearing. This time, my urge was to burst out laughing. I suppressed it, since other students had by now turned around to see who the hell was asking what "poll" meant. "No," I said, "It's a poll. A survey. You know, when you vote, you go to the polls." Realizing that I was the only one in the room who could vote (except Manny, he's a vote-eligible 10th grader), I tried a different tact. "It's an opinion question. You can't get it wrong." This was greeted by a smile and a knowing nod. Finally.

Six instructional days to go.

Time Marches On

...and waits for no man, and dicks away the moments that make up the dull day. The days continue to be long and the weeks short. I've managed to get an extension from one of my grad classes, which is good because I owe about half a semester's worth of work so I sort of need an extension. You know, to pass and stuff. As for my other class, I've done most of the work, I just need to get two lesson plans, a child study and a report finished by Thursday if I want to pass. Oh, and I'm giving some sort of quiz to my students that same day, so I may want to write that some time between now and then. Woo hoo. In lighter news, Christmas break is all the more closer, which means that rest and a significant reduction of work are right around the corner. Eight more instructional days. That's all.

In the really good news department, Travis arrived in New York today and wrote me a fat check to cover for the douchebag who was supposed to sublet our apartment but decided that Mark and I were rude slobs and bolted. Anyone who knows me and Mark knows that we are indeed rude slobs. But that's no reason to dick me out of good money, as has been noted in previous posts. And yes, those of you in cyberspace who still worry about such things, I will get around to getting my revenge on Steve, who's reachable at esh_bomb32(at)yahoo.com (Simply remove the underscore and add in a @ for the "(at).". I code his marvelous email communication thusly so that a Google search of his address wouldn't link anyone here. Feel free to email him and tell him he's a douche.) You see, it's not that I harbor a grudge. It's that I believe revenge should be, as Khan might say, served cold. And no, I won't tell you what I intend. That'd be evidence against me.

For now, I'm too busy with school to worry about such things. Eight instructional days remain between me and freedom. How wonderful.