Apathy Jack writes:
One more sleep – or so I’ve been told by the teachers who can still sleep – until the end of term. Sundry thoughts follow:
“There, I’ve done the review. Can I go now?”
“No – I’m not letting you wag until you have done a good job – you owe me that, remember?”
“What’s so bad about the review?”
“Nothing. It’s marvelous in fact. In ten minutes, you’ve hacked out what would take most of these monkeys two days, however, it is riddled with minor errors brought about by your haste.”
“Like the word ‘conflictation’.”
“Is conflictation not a word?”
“I was sure it was a word.”
“However – because I can almost live with conflictation – my main issue is your misspelling of the word ‘my’ here.”
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider leaving at the end of the year? I have so much work I need to do with you.”
“Maybe I’ll come back for the first term.”
“Why the first term?”
“Something to do.”
“Yes. Come back for the first term.”
“Alri... No! If I come back for the first term, you’ll make me stay all year!”
“Yes. You’re learning.”
“High school, as we all know, is some sort of sick, sadistic punishment of kids by adults seeking vengeance because they can no longer lead the responsibility-free, screwing-around-24/7 lives young people enjoy. What other explanation could there be for those four brutal years of degrading comments, physical abuse, and the belief that you’re the only one not having sex?”
-Michael Moore, Stupid White Men
One of the teachers is leaving, and her fourth formers yesterday presented her with her going away gifts: A piece of shapeless plastic still with the price sticker from the Two-Dollar Shop, flowers freshly picked from the house next to the school when the neighbour wasn’t looking, and a packet of condoms shoplifted from the local supermarket.
At least they care. Reminds me of an old workmate who had spent months trying to corral the Tough Class; she knew she finally had them on side when, after dental surgery, she returned to school with her face still swollen and bruised, and her kids took one look at her and said “Miss, give us a fucking name, and we’ll sort him for you.”
Okay, I can deal with the fact that over two dozen Outsiders with crowbars and bats came into the school looking for a little gang-related settlement to the beef du jour (mmm... beef du jour) – that’s just part of the day job. Hell, the constabulary are still smarting over allegations of tardiness when this sort of carryon very publicly happened at Onehunga High the other month, so when we called them – after making us wait on the line for several minutes – they kindly sent over all available cars in almost no time.
What I can’t deal with is that the press turned up at the same time as the cops.
One day – one fucking day – we’re going to get in the paper for something good.
As of this week, I find myself having to listen to music when I go to sleep (this, in case you were curious) to block out the other noise in my head.
You may not see that as a sign of mental wellbeing, but by this time last year I had been on the Dr Kev for over a month...