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2004-03-11 - 2:01 p.m.
Wow. Yes. I’m actually writing again. Sort of. Cassandra Phelps finally decided to give me some subject matter, and we ended up with this. It’s rather an incoherent rant near the end, but I decided that anymore proofreading might result in losing my nerve to post it. Here goes...
Pencils out, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for a pop quiz. Don’t “fubar” me, Mister Wicks, it’s only one question. You’ll need a piece of paper, come to that. Alright, answer me this: Why are you here? In school, I mean to say. On the paper, Miss Moreno.
Okay, now that you’re all rolling your eyes at me I assume I can collect these. I’ve been taking this test, too, you’ll note – a novelty, yes? Novelty, Mister Farris, look it up; dictionary’s behind you. Now, let’s see what some of you wrote – no, I’m not sharing my answer, Mister Cajidhae – yes, I know, it’s “fubar.” This was just a moment of introspection from which we might all learn. From your peers rather than from me, for once. Let’s see, now...
“I’m...here...because...my...ma...would...kick...my...ass...if I wasn’t.” I applaud your skill with rebuses, at least, but last I checked you’re here to learn English. Should you expect an ass kicking anyhow, then?
“I’m on probation and my parole officer says school attendance is mandatory.” Would someone like to read the definition of ‘mandatory’ aloud, since we only have six dictionaries? There we go. This person has a point, albeit a stupid one. School attendance is mandated – past subjunctive verb from which ‘mandatory’ is based – by the state of Illinois; it’s a law, in fact, though it’s just as stupid as the point, which is no law or rule seems to matter to you people save compulsory attendance. Why? Why are we really here? What is the point?
And there’s the bell and the stampede, and my point, my beautiful, controversial point, is lost on cattle. Why am I here? I told myself I could teach, after resources ran out on me being a student. I told myself I was still a student in my own way, learning from the children in my classes, from life experience – hell, maybe even one of my students knew more about English than I did. But these kids don’t want to learn, I don’t want to teach them, and I can’t learn anything from them that I didn’t already know from the year I spent in this hellhole as a bona fide student myself.
I thought I could be what Ms. Jansen was to me years ago, that I could give someone control of their life back, to save them, as she had done for me. But I don’t have control to give, even to myself. Control means being responsible for your surroundings, to be the one shaping them yourself. I can barely care for my body anymore – that same body which gave me my oxymoronic athletic scholarship so I could reach this point, four years and twenty pounds ago; I can’t bear the burden of control when my legs can only just bear me. No, I’m not in control, and I can’t help anyone else gain it, either – not that they want to, here. This is the dead end school, the one I was very nearly lost in myself. Nothing short of a miracle helps you escape it. I’m not that miracle vessel; I don’t think I ever will be...