I'm not sure which is more difficult: being unemployed and in search of a new career in this flimsy economy, or, after finally nailing down a job, attempting to coalesce gracefully with the unfamiliar ecosystem of a new line of work. Don't get me wrong - all the challenges of a new career are much more preferrable to me than unemployment. I would much rather be newly-employed and green than unemployed and, well . . . without green.
Hmm, that was almost funny.
It is easy to spot the new guy. Not only is he infallibly upbeat and disgustingly positivistic about everything, he wrecklessly jumps at the chance to volunteer for anything and everything that is asked of him with nary a thought of himself (or his dignity) or if he actually has the time or energy to do it. He arrives at work long before the rest of the sensible world has even had their first cup of legal stimulant and is the last to clock out (while his veteran colleagues make for the door at 4:00 PM like Iranians flock a long-awaited open border). When it comes to the details of his work, he is meticulously thorough and, regarding his schedule, he is over-committed. His responsibilities are, at this neophyte stage, impossible to complete without him lugging them home evenings and weekends. Therefore, by the end of the first few weeks on the job, he is, for lack of a better description, completely and incomparably (in his experience) pooped!
The newly-employed teacher needs a mai-tai, a hammock, some aesthetically-placed palms and coconuts, and a uekele playing in the distance.
For the first time in a decade, I'm the new guy. Without a shadow of a doubt, I love my new vocation, but I would be lying through my teeth if I said I am enjoying the initiation process. I'm ready to be good at this, to know the ropes blind-folded and backwards, and to orchestrate the minions of minutia that populate my day with the flare and grace of a master conductor before a symphony.
But I'm not there yet. Not yet. For now I feel more like a giraffe on ice skates than a master conductor: awkward and clumsy with no grace to speak of. But when I feel like throwing in the towel, I just remember how good I was after 10 years in my old line of work, and remind myself that life is a lot like wrestling a gorilla. You don't quit when you get tired; you quit when the gorilla gets tired.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
First Days, Locker-Goblins, and Heroic Mommies
Two weeks on the job and, I swear, I've only blinked once. Seriously, I feel like I was suddenly sucked through a vortex, shot on a satellite course to circumvent Alpha Centauri, only to land meteorite-style in my own front yard on Labor Day weekend, thinking to myself, "Okay . . . what just happened?"
And what did just happen? I remember Professional Development week with archival clarity: casual, leisurely pace; quiet, clean working atmosphere; large, spacious facility; and plenty, plenty of time to work in solitude and silence; and, oh yes, a smile on the face of every well-rested colleague. Yes, a heaping pile of work to do; however, a heaping pile of time in which to git 'er dun.
And, then: Monday, August 23rd . . . 8:30 AM. The bell rings!
Do you remember that part in the first Lord of the Rings when the Wizard, Hobbits, and the rest were trodging their way through the dark caverns of Moria? The "fool of a Took," curiously examining the armored remains of a slain dwarf, accidently sends the carcass banging and clanging down the shaft of an old well. The racket pierces the silence, the fellowship's only protection from the minions of orc's that inhabit every nook and cranny of dark, old Moria. After a fierce battle against an onslaught of alarmed orc's, our heroes escape through a newly-formed hole in the rock and into a vast, majestically pillared cavern. They are closely pursued by the hideous army of goblin-esque villains who come to surround them by taking to the ceilings and walls like a mad flood of ants swarming a dead rat. Pinned in, the fellowship of the ring is hopelessly trapped with no forseeable way of escape.
Now, I'm not saying, of course, that the tidal wave of six graders rounding the corner of the six grade wing are comparable to a swarm of Tolkein's fantasaical, snarling, drooling monsters; however, I am inferring that the mad stampede of countless mini-people frantically grappling to be the first to their locker is a bit unnerving . . . especially when they're coming right at you . . . with no indication of stopping. We were instructed to monitor the incoming students and offer necessary aid to those with "locker difficulties, " and to maintain order. I stood there wielding a yardstick as Arthur did Excalibur.
My defenses gradually lowered, however, as it dawned on me that these creatures were more like Hobbits than orc's and were, in point of fact, more terrified than I was. I remember sixth grade: it's horrifying to suddenly find yourself being hurled from the world in which you were of the eldest and, thus, venerated by the younger grades only to come flailing through the double-doors of a new world, one in which you are now the youngest and smallest. Towering over you lurks enormous, monstrous creatures with deep voices and facial hair (7th and 8th graders). Welcome, once more, to the bottom of the food chain.
I came back to myself and thought, "Pull it together, Davis. These kiddos need you. Get in there!" Sheathing my 36-inch Excaliber, I marched boldly into the chaos. Immediatley, I spied a young maiden, wrestling helplessly with a defiant combination lock, refusing to grant the fair lady passage to her locker. "Never fear, youg miss," said I. Galiantly, I procured her digits and, with a swift right, left (past the first number), and another right, the locker door swung open! Next, a young lad, whose back pack had, by some dark devilry, spontaneously combusted in the middle of the hall, caught my eye. Swiftly, I gathered his scattered effects, and delivered them safely to his grateful hands.
The battle raged for days it seemed, and yet, the first tardy bell of the year had yet to sound. Time was of the essence and yet there were so many to be saved. Spying a young man who, upon surrendering hope of ever opening his locker, resorted to beating it . . . with his forehead, I began to wade my way toward him through the adolescent torrent of panic. But I would not reach him.
In that violent, tumultuous scene, I felt, from somewhere behind me, the slightest of tugs upon my back, center beltloop. Sensing evil afoot, I turned slowly, cautiously. I came about only to see the teary eyes and paled face of a young boy, his hands wringing the shirt at his stomach. Strangely, he had dropped his backpack and binder to the ground and there stood, his eyes gazing up at me through a haze of . . . intestinal discomfort. I knew that look anywhere. His stomach, stricken with the nerves of the first day, proved incapable of holding down what so desperately wanted to come up: mommy's oatmeal and toast with . . . are those raisins!?
It happened so fast. Jackie Chan could not have executed quicker, more artistically-choreographed foot-work, and, yet, it was to no avail. Indeed, those were raisins, and, indeed, they were on my new dress shoes. I froze in horror.I felt the dark sense of defeat creeping upon me, for I knew then and there that I had met my match. No one . . . NO ONE . . . had warned me about nor equipped me for this! I was finished.
But, hope springs eternal and every self-respecting epic worth its salt reveals a dramatic twist when all seems lost! This new teacher needed rescuing, not just from the barf on his shoes but from the chaos of the situation. Imagine it! A puddle of puke in the middle of a junior high hall, filled with a mob of stampeding kids oblivious to everything except getting to class on time! I needed help! I needed . . . a mommy!
She came out of nowhere, it seemed, but most likely from defending her own offspring from the first-day-foes of locker-goblins and hairy 8th graders. Donning the athletic garb of one who will finally have the opportunity to go to the Y for a decent workout, she sliced through the crowd and, . . . true, story . . . straddled that vile puddle of liquid breakfast. With a valiant sweep of both arms, she channeled that raging river of students around her in a way that would've made Charleton Heston beam with pride, saving the entire 6th-grade wing from a certain coating of sneaker-tracked oatmeal. Shooting me an assuring glance that it was all under control, I ushered the puking perpetrator (poor little guy) to the school nurse, put in a call for a custodian to please come to room 618 with a mop, and, most importantly, rushed to the Teachers' Lounge for a much-needed, last-second, stiff draught of black Folgers.
Holy Man-Eating Monday, Batman! It's only day one!
And what did just happen? I remember Professional Development week with archival clarity: casual, leisurely pace; quiet, clean working atmosphere; large, spacious facility; and plenty, plenty of time to work in solitude and silence; and, oh yes, a smile on the face of every well-rested colleague. Yes, a heaping pile of work to do; however, a heaping pile of time in which to git 'er dun.
And, then: Monday, August 23rd . . . 8:30 AM. The bell rings!
Do you remember that part in the first Lord of the Rings when the Wizard, Hobbits, and the rest were trodging their way through the dark caverns of Moria? The "fool of a Took," curiously examining the armored remains of a slain dwarf, accidently sends the carcass banging and clanging down the shaft of an old well. The racket pierces the silence, the fellowship's only protection from the minions of orc's that inhabit every nook and cranny of dark, old Moria. After a fierce battle against an onslaught of alarmed orc's, our heroes escape through a newly-formed hole in the rock and into a vast, majestically pillared cavern. They are closely pursued by the hideous army of goblin-esque villains who come to surround them by taking to the ceilings and walls like a mad flood of ants swarming a dead rat. Pinned in, the fellowship of the ring is hopelessly trapped with no forseeable way of escape.
Now, I'm not saying, of course, that the tidal wave of six graders rounding the corner of the six grade wing are comparable to a swarm of Tolkein's fantasaical, snarling, drooling monsters; however, I am inferring that the mad stampede of countless mini-people frantically grappling to be the first to their locker is a bit unnerving . . . especially when they're coming right at you . . . with no indication of stopping. We were instructed to monitor the incoming students and offer necessary aid to those with "locker difficulties, " and to maintain order. I stood there wielding a yardstick as Arthur did Excalibur.
My defenses gradually lowered, however, as it dawned on me that these creatures were more like Hobbits than orc's and were, in point of fact, more terrified than I was. I remember sixth grade: it's horrifying to suddenly find yourself being hurled from the world in which you were of the eldest and, thus, venerated by the younger grades only to come flailing through the double-doors of a new world, one in which you are now the youngest and smallest. Towering over you lurks enormous, monstrous creatures with deep voices and facial hair (7th and 8th graders). Welcome, once more, to the bottom of the food chain.
I came back to myself and thought, "Pull it together, Davis. These kiddos need you. Get in there!" Sheathing my 36-inch Excaliber, I marched boldly into the chaos. Immediatley, I spied a young maiden, wrestling helplessly with a defiant combination lock, refusing to grant the fair lady passage to her locker. "Never fear, youg miss," said I. Galiantly, I procured her digits and, with a swift right, left (past the first number), and another right, the locker door swung open! Next, a young lad, whose back pack had, by some dark devilry, spontaneously combusted in the middle of the hall, caught my eye. Swiftly, I gathered his scattered effects, and delivered them safely to his grateful hands.
The battle raged for days it seemed, and yet, the first tardy bell of the year had yet to sound. Time was of the essence and yet there were so many to be saved. Spying a young man who, upon surrendering hope of ever opening his locker, resorted to beating it . . . with his forehead, I began to wade my way toward him through the adolescent torrent of panic. But I would not reach him.
In that violent, tumultuous scene, I felt, from somewhere behind me, the slightest of tugs upon my back, center beltloop. Sensing evil afoot, I turned slowly, cautiously. I came about only to see the teary eyes and paled face of a young boy, his hands wringing the shirt at his stomach. Strangely, he had dropped his backpack and binder to the ground and there stood, his eyes gazing up at me through a haze of . . . intestinal discomfort. I knew that look anywhere. His stomach, stricken with the nerves of the first day, proved incapable of holding down what so desperately wanted to come up: mommy's oatmeal and toast with . . . are those raisins!?
It happened so fast. Jackie Chan could not have executed quicker, more artistically-choreographed foot-work, and, yet, it was to no avail. Indeed, those were raisins, and, indeed, they were on my new dress shoes. I froze in horror.I felt the dark sense of defeat creeping upon me, for I knew then and there that I had met my match. No one . . . NO ONE . . . had warned me about nor equipped me for this! I was finished.
But, hope springs eternal and every self-respecting epic worth its salt reveals a dramatic twist when all seems lost! This new teacher needed rescuing, not just from the barf on his shoes but from the chaos of the situation. Imagine it! A puddle of puke in the middle of a junior high hall, filled with a mob of stampeding kids oblivious to everything except getting to class on time! I needed help! I needed . . . a mommy!
She came out of nowhere, it seemed, but most likely from defending her own offspring from the first-day-foes of locker-goblins and hairy 8th graders. Donning the athletic garb of one who will finally have the opportunity to go to the Y for a decent workout, she sliced through the crowd and, . . . true, story . . . straddled that vile puddle of liquid breakfast. With a valiant sweep of both arms, she channeled that raging river of students around her in a way that would've made Charleton Heston beam with pride, saving the entire 6th-grade wing from a certain coating of sneaker-tracked oatmeal. Shooting me an assuring glance that it was all under control, I ushered the puking perpetrator (poor little guy) to the school nurse, put in a call for a custodian to please come to room 618 with a mop, and, most importantly, rushed to the Teachers' Lounge for a much-needed, last-second, stiff draught of black Folgers.
Holy Man-Eating Monday, Batman! It's only day one!
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