Hallin’ Ass

Today certainly didn’t turn out as I thought it would. Due to random selection, I was not placed in a classroom to proctor the state test for knowledge and skills. Instead, I was positioned in the hallway as a monitor. My job consisted of relaying messages for the proctors, to make sure that students who leave during testing are only doing so for restroom privileges and to prep late students by reading them the instructions before they join the others.

Oh my goodness, I’ve never been so bored in my entire life. All my complaints about the insanity of the classroom, I take back… sort of. I mean it is insanity. I’m surprised (and impressed) that I don’t drink more than to just stay warm at night.

There are fights, acts of sexual deviancy, parents who try to throw their weight around, long workdays, drug searches, and common all-around indecency. At least there were always things to do. Out in the hallway, though, is like some kind of teacher purgatory. You’ve got no idea. Heck, I didn’t have any idea. I even brought some grading to do, suspecting that there would be some time to do so. I was done with it after an hour. An hour! I brought what usually takes be a couple of weeks, and it only took an hour. After that I even refined my lesson plans for the last six weeks. That took even less time!

I guess that’s how this job would be if there weren’t all the other mess to deal with—returning those irate parent phone calls (happy parents don’t phone.), filling out tardies in triplicate, cell phones going off and explaining to “Mr. Two Strikes” how his impromptu masturbation song doesn’t need to be shared with the rest of the class… during the pledge.

So, even though I complain and complain about this job, I don’t know what I would do without it. I was so bored that when I finally did get to prompt a student who was late, I wanted to milk it for all its worth.

“Do you need me to repeat any of that?”

“Nah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, Derrick, there are moments in one’s lives that are considered ‘life altering.’ This may be one of those moments”

“Uh, I better get in there.”

“I could do it Spanish”

“I’m Chinese.”

“Yes, but I only know some Spanish. Now, let’s see,” as I pick up the instructions and make a face that looks like I’m reaching into the recesses of my brain, “Abro—no, wait! Abre….”

“Look, I’ve got to go.”

It’s as if I’m some kind of adrenaline junky or something and need the chaos. Though masochist is probably a better label.