Analysis of a Lost Man

Channeling Walt:
The steep lines of the hillside define green, gentle giants-
giants that wear ecosystems and habitats,
that drink sunlight and bathe in the calm pools of blue showers.
Their laughter, a joint effort, shakes the air itself
creating a tranquil wave that ventures the earth.
What does it mean to be an emerald titan?
To stand tall above the dirty soil,
with the warm glow of relaxation
simmering beneath a birch brow?
The soft scent of water's perfume
drifts like lilac on a breeze,
causing the peaceful ogres to blush.
Puffy slates of smoke
gaze at the rainbow beauty of the sunset.
The great audience points,
with slight hesitation,
and the ball of flames waves goodnight
while tiny violins ignite below.

What I'm Doing: Watching the Kansas (2) vs. Kansas St. (5) basketball game and cooking pizza.

212:
Today was my first day in a new class. I started because I had some open time during the beginning of my day. Since it was my first day, I decided to just observe and take notes, occasionally talking to kids. Here is my recollection, detailed below, from the pages of my blue, 70 page spiral notebook.

Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Class started twenty-five minutes ago. Noise boils from a hodgepodge of students who are bustling in and out an open door. A couple of them sit in desks. They are bored, yet apathetic- their will burned by the classroom demeanor. I sit down, checking the underside of a table for gum. Today I am an observer. Soon, I'll be a performer, a teacher, an integral piece of the puzzle.

Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Mr. M is now in front of a file cabinet near the door. He's muttering to the air as he shuffles a key into a lock. It opens. He looks inside with a sense of lost meaning- a man with a purpose undefined but yet, acknowledged by his own, confused eyes. I can almost see the gears inside his head clanking, turning, hitting each other in a mosh-pit fashion. The keys drop from his hands, and clank on the dirty tiles below.

Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
It's been forty minutes since the bell rang, but since it's first period, time has been extended. Breakfast has been handed out, and thrown wild like snowballs across the room. Mr. M struggles to hold a pair of random transparencies and paper, as he limps to a makeshift screen for the overhead. A kid screams from across the room at a student blaring techno from his laptop. "Yo, is that some new Beethoven shit or somethin' bull?"

The overhead turns on and two images flash against wrinkled paper. Someone sings, "Shut your fuckin' face Uncle Fucker" as Mr M. mumbles a 30 second lecture. I am surprised by the South Park reference.

Nervous fingers. They fiddle. They twitch.
Almost releasing a transparency as he retreats to the security of his cluttered desk, Mr. M glares at a student. Then, he awkwardly bends down, licking his furrowed red-gray mustache. His glasses slide to the edge of his nose, as the slamming sound of a knock rises above the concert-level clamor of the classroom. As he walks over, a girl I know from another class, Tanya, asks, "Yo, why would you ever go to this class? It's terrible, and he's retarded." Her finger points o Mr. M, who, like a wounded animal is conversing with Ms. C, the disciplinarian.

Nervous fingers.
She's yelling at him. He's an idiot. A fool. He's lower than a child to her.

They fiddle. They twitch.
The students put on an act when they notice Ms. C. Hoodies are thrown off to reveal uniforms, and one kid (who is wearing a long-sleeve, green Polo shirt) fakes sleep to avoid confrontation. As the tall figure of Ms. C fades into the hallway, so does the dramatic play. Hoodies on, volume up. New Beethoven shit pumps from a very recently restarted laptop. The bell rings, adding to the cacophony. I stand up, the kids bolt out. I walk to Mr. M and clearly address why I'm present in his classroom. I outline that I'm observing now, but I'll be helping next week, stating we'll be having meetings together soon. He mutters, "They just keep goin' in and out," as the unshaven hairs on his chin hide in the loose skin of his neck. They mirror the cluttered state of his mind, the war-zone of the classroom.

"But they don't know... I'm watching... I'm watching them."

Many things can be pulled from my notes. It may be reasonable to question the purpose of having a teacher who seems mentally unstable (let alone severe lack of self-confidence) teaching a physical science class to a group of freshmen. Or, one could ask what thoughts course through a student of Mr. M's class on a day-to-day basis? Are they bored- would they rather learn than have what feels like a wacky study hall?

I don't know the answers to these questions, nor do I pretend to. But from what I've seen, I would think the kids prefer a learning environment over one without a purpose. As far as Mr. M goes, I believe he was once a much stronger guy, emotionally. From what I'm told, he was a chemist before a teacher, so he knows his stuff. His social skills are lacking however, although, deep down he seems like he wants to teach, like he wants to be the one that passes his knowledge on. He is just confused, he doesn't know how.

I'm not the only one in Mr. M's classes. My teammates (Siobhan, Misty, Cassie, and Samantha) have been there since we've been inside of our school. They've done an incredible job in his other periods- one that few adjectives can describe. To try and help the kids, they've recently been doing small group pull-outs, teaching whatever students they can reach in an attempt to create a positive impact. So, a quick shout-out to them for being so awesome. They deserve it.

Since I have been so drawn to nature recently (maybe because I'm missing the Arizona sun and wanting nice, Spring weather to kick in), I'll end by once again, channeling my inner Walt Whitman. The great, bearded transcendentalist once said, "I accept reality, and dare not question it." Reality is reality, and it is to be challenged, not questioned. Face reality head on and smile at its daring snarl.

-TWO-12