So i have this teacher who used to struggle with our class a lot. He's cool now, but for awhile, I could see him struggling to connect with us, to just find a way to make us all stop being crazy, sex-crazed, loud, obnoxious, annoyingly-clever, sadistic, sarcastic, sardonic high school students. Here's the story I wrote for him:
Inhale Exhale (a.k.a: what I shouldn't be doing because I'm in math right now)
I could see it in his eyes; in the way he walkd, talked, shook his head in sheer frustration. I could see his mind reeling back to old, forgotten memories. They were never really forgotton were they? They were buried back in his sub-conscious and his chosen profession had just brought them back to life.
He must have been the second grader who the big kids picked on because his backpack was taller than he was, because his hair covered too much of his face and plastered to his sweaty forehead when he ran for PE; because he couldn't quite reach the doorknob and constantly forgot his lunch money.
"Where's your lunch money?" The teacher asked and he shrugged. Mom was away in Ohio and dad was cutting into decomposing bodies. The kind teacher pulled out her wallet, "you can buy lunch with this today," she offered.
He reached out to take it, a thought crossed his mind,
'rotting flesh and organs in shiny, clear jars.'
"I'll just have crackers." He retracts his hand back slowly and rns out forgetting the crackers all together. He was always picked last, he couldn't kick a ball, he couldn't jump and he couldn't run fast wihtout stopping to take a number of large breaths.
He inhales.
He's running from his own thoughts chasing him as he provides us with notorious directions.
He exhales.
His thoughts have caught up with him now and they're scolding and taunting him.
"Wouldn't you rather be somewhere else?"
He inhales.
"No." he looks at his students, eager to one day lead lives of their own. "No, I want to be here." He argues against himself.
He exhales.
He would rather be in a field reading a book.
He inhales
His mind, like his classroom, is slowly morphing into a battlefield and all the soldiers are taking this places.
He exhales.
His goals seemed to be rotting away with the old, mangled corpses labeld 'John Doe 67215.'
He inhales
Suddenly his studnets are looking down at him, laughing at him. They snicker and sneer and all of sudden he finds himself back at a familar place; a place where he stands in the outfield waiting for the ball. He hears the crack of the bat and he's running again -- faster than ever, but he's not going anywhere. He stops to breathe -- inhale, exhale, stop. He repeats the pattern.
Inhale, exhale, stop.
He looks at us with fear and vulnerability.
Inhale, exhale, stop...
He holds his breath.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
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