An exchange from the last day of school with my grade fives and sixes at Mountview.
The scene: we exit the building to play Noodle Tag. It is apparently traditional for teachers to get the noodles.
M.: But you should want to play, you’ll get a noodle.
A: No, he isn’t a teacher. …Wait! You ARE a teacher now! Can’t you just teach here next year?
Michael: Unfortunately, there are no jobs here for me.
A: Who would you have to eliminate to get a job?
Michael: It wouldn’t matter, there’s a list of people who would get the job before me.
M.: Do you know their names?
Michael: Honestly, it would just be too many.
A.: Oh, don’t worry. My dad has a big knife-thing. So can you teach at our middle school next year?
Because I know you just wanted more waxing rhapsodic on the weirdness of teacher’s college.
Well, this sort of applies to the profession in general. When a school year ends, you have all these big celebrations of your time together, especially if the kids are moving on to another school. Perhaps it was because I find that university convocations are obnoxiously pompous and overlong, but I found myself far more overcome by mooshy sentiment during the graduation of my grade sixes. Is it that some sense of grandfatherly generativity has already kicked in for me at this point in my life? I don’t know. But I was feeling a strange degree of pride and hope for these kids, who I met all of about 4 or 5 months ago.
So, teacher’s college is weird for a number of reasons.
But the one to talk about now is this: it has a lot of ending points. You finish your second practicum: you feel pretty done, at least with the whole in-faculty part of the program. And then you have a big party with your class to celebrate being done, and then you have another that night. And then you have an internship, and that finishes, and you feel done again. And then you have a big lunch with your classmates to celebrate being done. And then you see each other again two weeks later at convocation to ceremonialize being done. It’s like Return of the King, in a way: there are great number of natural ending points, and each begins to feel exhausting once you realize you’re still not really done, because hey: we have a bunch of footage of hobbits hugging, so here we go again (roil in that strained metaphor, will you).
Opening lines are a killer. I never know exactly what to say at the start of some writing venture, and so a cop-out waffling on the nature of opening lines is as good as anything else I could come up with, I suppose. The issue, especially for a medium like this, is how to both start things off with a bang, and how to make a post indicative of what the blog will feature in the future. I want to make a funny post, one that shows what’s to come, but one to also show where I’ve been in the last while. For one horrifying moment, I considered digging through the bowels of the internet to my old livejournal account and reading how I started things off there. But the prospect of delving into the masturbatory depths of an internet journal I started writing at… 14, 15(?), filled me with deep, deep terror. Maybe if I ever feel I get too over-confident in myself, I’ll go back and read what I produced as a teenager, just to take myself down a peg.
Enough with all that.