davejadecollab (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
davejadecollab) wrote2012-08-04 11:19 pm
davejadecollab) wrote2012-08-04 11:19 pm
The School Bell Tolls for Thee
It's Tuesday morning. 9:48 on the dot. The second alarm bell tolls, ringing in the start of your own personal hell: your 2nd grade recorder class.
You were not expecting this sort of responsibility when you signed on as a substitute music teacher. When you got a call from your sister, who works at the school as a 5th grade literature teacher, she told you it would be only be a week or two deal; enough time for the actual teacher's knee injury to heal.
Nope.
A month in, and you're still here. Turns out the old harpy needed a full knee replacement. Total recovery time was estimated to be three months, but you could very well be here until the end of the school year. Thankfully, most of the work is pretty easy. You just let the kindergarteners dick around with a box of cheap musical toys for their entire class, and while the resulting din is unpleasant, they have fun and it requires no effort whatsoever on your part. You teach the first and third graders some simple songs to sing. Starting with the 4th grade, though, music class is optional and is used as lesson time for students that actually want to learn instruments, greatly lessening the amount of time you need to spend to get them focused. It's weird though, with the older kids—you definitely overhear the 5th grade girls calling you cute from time to time, and it freaks you out because you are 16 years their senior.
2nd grade, on the other hand, is an entirely different ballpark.
The recorder curriculum started your second week in, and it's been all downhill from there.
You bury your face into your palms, elbows bent on your standing podium at the front of the room. You run your fingers through your ash-blond hair, rubbing them against your scalp in a vain attempt to alleviate the headache that has already begun to form as your students file into the room. With each muffled 'thud' of a kid plopping into a metallic fold-out chair, with each 'click'; 'zip'; 'snap' of some sort of casing being opened, the feeling of utter dread in the pit of your stomach only grows. When you hear the door close, signaling the last of the students entering, you almost feel the need to throw up.
God, you hate recorders.
And as you remove your face from your hands to grab your attendance clipboard, you examine your students' faces and suspect that they do too.
You fumble for the ballpoint pen tucked into your shirt pocket, and scrawl the date onto the attendance sheet.
“Good morning, class.”
And they respond, in unenthused unison, “Good morning, Mr. Snyder.”
You make it six names into roll call when you hear the door click open again, followed by some hurried shuffling and a squeaky “Sorry I'm late!” You look up from your clipboard long enough to see a young girl scurrying into the front-row middle seat. It's strange, you think. None of the students ever sit there. God forbid they allow themselves to be in your direct line of sight. You survey the room once more, and you realize then, all the seats are full. Usually there's one free chair.
You realize then, you have never seen this girl before.
You examine her further. She's got long, fairly messy black hair and thick, round spectacles. She's got on a long white skirt and a turtleneck paired with a baby blue argyle sweater vest. Her legs dangle further up from the floor than the rest of the bunch, and you wonder if she skipped a grade or two. She looks the part of a classic nerd, and it wouldn't surprise you if she had the brains to match. She's got her hands folded in her lap, almost expectantly.
“And you are?” you ask.
And you see her face perk up, and she answers, “I'm Jade Harris! And you are Mr. Dave Snyder! And this is music class!"
You stare blankly at her for a moment. If enthusiasm were a drug, you would have just been lethally overdosed.
You find yourself at a loss for words. It's still too early for this. A single “yep” will have to do for now.
“I just transferred here yesterday,” she adds, with a little nod and a smile. She's got a serious case of buck teeth, you note.
“Alright then, I guess.” You scribble her name at the bottom of the attendance list, and hope it's enough. No one notified you of this. But then, she only started yesterday, and you are all-too aware that the principal always came in on Monday mornings either completely hung over or with the smell of booze still fresh on her breath, so you can't really say you're surprised, either. “Do you know anything about recorders, Jade?”
“I have a flute that I play at home!!” You can practically hear the multiple exclamations in her tone of voice.
“Close enough. You can go grab an extra off the back shelf if you'd like, but since this is your first day and if you feel unsure at all you don't—” and before you even finish your statement, she's up and at it, beelining it for the back of the room. You tried.
She just barely reaches the instrument on the second shelf before she makes her way back to her chair, looking ever so pleased with herself. You finish the roll call. Class has officially begun.
“Okay, guys,” you start, “we'll start with some basic warm-ups. Let's do 'Hot Cross Buns'.” You hear a few exasperated sighs. Frankly, you don't blame them. “On my count now. One..”
You watch them all place the instruments to their lips.
“Two.”
Their fingers plug the holes. You're sure there's a technical term for those things, but you don't really care.
“Three.”
The noise that follows is like an audible smack to the face. This is no 'Hot Cross Buns'. No, this is the sound Satan makes upon being summoned.
You watch Jade, front-row middle seat, wailing on her instrument. The other kids are staring, wide-eyed, mouths agape. This is the moment that you know she will forever be cemented as “that weird girl” in their minds. She's just moving her fingers at random over the holes, producing a rapid flurry of awful, shrill, not-quite notes. She's out of her seat now, shaking her head and dancing about the room—you're pretty sure you even see her roll on the floor for an instant—and every noise that she produces is downright terrible, but dammit, she's genuinely enjoying herself, enjoying playing, unlike the rest of the group. And you think, that is what being a musician is all about.
You decide then and there that she is your new favorite student.
<== Back | Forward ==>
You were not expecting this sort of responsibility when you signed on as a substitute music teacher. When you got a call from your sister, who works at the school as a 5th grade literature teacher, she told you it would be only be a week or two deal; enough time for the actual teacher's knee injury to heal.
Nope.
A month in, and you're still here. Turns out the old harpy needed a full knee replacement. Total recovery time was estimated to be three months, but you could very well be here until the end of the school year. Thankfully, most of the work is pretty easy. You just let the kindergarteners dick around with a box of cheap musical toys for their entire class, and while the resulting din is unpleasant, they have fun and it requires no effort whatsoever on your part. You teach the first and third graders some simple songs to sing. Starting with the 4th grade, though, music class is optional and is used as lesson time for students that actually want to learn instruments, greatly lessening the amount of time you need to spend to get them focused. It's weird though, with the older kids—you definitely overhear the 5th grade girls calling you cute from time to time, and it freaks you out because you are 16 years their senior.
2nd grade, on the other hand, is an entirely different ballpark.
The recorder curriculum started your second week in, and it's been all downhill from there.
You bury your face into your palms, elbows bent on your standing podium at the front of the room. You run your fingers through your ash-blond hair, rubbing them against your scalp in a vain attempt to alleviate the headache that has already begun to form as your students file into the room. With each muffled 'thud' of a kid plopping into a metallic fold-out chair, with each 'click'; 'zip'; 'snap' of some sort of casing being opened, the feeling of utter dread in the pit of your stomach only grows. When you hear the door close, signaling the last of the students entering, you almost feel the need to throw up.
God, you hate recorders.
And as you remove your face from your hands to grab your attendance clipboard, you examine your students' faces and suspect that they do too.
You fumble for the ballpoint pen tucked into your shirt pocket, and scrawl the date onto the attendance sheet.
“Good morning, class.”
And they respond, in unenthused unison, “Good morning, Mr. Snyder.”
You make it six names into roll call when you hear the door click open again, followed by some hurried shuffling and a squeaky “Sorry I'm late!” You look up from your clipboard long enough to see a young girl scurrying into the front-row middle seat. It's strange, you think. None of the students ever sit there. God forbid they allow themselves to be in your direct line of sight. You survey the room once more, and you realize then, all the seats are full. Usually there's one free chair.
You realize then, you have never seen this girl before.
You examine her further. She's got long, fairly messy black hair and thick, round spectacles. She's got on a long white skirt and a turtleneck paired with a baby blue argyle sweater vest. Her legs dangle further up from the floor than the rest of the bunch, and you wonder if she skipped a grade or two. She looks the part of a classic nerd, and it wouldn't surprise you if she had the brains to match. She's got her hands folded in her lap, almost expectantly.
“And you are?” you ask.
And you see her face perk up, and she answers, “I'm Jade Harris! And you are Mr. Dave Snyder! And this is music class!"
You stare blankly at her for a moment. If enthusiasm were a drug, you would have just been lethally overdosed.
You find yourself at a loss for words. It's still too early for this. A single “yep” will have to do for now.
“I just transferred here yesterday,” she adds, with a little nod and a smile. She's got a serious case of buck teeth, you note.
“Alright then, I guess.” You scribble her name at the bottom of the attendance list, and hope it's enough. No one notified you of this. But then, she only started yesterday, and you are all-too aware that the principal always came in on Monday mornings either completely hung over or with the smell of booze still fresh on her breath, so you can't really say you're surprised, either. “Do you know anything about recorders, Jade?”
“I have a flute that I play at home!!” You can practically hear the multiple exclamations in her tone of voice.
“Close enough. You can go grab an extra off the back shelf if you'd like, but since this is your first day and if you feel unsure at all you don't—” and before you even finish your statement, she's up and at it, beelining it for the back of the room. You tried.
She just barely reaches the instrument on the second shelf before she makes her way back to her chair, looking ever so pleased with herself. You finish the roll call. Class has officially begun.
“Okay, guys,” you start, “we'll start with some basic warm-ups. Let's do 'Hot Cross Buns'.” You hear a few exasperated sighs. Frankly, you don't blame them. “On my count now. One..”
You watch them all place the instruments to their lips.
“Two.”
Their fingers plug the holes. You're sure there's a technical term for those things, but you don't really care.
“Three.”
The noise that follows is like an audible smack to the face. This is no 'Hot Cross Buns'. No, this is the sound Satan makes upon being summoned.
You watch Jade, front-row middle seat, wailing on her instrument. The other kids are staring, wide-eyed, mouths agape. This is the moment that you know she will forever be cemented as “that weird girl” in their minds. She's just moving her fingers at random over the holes, producing a rapid flurry of awful, shrill, not-quite notes. She's out of her seat now, shaking her head and dancing about the room—you're pretty sure you even see her roll on the floor for an instant—and every noise that she produces is downright terrible, but dammit, she's genuinely enjoying herself, enjoying playing, unlike the rest of the group. And you think, that is what being a musician is all about.
You decide then and there that she is your new favorite student.