School
I'm late for school. It's the first day and I'm late. I am late because of the MTA. I'm late because it's my first day and I don't want to go there. I know it's not going to be a lot of fun.
After a stop at the administrative office, I find my classroom. I knock on the door and open without waiting for an invitation. I'm 40 minutes late. The teacher looks at me while I find my way in the middle of tables gathered together. My first feeling in this class is not very good. They're doing groups work. I don't like group works. The way I figured it was that I would sit in the back and read a while and then take a nap on the table. High school days are back! But you can't do that with groups work.
The teacher wants to know if I have my book. I say no. I can tell he is not happy about it. But at this point, I'm jaded. The school is selling that book. My bet is I can find it cheaper someplace else. But clean and boring Mr. Teacher is not going to be the one to make me feel guilty and shitty and run to the school's bookstore to buy that book. The blond bimbo who signed me up tried already, and my sexual orientation clearly puts her in a more favorable position to influence me.
Mr. Teacher says that it is a big problem I don't have the book. I say I'll have it tomorrow. He says it's good but it's a problem because I need it now to work. I say nothing. There are about a dozen people in the classroom, split in 3 groups of 4. Mr. Teacher explains me what I'm going to do. The way he puts it, what they are doing is somewhere between nuclear fission and the forecasting of the gravitational influences of 4 planets on each other. But after his third sentence in retard-talk, I know what all this is about. So will you. The big idea is to talk about the pros and cons of running one's own business vs. the pros and cons of simply being employed. He wants me to write 3 of each, and returns to see how the groups are doing, leaving me to wonder if I went into the wrong classroom. I thought this was advanced classes.
I was happy to hear the bell ring. Then I went to my next class: Photoshop. The guy there is a black man on the chubby side. I say I forgot my book home. I truly did. I happened to have the Photoshop book they wanted, but it didn't cross my mind one second to bring it with me that morning. If I didn't always have some pens and paper on me, I probably wouldn't even have thought of bringing any. That's my level of commitment. So the black guy launches a Photoshop tutorial, and I spend the next hour watching it. Then the bell rings again, and I return to my advanced English class.
It's in the same classroom as my first hour of English, but my prayers have been answered: it's not the same teacher. This time, instead of the gayish Eastern European teacher, it's an old Filipino woman. She's nice and funny and innocent in an other era kind of way and I immediately like her, while promising myself not to let her make me work too much anyway.
But really, we don't have the same standards of hard work, anyway. There's really nothing to worry about. This place is dragging me down.
The bell rings and I'm free to resume my normal life. And then it hits me. It's not a once a week thing. I'm gonna have to do that again tomorrow. And the day after. All week. I knew it would be a lost of time, but really, it's even more than that.
After school I go to chill on a bench at Union Square, eating a Banana and Walnut muffin with a Coke. Then I go to Barnes and Noble and look for that English book. There's not a single B&N store that has this fucking book. I go to the Strand -- I'm making an exception here, breaking a one-year old non-stop boycott of that place -- but they don't have it either. Later that night, checking on the internet, I decide it's not worth wasting so much time just to save a few bucks. The next day, I'll buy their fucking book before my first class start.
After a stop at the administrative office, I find my classroom. I knock on the door and open without waiting for an invitation. I'm 40 minutes late. The teacher looks at me while I find my way in the middle of tables gathered together. My first feeling in this class is not very good. They're doing groups work. I don't like group works. The way I figured it was that I would sit in the back and read a while and then take a nap on the table. High school days are back! But you can't do that with groups work.
The teacher wants to know if I have my book. I say no. I can tell he is not happy about it. But at this point, I'm jaded. The school is selling that book. My bet is I can find it cheaper someplace else. But clean and boring Mr. Teacher is not going to be the one to make me feel guilty and shitty and run to the school's bookstore to buy that book. The blond bimbo who signed me up tried already, and my sexual orientation clearly puts her in a more favorable position to influence me.
Mr. Teacher says that it is a big problem I don't have the book. I say I'll have it tomorrow. He says it's good but it's a problem because I need it now to work. I say nothing. There are about a dozen people in the classroom, split in 3 groups of 4. Mr. Teacher explains me what I'm going to do. The way he puts it, what they are doing is somewhere between nuclear fission and the forecasting of the gravitational influences of 4 planets on each other. But after his third sentence in retard-talk, I know what all this is about. So will you. The big idea is to talk about the pros and cons of running one's own business vs. the pros and cons of simply being employed. He wants me to write 3 of each, and returns to see how the groups are doing, leaving me to wonder if I went into the wrong classroom. I thought this was advanced classes.
I was happy to hear the bell ring. Then I went to my next class: Photoshop. The guy there is a black man on the chubby side. I say I forgot my book home. I truly did. I happened to have the Photoshop book they wanted, but it didn't cross my mind one second to bring it with me that morning. If I didn't always have some pens and paper on me, I probably wouldn't even have thought of bringing any. That's my level of commitment. So the black guy launches a Photoshop tutorial, and I spend the next hour watching it. Then the bell rings again, and I return to my advanced English class.
It's in the same classroom as my first hour of English, but my prayers have been answered: it's not the same teacher. This time, instead of the gayish Eastern European teacher, it's an old Filipino woman. She's nice and funny and innocent in an other era kind of way and I immediately like her, while promising myself not to let her make me work too much anyway.
But really, we don't have the same standards of hard work, anyway. There's really nothing to worry about. This place is dragging me down.
The bell rings and I'm free to resume my normal life. And then it hits me. It's not a once a week thing. I'm gonna have to do that again tomorrow. And the day after. All week. I knew it would be a lost of time, but really, it's even more than that.
After school I go to chill on a bench at Union Square, eating a Banana and Walnut muffin with a Coke. Then I go to Barnes and Noble and look for that English book. There's not a single B&N store that has this fucking book. I go to the Strand -- I'm making an exception here, breaking a one-year old non-stop boycott of that place -- but they don't have it either. Later that night, checking on the internet, I decide it's not worth wasting so much time just to save a few bucks. The next day, I'll buy their fucking book before my first class start.
posted by Cecyl at 11:45 PM
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