Artistic License

Mama Kat's Prompt #3: What were you like in high school?

My Mom decreed me "diffident." My friends called me "creative." My Nana, although she never employed the word "karma," said she hoped God visited upon me in later years that which I dished out to my family.

High school - where insecure teens have the chance to try on different suits of armor to determine which might fit when they join the jousting in "real" life - proved to be a minimal struggle for me. I was good in the "humanities" - English, History, Languages - and I had a handle on the human element, as well.

Not to give myself props, as my cherubs would say, but in high school I made a subconscious decision to shelve my insecurities and embrace the moment. I tended toward the "free spirit" element, but my best friend was captain of the drill team; I wrote poetry and fell in love more than once with Eric Clapton, but dated the son of a Jewish dentist.

Part of the reason, I think, for my teenage comfort level is that no one told me that I was supposed to be "popular." I was, thankfully, clueless on that score. So I spent minimal moments wondering why what one of my buds termed the "Beautiful People" wanted everyone to love them just a little bit more than everyone else.

High school became a smorgasbord for me - of emotions, of experiences, of, essentially, imminent domain. I claimed the space I occupied at any given moment, and was comfortable enough, I guess, to move on to other territory when I felt like it.

High school is, of course, so much better the second time around. Honestly, I'm unsure a lot the time, but as one of my teacher friends likes to say, "You're older, you're wiser. Just don't let the little people know that you're afraid."

I'm in my 18th year of revisiting my "high school experience." I recently extended my tour of duty for another five years. Don't quite know where I'm headed, but I sure am enjoying the ride.

Room for One More?

The end of the semester means a couple of things in the World of High School.

First off, we're halfway through the school year. Then, there's the fact that the cherubs have a four-day weekend (Saturday through Tuesday), so that their teachers can get papers graded and grades recorded.

Of course, there's also what I like to call the Focus Factor.

When one is involved in the teaching of electives such as newspaper and yearbook, certain perquisites - for the journalistas, at any rate - are involved. One is the unwritten law that the dispatching of a deadline requires a fiesta.

Food, glorious food.

Not sure if I've mentioned this, but I have 41 cherubs in my yearbook class. They decided to throw themselves a pizza party last week, to celebrate their recent accomplishments. Never mind that their spreads are full of typos, and the editors will probably have to remake the whole dang deal when the proofs come back.

Their reasoning? They worked hard. They're entitled.

Of course, being the pushover that I am, I dutifully collected two bucks apiece from my charges and called Papa John's. If you haven't taken an up close and personal gander at the above snap, that's 11 pizza boxes sitting outside Room 215. Eleven empty pizza boxes. I reckon my kiddos dispatched with the whole shebang in under 90 seconds.

The good news is I spent today getting my house in order and making sure each of my almost 160 cherubs had a grade that reflected their efforts - or lack thereof. Tomorrow, though, comes the insipid inservice. Four hours of alleged "professional development," while deep down inside yearning for a nap.

I know, I'm a schlub. But June seems right around the corner.