I have long believed that the Monday after the Superbowl should be a holiday. I mean… for everyone. But maybe especially for teachers. And MOST especially for Middle School Teachers.
Think about it for a moment. Imagine a middle schooler. Twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old. The twelve-year-olds are just emerging from elementary school. They’re gaining awareness and independence and trying with varied levels of success to NOT be little kids anymore. By thirteen, they’re a ball of emotion. They want so badly to be liked… but they don’t LIKE anything. Or at least that’s how they want to appear. The fourteen-year-olds are beginning to think they know it all. They’re full of unearned swagger and strong opinions. All of them are emerging social scientists and researchers; constantly on the watch for what will push them down a path toward social acceptance, and terrified of anything that might ostracize them from their peers.
Take that storm of hormones and emotions and intensity. Then add to it a jolt of televised, late-night, emotionally-laden warfare between THEIR team and whomever happens to be on the other side of the ball.
Feed them crap and caffeine. Let them stay awake, shouting at their screens, full of adrenaline and anticipation and, eventually… disappointment. Hope they sleep a little. Then send them to school.
*****
“Mrs. Glennon, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was just so sad,” from the tiny twelve year old who had been so eager to celebrate with his family.
“Drake Maye is dead to me,” declared the teen who proudly sported an ‘I love Drake Maye’ tee shirt three days ago.
“I can’t learn VOCABULARY today. I’m in mourning,” from the student who loves big words.
“Did you SEE that? The ball went RIGHT THROUGH HIS HANDS! How could he miss that catch?” from the kid who confidently believes that he’s more skilled than a professional wide receiver.
*****
They feel everything so intensely. This level of passion is what makes middle schoolers so endearing… and so exhausting. They are both acutely aware and utterly clueless.
The first half of every class was spent trying to refocus their limited energy and attention. The second half of the class was spent admitting my failure to achieve that goal.
By last period, I had nearly given up. I had scrapped the vocabulary lesson in lieu of a slightly more engaging personal memoir. The students were only half-working, and I was counting down the minutes to the final bell.
“Mrs. G, can you help me?” one of them asked, with his back turned to me. I walked toward him, and as I approached, he turned his face to reveal a sharpied piece of clear scotch tape stuck purposely and securely to his top lip. His impish smile was irresistible, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s quite a moustache,” I giggled, and continued to help the other students.
“Yeah. It’s really growing fast,” he agreed.
A few moments later, I looked up again. He had attached more scotch tape to form a fu-manchu. A minute later, he had a goatee. Then sideburns.
By the time he was fully bearded, the laughter of a group of overtired, disappointed pre-teens felt like medicine. I belly-laughed with them, finally accepting defeat.
The memoirs and the vocab can wait for tomorrow, because they are just kids, after all. And (luckily) the Superbowl only comes once a year.