Getting On With Things

It's June. It's June nineteenth. I'm still in Saigon. Wait, strike that - not Saigon - school. I've been catching bits and pieces of "Apocalypse Now" on Bravo the past few days and my mind is easily distracted. Owing to some schedule peculiarities, our school is still in session while most of the rest of the district, nay planet, is off starting their summer vacation. We have to go for one hundred and eighty days, just like everybody else, but a group of us called "program improvement schools" had four extra days of teacher training inserted at random spots throughout the year. Kids didn't have to attend.
Now they do. There are no words of consolation for a ten year old who has to show up at eight thirty on Monday morning while older brothers and sisters are busy sleeping. Or playing video games. Or eating Pop Tarts. Anything but hauling themselves one more time down the street to school. These kids are not, for the most part, the serious and dedicated students who might see the benefit of an extra day or two of curriculum. That is part of the reason why we are a "program improvement school."
To make things even more annoying, the "non-strike" day we had here in Oakland (when kids were given the day off even though teachers had resolved their contract at the eleventh hour and showed up to work) has to be made up as well. Don't get me wrong - I have memories of working at a year-round school where I would routinely take a couple weeks off and then work through the rest of the summer. Before that I had jobs that routinely allowed just two weeks of vacation a year. I get two weeks off for Christmas, a week off at Thanksgiving, another week in the spring, and any number of odd days off here and there. My favorite is "In Lieu of Lincoln's Birthday" - that comes in May.
So why complain? Maybe it's just that the rhythm is all wrong. Summer school could start in the third week of June - but how is it that we haven't even finished up the regular year yet? It reminds me of the little-seen but much appreciated gem of a film called "Three O'Clock High." While anxiously awaiting a showdown with the school bully, the nerdy protagonist watches the clock as the big hand inches toward the twelve - then flops back a whole minute. It's time. We're done. Let us go so we can come back and start summer school.