What Happens Next

 Polly looked up at us, all us adults, and asked a question. She was the last of the kindergartners to parade through our makeshift drive-through promotion ceremony. Polly and her parents had stopped, received the certificate, goody bag and completed work packet, then moved to the photo spot for a great many shots of Polly holding many of those items. She posed with permutations of those assembled adults. Her parents. Her teacher. Her teacher and her parents. And so on. As the last student to officially be matriculated at our school in our ersatz ceremony, she was the focus of all of our attention when she asked, "What happens next?" 

There were some quick answers: "To the candy store!" "To lunch at grandma's!" "Summer vacation!"

I waited for a moment and put in my two cents: "First grade."

Polly gave me a furrowed brow. "I don't know how to do monkey bars." She went on to explain that she had other concerns, but not having spent any time during her first year of school climbing on the play structure was chief among them. She had not spent any real time confronting this worry, since she had only just now come up close and personal with monkey bars. 

As a grownup, I felt compelled to reassure her, telling her that there would be plenty of time to learn all about such things, and more math and more reading too. This did not have the effect that I had hoped. It was just more future waiting for her out there. In that amorphous expectant place. 

Looking at that worried little face, I felt empathy. For the past week, I had a great many parents, staff and fellow teachers asking me the same question: "What happens next?" Except their concerns existed somewhere outside the realm of monkey bars. They wanted to know what school would look like in August. Would we all still be relying on our connections to Al Gore's Internet, or would we be seeing one another in the flesh? Five days a week? Full time? Would lunch be served? 

I did not know how to answer these questions, except to say that there were still plenty of details to tack down and even if there were decisions made they would, as they have been for the past year and a half, be subject to change as we all begin to emerge from our COVID bunkers and step out into the light. Two months, as we have learned, can bring sea change. Like the leap into return to school. Like that dive into first grade. 

WTH

 "What the hell is wrong with us?"

This was the question Governor Gavin Newsom asked this question to a group of reporters as he addressed the killing of nine people in San Jose. To be clear, the Governor of California was not just referring to that bunch of mediots, or himself, but all Americans. When he spoke last Wednesday, he was talking about the sixty-eight mass shootings in the United States over the past two months. If you had "more than one a day" on your gun violence Bingo card, congratulations. 

Or maybe we could take Governor Newsom's question as something more than rhetorical. What is wrong with us? Each time an American is killed by a gun, we look for answers and come up short. I say this because for the most part, no one seems to take the vow of "never again" very seriously. What is wrong with us?

We tolerate the murders of the innocent. First graders. Children caught up in their parents' custody disputes. Road rage that culminates in the death of a passenger strapped into a car seat for their protection. These kind of incidents are not freakish, they are the nightly news. So much so that we need to clarify at times to which murderous rampage we are referring. "Oh, that one. With the crazy guy with the gun." 

Right. 

And our national response has been outrage, followed by a discussion of the Constitution. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of the Second Amendment. What the hell is wrong with us, indeed. 

Down in Texas, the most recent legislative move on guns was to allow its citizens to openly carry weapons of mass destruction without a permit, background check or training. In our current climate, how can this be seen as anything but inciting violence?

What is wrong with us? We don't like each other. You would have to search hard in your history books to find a time in the U.S. when we were this divided. We have made a sport of arguing about wearing protective face coverings during a global pandemic. And don't look at our elected officials for guidance. They are often the ones acting the most ridiculous and making the most bizarre pronouncements. 

What is wrong with us? We are letting a small group of financially influenced lawmakers plot our course. An overwhelming number of gun owners support expanded background checks and other similar "common sense" gun legislation. And yet, that roaring silence you hear is coming from Capitol Hill, where the fear seems to be more about not being elected than another mass casualty event. 

Whatever it is that is wrong with us, I hope we can figure it out before we end up getting shot. 

To Whom It May Concern

 I confess that the only time I think about my email's spam folder is when a message squeaks through and reminds me of a special offer in which only I can participate. Well, I huff, this should obviously have been caught by the bot that is in charge of making these kinds of discernment. At which point I congratulate myself for being clever enough to know spam when I see it, and not the potted meat kind. Certainly there are those lonely days when I will foolishly click on one of these errant attempts to capture my attention simply because no real person has bothered to contact me over the course of a day. Not a huge surprise here, since I am fond of communication and a 2014 study suggested that at least ninety percent of all electronic mail can be classified as Spam. 

Then, the other day I was encouraged by a colleague to "check in your spam to see if that gift certificate I sent you got stuck in there." I have heard of such things happening. Once you creep up past a certain number of recipients, even the most personal and benign message can slip into the forbidden zone. Only a periodic check of the cracks and crevices into which such items might fall would allow one to discover treasure beyond their wildest imaginings.

Or, maybe they would find the mess I discovered. Once I chose to go ahead and open the door to Fibber McGee's closet, I flinched in anticipation of what I might find. It would be far too simple a task to expect that I would find that one message, clearly marked "here's your gift card" right at the top of the stack. 

Nope. 

The first page of errant missives were from the day before. Looking back more than a day meant wading through hundreds of emails from helpful folks who wanted me to look into this or that financial opportunity or support them by simply sending them some personal information that would unlock all kinds of wonderful. Searching for "gift card" was another option. The one that provided me with a long list of offers to get things free and no obligation if I would only send them that personal information that I was avoiding sending to that first group. 

This is when I felt complete and utter gratitude for the work that this little bit of technology was performing for me each and every day. By the hour, from the looks of it, my spam filter was lifting out all those innocuous bits of email that would at the very least cause me to wonder if I really knew a Mrs. Jane Valerian, who hoped that I would take on her humanitarian cause and blah blah blah. Not even tempted, thanks to the dedicated efforts of the filter we call spam. 

I suppose that when I finally discover that gift card, I could just forward it on to my friendly neighborhood Spam-er Man. If I could only figure out his/her address. 

Parents Just Don't Understand

 God how I miss John Hughes.

If you wonder about that name, sounds familiar but you can't quite place it, then you probably don't share my feelings on this matter. If you are familiar with Ferris Beuller's Day Off, Sixteen Candles, Pretty In Pink, Breakfast Club, Weird Science, and the phrase "Brat Pack," then you might go along with me here. It should be noted from the outset that I had aged out of the prime demographic for those films, but still in contact with the emotional highs and lows of my teenage years. And very clear on the concept of "mom and dad are gone for the weekend, let's throw a rager."

Which is pretty much the backbone of most of the films of John Hughes. Ferris Beuller's Day Off is about skipping school to party like a rock star. Sixteen Candles moves from the Freshman Dance to a rich kid's house that gets destroyed by a horde of "friends" who drop by to celebrate the absence of parental authority. Pretty In Pink moves around a void of parental authority, with the exception of a hangdog Harry Dean Stanton who just wants to make his daughter's prom experience one she will remember. Weird Science has something to do with layering Frankenstein over the top of Sixteen Candles, and Breakfast Club is about spending a day in a high school library and having a party even though they're all in detention. Common thread: Party.

I wondered what John Hughes would make of the story of Adrian Lopez, a seventeen year old from Eastvale, California. Adrian figured he would promote his birthday bash via social media. And then a friend picked up on the lack of likes and pushed it into the realm of Tik Tok and Snapchat. Somewhere along the line, Adrian's Kickback became the sort of thing for which Al Gore created the Internet. Suddenly it was everywhere and kids from across the country selected his get together as the place to be. He and his friends tried to get out in front of it, selecting a larger venue and getting sponsorship, selling tickets. But on Saturday night, a horde of humans under twenty years old poured into Huntington Beach, looking for the party. Chaos ensued. 

And if it had been a John Hughes movie, the police would have been fooled and the only people hurt were nameless extras and Adrian would have gotten to make out with the prettiest girl in school. This would have been a happy ending. Instead, none of the alternative events planned ever officially came off. Police dispersed the crowds, and Adrian's friends now believe he has a career as "an influencer." Just as soon as he cleans up the mess from that wild night. And writes a screenplay about it. Featuring Molly Ringwald and James Spader as "the parents." 

On Our Way

 The load out. 

That's what's left. 

Each year at this time, teachers roam around their rooms, looking for those bits and pieces of personal effect that they cannot live without for the two months during which they will be away. The boombox. The bag of candy that has been in a drawer since who knows when. The books that will be set on a desk somewhere at home with the full and sincere intent of being reviewed over the summer. Then there are those things that go immediately into the landfill. Toys that have been left or forgotten after they were confiscated "until the end of the day." Probably that half bag of candy. 

And the paper. All that paper that has been collected and collecting and spawning more paper until there are very few cupboards or closets that have not been stuffed full.

But not this year. So very much of the business of educating has taken place over Al Gore's Internet and lodged somewhere in the cloud that those stacks and reams of recycling never had a chance to get wedged into a filing cabinet, much less stuffed into student desks. That ritual of having students empty their desks of workbooks, broken crayons and forgotten bags of Cheetos did not have to take place. 

Not this year. 

Kids wont' be struggling home with backpacks and paper bags filled with a year's worth of worksheets that may or may not have been finished. Teachers will not be saddled with the ugly chore of pawing out the remains of their students' efforts. All of that took place somewhere in the ether.

Which is fine. Because it makes complete sense that there will be now written record of the events of this past year. There will be some accounting, whether it is merely attendance of the series of online assessments that pushed through the void and into their scholastic endeavors. 

Next year will be full of reckoning. All of those fifth graders who need a little boost to catch up to where they left off in fourth. The third graders who need a little leg up after missing vast chunks of what should have been their second grade year. 

But for now, we're closing up shop. Next year is just over the rise. 

Alternatives

 There are vast and significant alternative universes in which things turned out differently for Dave. Here in this reality, he is a public school teacher who began that career because the time/space continuum shuttle dropped him at that stop. 

At another juncture, it was possible that I had managed to snag the job that I had applied for when I first moved to Oakland. I wanted to work at the video store up the street. The commute would have been amazing, in that it was stumbling distance from the apartment I first moved into with my girlfriend, and even the one a little further down the lane once we got married. I had been a video store manager way back in those Colorado days that preceded my voyage to the left side of the country. I missed doing that job, since it was the vocation to which I felt I was most suited after having spent such a very long time studying film both in and out of classroom. Not to mention all those years I spent working in a video store. 

I filled out an application. I waited for an interview. But no one ever called. Not in this universe. In a neighboring universe, however, I was brought in as help on the weekends. Steadily earning trust and picking up more hours as I became a customer favorite for my incisive suggestions and encyclopedic knowledge of movies and their stories. I would eventually have risen to the rank of manager, a lofty spot where I would be in charge of the monthly newsletter and the ordering of new and additional titles for our library. The owner would thank me for my flexibility and dedication, to which I would respond, "Hey, it just happens that I was in the neighborhood." Because I was. 

Meanwhile, back at home I would imagine that I still got married, but maybe didn't have the same rise up the fiscal ladder I enjoyed in another plane of existence where I ran a book warehouse. I never got to be in charge of a newsletter there, but I did do a great many personnel reviews and helped supervise yearly inventories. No matter what reality I find myself in, I can't seem to shake this responsible thing. Had I stayed at the book warehouse instead of leaving to get my intern teaching credential, I might have been swallowed up by the demise of the wholesale book business which would have put me back out on the street, looking for a job. 

Where I still might have found my way to that video clerk job. Maybe not a career, but a name-tag job that could have filled the void until something better came along. Is being a teacher better than being a video store manager? In terms of giving back to my community? I know what the answer should be, but I ask that you don't press me on the issue, because I still might get it wrong. Are there days when I am standing on a playground full of kids that I pine for the relative solitude of a video store? I won't lie: Yes, there are. Would I trade that reality for the one I am in currently? I suppose the fact that the video store up the street has stayed in business all this time without my help suggests that they truly didn't need my help after all. 

I wonder if there is an Arby's in an alternate universe that needs a closing manager? 

Just A Moment

The moment might have gone unnoticed. It was after school. We were standing outside with the lingerers. Those who lingered. After dismissal, there were still a few students who had yet to be picked up by their parents. Or aunts. Or uncles. It's been a long strange year. But we still don't let kids go wandering off from school without adult supervision. So we were waiting on the curb, chatting with one another and keeping an eye on the children who remained. 

A gentleman came from around the corner. "Angelo!" he called out. The third grader standing in the shade of the sidewalk tree and his towering teacher looked up.

"Daddy!"

Angelo's daddy walked straight to his son and looped a hand around his neck. A tough and loving gesture. Then he did something interesting. He had never met his son's teacher before. With all the separations and distance created over the past year and a half, Angelo's mother had been the point of contact. Dad was just a name on a form.

Until now. The last week of school. That's when the moment occurred. Angelo's daddy kept that one hand draped over his son's neck and the other, his right hand, was extended in the direction of Angelo's teacher. For that moment, there was a pause while this gesture was recalled from the dim past. A handshake. The open hand extended in friendship. 

Time stretched as Angelo's teacher found his wits and extended his hand in kind. "It's been a long time," he said. "I haven't shaken hands with anyone for a long time." 

"Oh, sorry," and for rest of the moment, these two men tried to unravel the meaning of what they were doing.

"No, it's fine," Angelo's teacher gave another shake. This one was more assured. Firm. Then it was over. Angelo turned and walked away with his daddy, pausing to look back and wave. 

And that was a moment too.