Getting Medieval

There's one period every ten days at school when all the classes become study halls. What is normally a well behaved history class loses its collective mind that day. Today was no exception.

Two minutes before the start of the period, the influx of kids from other study halls into my room exponentially increases every 30 seconds. They all want a note for their teachers to allow them to go work in the computer lab on a powerpoint presentation they have to do for me tomorrow. At the rate I'm signing notes, I predict out loud only half of them will find an available machine. I also give them fair warning I'm going to swing by the lab at some point.

Inversely, while the crowd surrounding me is three deep, the desks are empty. The period is beginning and most of the students who are supposed to be with me are AWOL. I step out into the hallway, bark at the stragglers and herd them into the classroom, giving them instructions to pull out the materials they need for studying. They settle in, I settle in, and I cross my fingers.

Five minutes in and the first sorry sods who couldn't snag a computer trickle back into the classroom. They want permission to go to the library. I send them trudging back to their respective study halls. They feel they've been ill dealt with.

Ten minutes in and I'm walking toward the computer lab. I hear them well before I round the corner. It's a circus without a ringmaster. Kids have crammed themselves two to a monitor and the cliched paper airplane soars across the room. (I kid you not, a paper airplane.) My coming into the room is like Moses' wrath upon the idolators at the foot of Mt. Sinai. Internet browsers instantly switch to britannica.com's homepage and the plane's papery cockpit crumples into the wall as it spirals downward like a Luftwaffe fighter spattered by RAF fire. I empty the lab by about half its current occupants, sending them to study hall purgatory, and promise the remaining miscreants, "I will be back."

Meanwhile, back in my classroom, they are dead silent when I enter. But something seems off, not least, the fact they're all staring intently at me. And even though it seems silent, there's an undercurrent of noise I can't quite put my finger on. Then I ask, "Where's the music coming from?" Suppressed giggles. It's there, just barely within reach of my ears, the sound of music coming from some far distance. I scan the room, spot the stereo hidden under a cart--with the volume knob barely tapped on--and switch it off. The room erupts in groans. "Oh, that's no fun. It took the last teacher half the period to notice and find it." I tell them, "I'm not your last teacher."

I think I must have a screw loose somewhere, because all of this simply confirms a basic truth for me--I love teaching!