| September'99 | . |
This Journal |
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Just now at dinner Bob mentioned that JCA was playing volleyball here. I had forgotten. So I jumped up to go see - but not before Bob mentioned a quote he was trying to identify. I said I'd rush over to the gym and then rush back to find it on the internet. Then it dawned upon my cyber-besotted brain that I have an actual book made out of paper in which to look. So I bounced upstairs, found it in about twenty-three seconds, and carted this big heavy book downstairs to find no one around anywhere. So, nevermind, I'm off to the gym. When I get over there I see the freshman teams going at it. No varsity in sight. I recognize three kids on our team Sadye, Erin, and Theresa so I hang around to watch. I don't recognize anyone from JCA...which is normal because they're all freshmen. Carmel rolls over the Joliet kids pretty easily. So I'm off back to home, but I discover myself brilliantly locked out of the school corridors. The only path home is out and around the building in the rain. So I do it, quickly, straight across the lawn, swooshing like a jet through the mist. But I hate those tiny droplets tip-tapping on my old bald head. As I run I think, boy it sure has gotten dark early. Of course it has, dummy, look at the date. I wonder why. Yet, to ask why it has to get so dark so soon is a stupid question, fit only for little kids and folks completely out of synch with the great cycles of nature (really dense folk who never hardly go outside - like me). I am not so observant of nature's ways and neither are you - most probably - because we don't have to be. Our physical survival seems no longer tied to any intimate knowledge of these most ancient patterns. Thank you, Mr. Edison. I wish it ended there, but it turns out I'm also not too observant in other areas. (I think there's a connection between this me-nature gap and this me-everything else gap. We learn in subtle ways not to pay attention. We get out of the habit if our well-being doesn't depend upon it.) What am I mumbling about here? Just this. Today in class one of my students acknowledged that he did not have his book. No biggie, you think, typical empty-headed schoolboy stuff. But what he really meant was that he has NEVER had his book. We've been in session for a little over a month. He has been present in my classroom almost every day. We have used that book almost every day. He has never had it with him. And I HAVE NEVER NOTICED. You'd think I would've gotten a clue around the time I realized that this ardent scholar had not turned in a single scrap of written work, about two weeks ago. I never thought to consider this (now) most obvious possibility. How could I have missed this? Well, he's a fairly quiet kid, small, and seated in the back row. But that's not much of an excuse because the rows are only three seats long, and I have counted as a minor point of pride my regular movement throughout the classroom to insure that no one ever feels too distant from my glorious teacherly person. Apparently this self-image of the in-touch, attentive educator is all a sham...another illusion down the toilet. Live and learn these obscure lessons. |
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Jean Rostand |
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Chronic
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