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We all chose to be here. That is to say, we all chose the paths that would inevitably, inexorably, indelibly lead us here.
The American Teacher is a special creature. Part caretaker, part masochist, part desperate & valiant hope-torch bearer. Dedicated and self-sacrificing; unburdened by riches to enjoy, or respect to bask in. Exerting unusual strength per size, like worker-ants inexhaustibly tending & expanding the complex twisting tunneled depths of the Youthful Mind.
But what happens when that hopeful torch burns out or gets dropped?
Ever seen an ant in the throes of cordyceps seizure?
Think about your old teachers. Do you ever see them around? Do you know what they’re up to these days, where they are now? If you haven’t seen them (but it seems like you should’ve)—chances are they’re in a place like this, tucked away in some nondescript neighborhood or countryside or cityblock you might pass every day without noticing.
We all wind up here eventually.
The walls are graywashed cinderblock. The floors antimicrobial linoleum. The doors unlock via magnetic fob. Appropriate, given where we spent our worklives. Only here, we’re not the fob holders.
Instead of classrooms, it’s just halls filled with cells. Dorms, they call them, like it’s some fun trip back through college. But instead of bunks, we each have a single shelf built into the wall; covered by something you might could call a mattress—if you squint hard enough to make stars dance in your vision, and don’t actually touch the threadbare thing.
Where once we had whiteboards and educational posters, our walls are now fabric-sheathed memory-foam decorated with nameless oblong stains. The windows don’t open—that’s one thing similar.
We work now with thin felt-tip markers in floppy notebooks…instead of on registered laptops at organized desks. Our chairs are beanbags. It’s for our own safety. Anything hard or sharp around here has a way of finding itself inflicting harm, whether it meant to or not.
Finally after lunch comes planning period—or rather Reflection Hour. Where we sit in our rooms with the door open for a while. The purpose of this enforced vulnerability is unclear…but they say it’s important, and the quiet time is nice. We can read, draw, nap, or just stare at some surface, communing with molecules.
Sometimes one of the office staff will knock gently on an open door and step inside, where the resident within will perk up ready to receive some message from a student’s parent, or important documents to look over—or usually just some pills in a paper cup, for later.
Occasionally even Dr Kyrios makes an appearance, who runs this place; landing somewhere on the Myers-Briggs between principal, warden, and kindly but stern old uncle. He wears a sweater and sensible slacks, but it’s obvious he’d be more comfortable in a labcoat.
When Dr Kyrios comes in, you never know what to expect—after his usual standard greeting:
“How are you today?” he asks.
I was too late to vote! But can't wait to see what comes next