Ballsy

There was a 20-minute wait when we entered the TSA security line at the Atlanta airport this afternoon. At first, we moved quickly, speedwalking with our fellow travelers back and forth past the stanchions marking the parallel lanes, but soon we caught up with the real line. As we moved forward one or two steps at a time, our attention was drawn to a young man behind us, but moving quickly forward. 

"Excuse me," he said firmly, but courteously, to passenger after passenger, without explanation. Everyone stepped aside to let him pass, and some people even apologized for being in his way. When he got to us, we did the same, and he was long gone by the time anyone thought to question him. 

Because of the chute formation of the line, we watched incredulously as he excused himself all the way to the front of the line, without ever being challenged. 

"So, all you have to do is be polite to cut?" Heidi asked with irritation.

"Maybe he has permission? Like, he lost something, and the agents told him he could just come straight back?" I theorized. "He seems so confident."  But the longer we looked on, the less likely that seemed.

With one person ahead of him, he finally stopped and waited for his turn. Then he headed off through security, less than ten minutes before he got in line.

Refreshing By Any Name

 “Do you want some water ice?” a roll poly little fellow sang out this afternoon on the Beltline. He was following a young woman, perhaps his mother, who was pulling a heavy duty wagon loaded with some coolers and cups. 

“Are you talking to us?” I asked as he passed, gesturing with raised eyebrows at me and Heidi. “Are you asking if we want some ice water?”

“You could call it ice water,” he sighed patiently, “but it’s really water ice. Want some?”

I laughed and his partner did, too. “Let’s go,” she told him, shaking her head. And away they rolled. 

Buh-Bye

“Bye, Beautiful,” the flight attendant said to Heidi as we disembarked in Atlanta. “Bye, Precious,” she said to me. “Bye, Gorgeous,” she continued as we passed.

“Did she just call you Gorgeous?” Heidi asked.

“No,” I answered. “I’m Precious. Gorgeous is behind us.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “And you’re Beautiful.”

“Aww,” said Heidi. “Well you’re gorgeous to me.”

“What about precious?” I asked.

“That, too,” she allowed. “That, too.”

A Deal's a Deal

"Do you want to hear a really funny joke?" a student asked today as I handed out test tickets for the makeup reading SOL.

"Not right now," I answered. "We're busy," I added, gesturing to the tickets.

"It's very funny, and it's short," they assured me.

"What if I don't think it's funny?" I said.

"You will," they assured me, "or else I'll be quiet."

"Maybe later," I told them.

"What do you call a lesbian dinosaur?" they started.

"See?" I interrupted, "I already don't think that's funny."

"Lickalotap--" they started.

"That's a no!" I said sharply.

"How about another joke?" they asked. 

"Nope," I shook my head. "That was your one chance. Now you have to take your test."

"Fine," they sighed, and they did.

Stumbling Stones

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed something new on my regular walk with Lucy. Two small brass discs were embedded in the sidewalk of a corner right up the hill from our home. It's a place that we pass all the time, so the new additions were notable, and I stepped over to them curiously. 

"Milly," the first one read. "Once enslaved here. Born before 1770."

"Henry," said the second one. "Once enslaved here. Born ca 1775."

As heartbreaking as it was, it was hardly surprising to be reminded that people were enslaved here; it is Virginia, after all. But when I got home, a little further research revealed that the plantation where Milly, Henry, and several other enslaved people were held captive actually extended to the property that our house is on. 

Discovering that my home was built on the site of such barbarism was gutwrenching. As I continued my research, I found that the commemorative plaques were called stumbling stones, inspired by the German, stolpersteine, which are meant to give passersby the chance to stumble upon local history. 

Personally, I think the name is doubly effective because it also highlights one of our nation's greatest moral stumbles. But maybe stumble is too kind of a word; failure is a much better fit.

I Do Got This

On the first day of testing, I was suffering a crisis of confidence when the experienced coordinator disappeared, off to troubleshoot problems in individual classrooms. I was unsure how the testing platform worked and a little afraid of messing anything up. 

"Here's a help request for you," one of my colleagues in the command center said. "Two students can't log in to their tests in room 87."

"What if I don't know what to do?" I said.

"You literally helped hundreds of students start their tests when you were a teacher," she scoffed. "You can do it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I laughed as I headed out. 

She was right, of course. I was able to get both kids into the test right away. And when I returned to the command center, I figured out how to restart tests on the clunky platform, too.

"A teacher needs help with a student's behavior in 278," she said a little while later. "Wanna go?"

"I don't know that kid," I said.

"I don't either," she replied, "but you taught here for over thirty years; I'm pretty sure you can resolve a sixth-grade behavior issue."

I laughed again. "I'm going to express doubt whenever a problem comes up," I told her. "Just so I can hear you tell me how competent I am!"

Can't Say No to the Boss

The bins were packed, and almost everything was ready for testing tomorrow, when a knock came at the door. Stopping my work on the sign-in sheet, I called, "Come in!" and was surprised to see the principal standing at the door with a small cardboard box. 

"Are those the bins?" she asked, gesturing at the organized stacks of materials against the wall with a note of surprise in her voice.

"Yep!" I assured her. Considering the test was less than 24 hours away, I expected her to be pleased, but she seemed a bit disappointed.

"I have these bookmarks," she held out the box. "One for every student."

"Uhhhh," I hedged, raising my eyebrows. "Can we give them to teachers when they pick up their bins in the morning?"

"They're in stacks of 25," she sighed. "It might take too long to count them then." She looked again at the 70 bins, bags, and baskets of test tickets, examiner manuals, and dictionaries, already packed and in alphabetical order. "I can put them in," she offered.

"I'll help," I said, and showed her the list of examiners and the number of students in each group. Then I opened each bin, placed the bookmarks she counted out and gave me inside, reverse-stacked them, and then restacked them when we finished each group. Only one basket of dictionaries tumbled out, and we were finished in about 20 minutes.

"I have something for each testing day," she told me, and I made a mental note to pick whatever it was up before we packed the bins next time!