"Your teacher will be back on Thursday!" I reminded the science classes today. "I know she will be super glad to see you again."
"Are you going to be here, too?" asked a student.
"No!" I laughed. "I think your teacher can handle the job without me."
"But you'll be at the school, right?" he said.
"No," I told him. "I'm retired, remember?"
He looked stunned. "Then what are you going to do all day?"
I was standing outside, getting eaten by bugs, and trying to think of what plant I had forgotten to buy this weekend to put on the deck and the stoop. There were marigolds, portulaca, zinnias, petunias, sweet potato vine, begonias, lavender, thyme, basil, cilantro, lemongrass, calibrachoa, lantana, and scaviola.
I slapped a mosquito and then slapped my forehead.
Um, it was citronella.
I get daily email notifications from a jobs website for open positions that some bot has determined might be a good match for my listed skills, experience, and credentials. Occasionally, there are some interesting opportunities, but I'm still waiting for something to really click when I check it out.
Today, one of the jobs was for a full-time virtual English language teacher. The pay rate was pitiful, especially compared to what I was making before I retired, but worse than that was the job description. Take a look at the top two duties:
Job Duties
From time to time, I get an invitation from our satellite radio provider to enter to win tickets to a nearby show. The odds are dependent on how many people enter, so if it's an act we like, I usually take thirty seconds to click through the submission. That's what happened Wednesday when I got an offer to enter for tickets to the I Want My 80s Tour featuring Rick Springfield, Wang Chung, Paul Young, and John Waite.
"Heidi would love this!" I said to myself, and I chose the June 6 show in Portsmouth, VA, from the 2 available locations since her friends and their two little girls just moved to Virginia Beach in March. I figured that if I won, we could spend a weekend at the beach, see the show, and visit our friends. Then I promptly forgot all about the sweepstakes.
Imagine the charge I got this morning when I checked my phone at lunch and saw the news that I won! And Heidi was thrilled.
"This is the dumbest thing!" a student complained the other day while practicing reading weather station symbols. "I will never, ever use this in my real life," he scoffed in disgust, tossing his paper aside.
I couldn't contradict him; as fascinating as I personally found the exercise, I had made it to age 62 without knowing how to before.
In our state, the standardized middle school science test is given in eighth grade, and covers the curriculum from 6th, 7th, and 8th grades. I have listened sympathetically in the past as science teachers have complained about the inanity of that situation, and applauded their creativity in reviewing the material, even going so far as to have the sixth and seventh grade teachers teach the eighth grade classes for a day and review the units they had taught them in the years before. This year, there were some voluntary after-school review sessions for 8th graders, but I can't say how well they were attended.
When I told one of the other sixth-grade science teachers the story about the kid who was complaining so bitterly about the weather station, she laughed and said, "There is one place he's going to need it. They always have a question on weather stations on the SOL."
My eyes widened a bit, and the gravity of teaching the weather unit weighed a little bit more on me, especially knowing the students might not revisit the material again until they saw it on the test two years from now. So today, when I saw one of the eighth-grade students I know after school, my first question was, "How was the science SOL?"
"Fine," he shrugged. "Easy. I finished it pretty quickly."
"Was there a question on weather?" I asked.
"Maybe?" he said. "To be honest, I've already forgotten."
Once I found my breaker groove yesterday, it was not as bad as I thought. I spent my morning examining former colleagues' classrooms, ten minutes at a time, while kids I knew and didn't know read from their screens like zombies, tapping their selections to multiple-choice questions. Those students who were finished sat at their desks like airline passengers decades ago at the gate, waiting for a long-delayed flight. Without screens, a few read books, a couple did puzzles on paper, many stared into space, sighing, and a few tried to find a position comfortable enough to sleep.
It made me sad for two reasons. First, I could see how dependent we have all become on our devices to fill our time. Second, I still don't quite get the ethics of forcing kids to stay in a room for hours to take a test that should only take a fraction of that time, even after taking into account that the policy is meant to discourage rushing.
Surprise! I'm still not a fan of universal high-stakes testing.
When I looked at the calendar for my sub gig, I figured that after years of successfully administering the state standardized test, I could step back into that role when testing day came. I was informed early on, though, that I was no longer considered qualified, which was fine, because I really don't like the job anyway. "We'll give you something else to do," the testing coordinator assured me after she thanked me for offering.
And that's how I found myself added to the help spreadsheet as a "breaker/escort," which sounds racier than it is. Basically, my job is to watch the spreadsheet fill with all the trials and tribulations of testing, and spell any nearby teachers when they need a break.
It's harder than it seems: I've already missed two bathroom breaks as I alternately wander the room, do a few word puzzles, answer texts from my nephew, and whatnot. I brought a book and my writing notebook, but after the previous lapses, I don't know if I should crack those open. As always, testing day has proven itself to be an inconvenient nuisance, which is not comforting in the least.
Here ends my rant: someone needs a break!
