Passing Period

It is routine, in every understandable essence of the word. A Pavlovian bell rings, signaling the end of another period. It also tolls its magic spell creating an internecine era ever so briefly. Yet another parcel of time gone and this is its knell. No taps will sound. In an odd sense, just the opposite will occur.
From my vantage point the visage is illuminated by the dull glow of fluorescence glinting off the din of linoleum. Wave after wave of voices rolled in a tsunami of sound. The crashing and clanging of lockers coated in layers of institutional colors resound, echoing a faded Greek chorus claiming the truth in an incoherent tongue. This sensory experience elicits prayers for deprivation.
As if heeded by well-heeled wranglers, the desks are filled. Funneled and filed it is another expression of routine. A calculated expression taught, learned, forgotten, re-taught…ad infinitum, ad nauseum…And for the next sliced period of time, chaos is maneuvered, sometimes, rarely, controlled. Nonetheless, it will all end in a timed release. A causation for celebration rewarded with a pass.
Imagine this regular and metered time as something similar to riding on a subway. An odd but effective analogy to say the least. For me, it always feels like that. While my exposure to public transportation has been limited, it was memorable nonetheless. The dull tile, the humming lights and the chipped paint seems to being the experience all together. Yet, there is an essential component missing…Noise…Yes, noise. This is the distinctive brand of both the subway, as I remember it, and the hallway between classes, as I have experienced it. Noise, a Doppler wall of it, traveled seamlessly with the migrating herds of students.
This final aspect of the subway/hallway was the most terrifying and painful for me. This crushing wall of sound always made me want to beat a hasty retreat back into my own acoustically hostile classroom. While cinderblocks may be more cost-effective in regards to construction costs, they are prime material for reflecting and amplifying sound. But, I do have some modicum in regulating the volume and ultimately the amount of locust-like chattering noise within my own classroom.
It is this maelstrom of sound that we stand. Teachers as hall guardians. Just putting those words together evokes some latent twentieth century avant garde surrealism. I can almost imagine the painting silently standing in a museum, just like us. And this is where the metaphor of the subway returns…
Stepping out upon the jarring command, we exchange glances and sometimes words. Regardless of which it is always cryptic to any outsider. The meanings are always revealed afterwards, once the last bell had sounded. The time of day does not affect these exchanges. In the morning the caffeine has yet to take affect despite the scents of brewing and percolation wafting into the hall from numerous rooms. Then, by the afternoon, the grind is showing. This is true for all parties involved.
The tenure of noise and talking seems to rise and fall in some seemingly pre-arranged orchestrated movement. Glances, small talk and technical questions fill these few minutes. Only the vocal ranges of separate student from teacher in this milieu. In this instance, adolescence becomes the great equalizer, especially for some boys.
Like subway trains passing with regularity the day progresses. From bell to bell it is a different ride with the same destination. And similar to the subway, you quickly learn when and who to speak to and make eye contact with. Sometimes it is better to say nothing at all and look away always taking relief in knowing that soon the passing with happen again and another route will come open.
Clarity comes with time. It is evoked with each passing storm and the calm that follows. While the routes change little, it is these minor deviations that add to the adventure. And, each journey brings along different sojourners with each class. Most times it is the students. Sometimes, it is fellow teachers. Given time, the passing periods evolve from internecine eras between classes to breaks between school years as we progress through this school and life.

Condolences for a Cockroach

This is such a strange mixture of the weird and the everyday that it is difficult to truly know where to begin. I suppose like any piece of literature, which this is only a part of technically, the scene needs to be set. School had just let out, and I was relocating to the central office building where I would be working out of for the next contract year. I still had two weeks left on this contract, so I had set myself up a makeshift office until proper arrangements could be made. As with most academic locations, the male gender is a rare sight. As such, I pretty much had the men’s restroom across the hall mostly to myself. And that’s where this particular and peculiar adventure began.
During the course of the business day it becomes necessary to relieve one’s self. In fact, with age, it often becomes a little more frequent. To boot, I have come that certain age of wisdom that marks the journey of a maturing male, that I no longer purchase coffee. No, I merely rent it for an uncertain amount of time. So, I was returning, or recycling, my morning coffee in the men’s room when I chanced upon an uncertain sight that left me puzzled for a good part of the day.
Standing at the far urinal I was captivated by what might be perhaps the oddest sight I had beheld, up to that particular point. Lying in the urinal next to me was a deceased cockroach. As with most of the non-executed varieties, it was on its back. Nothing shocking, per se, with this post mortem state. However, it is what was beside this deceased insect that troubled me. It was another cockroach. A living one. I was transfixed. Of course, the thought running through my head was one that probably anyone would have had. Is he going to eat the other one…?
If this piece has not turned your stomach thus far, this particular pondering should not repulse you. It is noted that cockroaches eat anything. I am sure this includes each other. Being that it was a slow day at the office, I decided to spend a little more time in observation. Since I am there is only one other male employee in my hall, and he was out for a meeting, I did not have to concern myself with conjuring up any excuses for standing at the urinal and staring into the bottom of the other one.
The other cockroach just stood there, its antennae moving methodically. That was all that moved. However, it did set my mind to wondering. Was this particular cockroach paying its last respects to a dead relative, a fallen comrade? It struck as quite odd that the living cockroach did not try to flee when I took a half step towards it after washing my hands. I just stood there, it antennae still moving rhythmically. It was hypnotic. But how could I think that something that is commonly the object of shared scorn could afford such a humane treatment. What was it?
I tucked the whole incident into the recess of my consciousness and exited the restroom. Still, no movement from the living one except for the methodical antennae wave. As soon as I was seated at my desk, the entire experience passed with a muffled chuckle. I marked the time with the clacking of keys on my laptop and the numbers on the calendar moved over a single square.
The next day, morning routine played itself out and the laptop keys continued clicking in their timekeeping duties. Almost like clockwork, it was time for a restroom break. Dancing with somnambulance, I entered the restroom and continued with my regular routine. Looking to the side, I noticed that the deceased cockroach was gone. Shaken from my trance, I looked around. Exiting, I caught sight of the deceased with friend still beside him in the corner.
It was truly an awkward situation. I didn’t know what to do. Oddly enough, two hallmarks of cultural literacy swirled through my mind seemingly out of nowhere. The connections make sense, but the choices were purely unpremeditated. Looking down at the deceased and living cockroaches, I immediately thought of Kafka’s “Metamorphoses” and Disney movies.
I know my confusion over what to do next stem from these two sources. What struck me as odd was that I was even haggling with myself over what to do. I wasn’t sure whether to express my condolences or use a paper towel to scoop these two up and send them down the porcelain waterslide for their final ride. It should have been a simple motion of tear, swoop, dunk and flush. A simple symphony of actions that would have required no thought at all. However, something kept nagging at me in the back of my mind.
Allow me to quell any fears and misgivings you may have at this point in reading this piece. I did not offer my condolences to the cockroach standing beside the dead one. Luckily, common sense caught up with me and revealed the foolishness of that particular inclination. However, I did pause for a moment and take in the sight one last time before returning to work. I cannot say specifically if it was awe, respect or just plain credulity that made me take a final look. But I did.
I am not sure, anatomically, if the one cockroach standing beside the deceased one and I looked each other in the eyes, but we looked at each other. I moved on and went about my work. The day ended as others have that preceded and followed. Yet, I cannot say that my perspective was broadened and shifted just by a fraction. I am not really sure that this experience has changed me measurably or given me some extraordinary insight in to existence. All I can say is that I experienced this odd circumstance and it has stuck in my memory.