Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility is amateur hour
compared to mine.
Sometimes I drive the invisible car. You know that car, the one that you're
driving down the street and from this car you can see everyone else driving in
their cars but they mysteriously cannot see you in your car. They pull out at you, in front of you, into
you, beside you, park too close, back up too far, and basically act as if they
don't even know you are there because apparently you're not. You are, after all, driving the invisible
car.
Sometimes I push the invisible shopping cart. This is the one that pseudo-suicidal kids
jump in front of while you're pushing it, attempting to commit some form of
hari-kari in the cereal aisle. Often
other shoppers step directly into your path, narrowing missing the oncoming,
fully-loaded cart, then they stand in front of you blocking any hope of advance
while they decide what fabric softener they simply cannot live without. The best is when the invisible cart suddenly
materializes at the hands of someone else who doesn't realize that he has your
cart and you are left turning circles in the aisle like a dog in need of a
hydrant as you wonder where the hell your groceries went. You start perusing the store knowing full
well that the young college kid will eventually realize he has the wrong cart
when he starts unloading bulk quantities of Tampax and Kotex products along
with his chips and dip onto the conveyor belt.
But today is the coup de gras.
Today I become not only the invisible spectator but the
invisible teacher all in one. It completely
amazes me. Sometimes I exaggerate, but
this time, I am telling you just about the honest to god truth, pretty much
word for word and sound for sound.
This afternoon I am sitting at a high school lacrosse game
in which several of my former students are playing. It's post-season, and this is the first
elimination round. It's also the first
chance I've had to get to one of their games.
I am sitting all alone in a deserted section of the stands, sitting in
the farthest row with my back against the fencing that prevents spectators from
falling to their deaths onto the pavement below. Suddenly a trio of boys from my school come
blasting around the corner, up the steps, and sit right next to me.
In fact, they are so close to me that I have to move lest I
am touching outer thighs with at least one of them. This I find a bit physically creepy and
somewhat mentally disturbing. Apparently
I don't exist in their world (which is fine).
After about three minutes, maybe even more, one of them cuts an enormous
fart, then he follows it up with two more.
His friends giggle. I say,
"Wow. That was impressive."
Well, it's a damn good thing that fencing has been installed
as a backboard because those three boys just about crap their drawers and fall
over themselves. I startle them simply
by breathing, I guess, and they are suddenly very aware of my presence.
Yet they do not move.
I realize they think I'm just another person at the game, a
parent perhaps or a grandparent. They
look right at me and still haven't figured out that I am I (Don Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha, my
destiny calls and I go… sorry, had a song going on there). They continue chattering about, throwing
stuff off the stands and generally being middle-school-silly.
Then one of their cell phones starts to ring. Their voices and mannerisms suddenly become
animated. "Oh, it's Alex Delmonico
(name has been changed to protect the … uh … um … er …. Never mind. I changed the name just because, okay?)
calling me. I'm not going to answer
it. YOU answer it!" And the cell gets passed from person to
person.
Now, I just want to put it out there that this Alex
Delmonico is a decent kid. I don't know
why these slightly older boys seem to think poking fun of Alex just for calling
is so hysterically awkward. They're all
on the same after-school lacrosse team. I'm thinking, "Just answer your phone, ya little dink-baby; answer your
phone!"
After listening to the trio play a rapid but intense game of
Hot Potato with the call, I look at them, hold out my hand, and say sweetly,
"I'll talk to Alex."
It is at this moment that their eyes grow as wide as
saucers. They are babbling like idiots
now, saying things like, "Oh, Mrs. Heliand, we didn't see you there… blah
blah blahbbiddy blah blah…"
How in the name of
fuck's sake do they NOT see me here?
First of all, NOBODY is in this section EXCEPT me, I have actually been
speaking to them, and I'm wearing a sweatshirt with giant neon letters that scream
RAPTOR'S LACROSSE. I comment when they
fart. I offer to field their phone
calls. They are practically sitting in
my lap. HELLO, people!
This may prove to some of you, especially those of you
currently parenting young teenagers, that kids only see and hear what they want
to see and hear. I'll tell you that's a
flat-out lie. Kids see all, hear all,
and believe that they know all. To me
this proves that I have a greater cloak of invisibility than Harry Potter.
Think about it.
In the movies and the books, when Harry is invisible, does
anyone fart in front of him not once, not twice, but multiple times? I don't
think so. Does Harry offer to answer
the other Hogwarts students' cell phones, causing them all to go apoplectic and
speak in tongues while trying to throw themselves into the nearest
precipice? HA! I think
not.
Therefore, it is only logical to conclude that my cloak of invisibility
is far superior to anything that silly little wizard uses. I mean, seriously: I AM EVEN INVISIBLE TO MY STUDENTS. Of course, this is not a one-time deal,
either. This is a daily occurrence,
solidifying once and for all that the middle school teacher's cloak of
invisibility blows the doors off of anything Harry Potter could scheme up.
Remember, Harry is just a teenaged student. He may have magical powers and be able to
outplay me at Quidditch, but I guarantee I can outfox him with the whole cloak
of invisibility bullshit. Seriously. I've been bitching about this for, what, like
ten minutes now, and where's Harry Potter to defend himself?
Nowhere.
You know why? Because
I truly am invisible to my students and anyone their age. It's what allows them to pass notes in front
of me thinking that they won't be caught, or to chew gum in my class thinking I
won't tell them to spit it out and pull an old one off from under their desk as
payback. I am the master of the cloak of
invisibility, and these kids are merely amateurs. If they don't believe me, let them confront
me … if they can find me … or really and truly see me.
I rest my case.
