Today I think I killed a bunch of brain cells.
Well, I didn't kill them; the construction workers did. The crew worked at my windows again today,
and the excavators and shovels and loaders were swinging so close that the kids
could put their faces against the panes and risk having plexi-glass shatter all
over them.
It was actually quite fascinating, like being on an old
Merry-Mixer (aka "Psychodrome") at the amusement park, carriages
flying directly at one another only to pull away inches from contact.
The fumes, however, were not nearly so visually
intoxicating; they were physically intoxicating. As a matter of fact, the fumes in my room
were so bad today that I was dizzy, almost fell over in the hallway, and damn
near hurled in the nurse's office.
I am not prone to melodrama, but my day started with a
fingertip (not mine) being split wide open in a locker incident. The student never made a sound, just grabbed
his hand, gaped as if trying to catch his breath, then proceeded to spurt blood
all over the adjoining lockers, the floor, and anything and everything in his
path. By 7:55 a.m., I was quite full of
melodrama, thank you kindly. So when I
insist that I was really hurting today by 1:30, I'm not stretching the truth in
the slightest. In fact, judging by the
adjoining classrooms and their occupants' reactions, I'm probably downplaying
it quite a bit.
Because the machinery was up against my windows and no one
else's today, I was in the direct path of the exhaust. The good news is that I had no students in my
room after 12:45 today. The bad news is
that I had work that absolutely had to be finished and sucked in the fumes for
another two hours before I could breathe in fresh air.
I understand progress.
I like progress. If I stay with
this job, I will benefit greatly from this progress by having a newly remodeled
classroom connected to the brand new school that the crew is building … outside
my window… where construction workers lean against the windows and say such
things as, "Oh, those motherfucking Bruins…" completely oblivious to
the fact that twelve and thirteen year olds are on the other side of the flimsy
partition.
The language I can tolerate; but if these fumes don't stop
killing off my brain cells, there may not be much left of my brain to be able
to teach anybody anything.
Progress is great; Brain cells are better. I'd like to find a way to keep both going for
just a smidgen longer.
