Loyal readers (who are, pretty objectively, more loyal to this blog than I've proven to be) may remember the early days of my public musings. It was a semi-weekly ritual, where I waxed poetic on topics that went beyond children, beyond pedagogy to discuss such delicious and under-reported topics as Sarah Palin's could-have-been-presidential bid and my persistent problem with perspiration. As you probably know, the former topic has been left to rest and the latter remains an ever-present source of levity and joy for my favorite spate of middle schoolers.
You may also remember that my temporary residence during (ahhhhh) those (Suh-um-mer) summer (niiiiiiiiiiiights) months was the lovely city of Atlanta. As fate would have it, the Big Peach was also the chosen destination for our end of the year trip for our sixth graders. It ended right where it all began for me.
College-prep charter schools like my own have built a tradition around funding really enticing end of the year trips for students who have worked hard to make the best behavior choices throughout the year. This year, 25 sixth graders made the cut to come see the sights of Atlanta, and five lucky teachers got the golden ticket to join the adventure. To say that I was "meh" on the excursion as the date of departure approached would be a severe overstatement. I was frankly pretty ready to enjoy some time away from school in the Big Easy, rather than spending bonus time with kids in a new city.
It's moments like this when I'm glad that people hold you to your commitments. Given the opportunity I would have bowed out. I would have deprived these sixth graders of, well, me. I would have deprived my colleagues of that same gift from God. And seriously (you know I was kidding with the last two, right?) I would have deprived myself of this opportunity to be reinvigorated and to get to know these chitlins outside of the confines of our super-demanding, ultra-stressful, occasionally overly rigorous school boundaries. It's been totally rejuvenating.
But we'll save the mushy stuff and begin with the hilarity that sixth graders persistently exude.
Our trip began with a 5:30 AM arrival at school and a 6:00 AM departure on a coach bus. The yoots showed up bleary-eyed and only slightly bushy tailed. Full disclosure: the 6 AM departure was a merciful stroke of genius from our trip leader, who knew that sleepy 6th graders are the best type of sixth graders. The ratio of singing/beating on things/talking to sleepingheavily favors the teachers. More than that, the early morning resulted in a swath of attire choices that would give the catwalk at Paris' Fashion Week a run for it's Euros. Among the most-- throat clear-- fashionable was a young lady who calls herself Baby D. Even though all of her teachers and peers refuse to call her that. Read the following then close your eyes to process: pink footsie pajamas, curlers in her hair, bunny slippers, a face full of make-up. Good ahead and stew on Baby D for a second, bearing in mind of course, her ripe age of 12 years old.
This get-up didn't pose a problem for any of us. But she did get some funny looks when she refused to change before we went into McDonald's.
If only that were the end of the shenanigans. But later that evening, on our first day, one student's eyes were bigger than his stomach. And his stomach reminded him of that in the middle of the restaurant. Needless to say, neither the clientelle nor the other patrons of Paschal's were much too pleased with us.
And as all parents and teachers know, when it rains puke, it pours puke. By the close of day 2, the vom count was up to 3: 1 in a restaurant, 1 on the bus, and 1 in his bed.
On Day 2, we treated the kids to some downhome Atlanta Barbeque. And when I say authentic, I mean aw. then. tick. All things coming at a price, to get at the delicious smokey goodness Daddy D'z has to offer, you have to go to a less desireable part of the town. Lucky for us, it was in that part of the town that our bus gave out.
And continued to refuse to work. For nearly two hours. Placid as you might imagine the brood of 25 sixth graders to be under such conditions, they were surprisingly a little restless. It was after hour one that a kid, who we'll name A-Holl, decided thath is barbeque hadn't agreed with him. He decided to use his undigested meat as a new sort of decor for the bathroom on the bus. Turns out he and I have different tastes in interior decorating.
This comedy, sometimes of errors, sometimes less so, was capped off in perhaps the most spectacular way possible. Remember that seen from Vacation when they finally get to Walley World only to be greeted by potentially the world's most annoying moose who talks like Goofy? If not, go ahead and refresh your memory and allow yourself to imagine where this story's going.
After an early start to the day, we drove the 45 minutes from our hotel to a lovely little amusement park called Stone Mountain, famously the caricatured hometown of fictional character Kenneth Ellen Parcell from 30 Rock. It was last day, so teachers were excited. There were rumors of water slides and roller coasters, so the kids were excited. The bus started, and our stomachs were collectively, so life was good. We took in the back woods sights of the entrance road, paid the parking attendant, mostly in coins, and barreled along. Finally, just like Clark and the kids, we arrived at the amusement to find that, not only were we three hours only for the opening time, but the park also was not due to open for the year another 2 weeks.
Really? Ok, Stone Mountain, I see you.
But for the grace of God, an unfortunate security guard would have had his whole day messed up by being taken hostage. Instead, we scrambled for things to do. As the name of the town might suggest, Stone Mountain doesn't offer too much in the way of entertainment outside of a large stony mountain upon which the park sits. We were going to go to the mall, but, Lawdy, that would have been a logistical nightmare. Then we talked about mini golf, but the Stone Mountain World Famous Putt Putt needed a break from the pressure of world fame, I suppose, and also was inexplicably closed for the day. Having exhausted all three options in this portion of Real America, we opted to just head to the beach.
And what a good call it was.The only glitch in the day came when Shaun came up to me in the water after about an hour of swimming and tapped me on the shoulder. "Mr Glasser!" he said emphatically. "My phone's not in my pocket! But..." he paused and looked at me quizzically, "it has been the whole time I was in the ocean." We found the phone, but it was more valuable as a painful water balloon then as a mode of communication. Other than some damaged technology, it was really a fantastic day. Six of the twenty-five had never been to the beach (although a shocking number of returning guests were still surprised that the water was so salty). So we floated, I taught them some awesome water tricks, and had six kids who refused to unwrap their arms from my neck. They ran, they played, they buried themselves in sand, dug holes, played with tadpoles, and were just kids. Screaming, yelling, splashing, shivering, dolphin diving the way kids should. For a few hours, they forgot about their drama, their problems, the problems in this city, the stresses of catching up academically, and because they allowed themselves to let go, the staff did as well.
Like any good day at the beach, we all made our way back on to bus and the kids instantly passed out. When we got back to New Orleans a few hours later, the bleary-eyed little guys had re-donned their PJ's and were collected by their parents in the same condition in which they left four days earlier. All and all, I got 273 photos, mostly because the kids used the camera, a great set of stories, and a huge appreciation for the innocence of the babies. Not bad for a free trip to Hotlanta, right?
I'll be back soon, because, phew! What a couple of weeks it's been. Until then.
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