On Wednesday of this week, I popped into one of my classes excited to do an end of the year tradition with my kids; one that occurs in the midst of senior exams when kids need to blow off steam.
With foursquare ball in hand, and an enthusiasm that belies my knowledge of the misery waiting for me outside (78 degree with 70% humidity weather in jeans), I am ready for some juvenile fun.
But my students are not.
Casually sprinkled across desks with the self assurance that only comes from students who know I can inflict no more pain upon them, they are lost in conversation over their yearbooks. These huge manuals on school year 2014-15, blinged out in the gold and white and black of our school colors, are spread open to be personalized with promises of continued friendship and commemorations of inside jokes.
I love it.
But my kids talk is not idle. It is not mundane. It is not of weekends, beaches, work, and college.
It is of the latest STORY. One that happened on the heels of our Civil Rights DBQ-nit, of which we have debriefed and moved on out of.
"Section 8 housing," "cop," and "fourteen year old black girl," swirl around the edges of their conversation as I adjust to the room.
Oh, we are talking about this. The very class that groaned while we trudged through the early days of this unit can't seem to let it go.
Photo via Flickr/Ted Eytan