WINDOW ON ROOM 70
It’s Period H at last. This huge high school campus pulses with adolescent energy as over 3000 teenagers trek from building to building, tramping over the dirty snowpack in their winter jackets and hoodies. Friends bump into each other and lock in afternoon plans.
“Meet me in front of the library, ok?”
“Let’s head for McDonald’s for a hot fudge sundae; I’ll treat”.
“What? You have to go home and babysit your little sister? You’ve got to be kidding! I’ll text you.”
The bell rings and the campus empties as they all stream to class and settle in for the last forty five minutes of the day. I brace myself for the onslaught in Room 70, which exudes its usual smell, a combination of wet sneakers, book dust, and faint bathroom odors from the boys’ restroom across the hall. Water from the ice on the roof of this 40 year old “temporary” building is falling through the light fixtures in the hall. It pings incessantly into the huge buckets placed under the worst leaks. This is a good sign; winter is finally losing its grip on New Hampshire.
And here they come again. If you were to peer in through the window of Room 70, this is what you would see. Tyler, the Clown, tossing out uncannily accurate imitations of his English teacher, his pants hanging precariously far below his waist. (“Now, people, quiet down. Quiet down, people!”). I have to laugh. Justin, the dreamy-eyed drummer, tapping staccato beats on any hard object within his reach. Vicky, the Warrior, spouting bitter tirades against her math teacher (“She can’t teach a thing; everyone says so. The only reason I’m passing is because of you. She’s such a jerk”). Austin, the Dreamer, groping for his cell phone or Ipod whenever we aren’t looking, meandering in his fantasy world of skateboards and goodness-knows-what-else. Courtney, the Furious, knowing that she’s really a Princess and will one day rule the world. JR, the Distracted, hoping to sleep away this last part of the day. Tom, the Lost, looking for a way out of this hellish existence they call school. Kim, the Fearful, slipping into her desk by the wall, hoping to disappear into the woodwork. Mike, the Artist, drawing his endless vehicles, catching Kim’s eye with his sweet smile. John, the Reformed, trying to pull it all together, trying to focus after a disastrous semester. Mark, the Clueless, switching from mischievous to industrious as I hover, rolling his eyes and groaning as he hauls out a huge and daunting textbook with the uninspiring title, The Story of Western Civilization. (“I hate this! Why do we have to learn this stuff?”) Cindy, my Sunshine on this gray winter day, bouncing into the room to warm us with her dazzling smile. Taylor, the Beautiful, agonizing over her imminent failure in Driver’s Education, the only class that matters to her. Hunter, the Anchor, pulling out yet another Geometry worksheet, quietly asking for the help he knows he needs.
This thing that they call a Resource Room somehow takes on a life of its own and functions every day, more or less. My teammates and I instinctively spread ourselves out where we are most needed. Gradually the kids settle down. Books and assignments emerge from backpacks. Within minutes, almost everyone is working. The room hums, alive with the sounds of learning. The miracle happens again.
Long ago a man named Roger Miller sang, “You can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd, but you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.” But I am skating, and I am unreasonably happy.