(no subject)
I think I’m going to fall over.
The constant barrage of endless academics finally took a nasty turn this morning. Today I was supposed to transfer over to Desert Vista, from my previously attended campus of Marcos de Niza. The transition wasn’t going to be entirely seamless, as it was expected from all ends, but I figured the most trouble I’d have was finding my classroom, and once there, staying focused. I ended up searching for my classroom for only a short while, a little less longer than I anticipated at least. Three of the most popular girls from my grade just hung out right in front of the door, as I sat there waiting for the bell to ring. I felt all the more less cool than I knew I was before that. This, however, was pretty insignificant. Rather than seem like a loner any longer, I just walked in and took a seat at the front table because I knew I’d pay the most attention there. Facing minimal distractions. Feet in front of the burn-out’s and ghetto’s. It was ideal.
Only a few minutes later, my math utopia was compromised to reality. You know the kid who no one really wants to sit by, but one unfortunate soul has to because they straggled into the room too late to choose their choice seat? Well, this was me and my friend ‘Big Popa’, as he likes to be called I guess. The lad is about 6’ something-or-other, and he’s about 180 pounds of pure wigger. He had it all: the velvet jumpsuit, the sideways baby blue baseball cap, and more ice than the Atlantic ocean. About five minutes into class, we had to create our own name tags for our designated area of the tables. I spent about two minutes on mine, merely writing ‘Ty’ at first, in big, smeared, black mechanical pencil-y letters. I guessed that at a point, someone may inquire as to what my last name was, chiefly the teacher, so I promptly wrote another line of sketchy letters a few spaces away from the freshly created disaster to the left after much deliberation. ‘THURSBY’, all in caps. Now they’d know I meant business. My wigger friend decided however to take the high road by writing ‘(Big Popa)’ above his real name, which based off his funny glasses and towering white kid frame was no doubt Arthur or Clark. We’ll just have to assume because I never actually saw. The only words of conversation this kid would provide was cursing everything under his breath. Any excessive direction from the teacher, any assignment given by the teacher, any stupid joke made by the teacher. Essentially, just anything the teacher did prompted a good, “What the fuck”, “Shut the fuck up”, “Fuck this”. This kid is clearly oozing with substance and I can’t wait to see him everyday now.
My name wasn’t called off for role.
The teacher told me to leave to the summer school office and get it straightened out.
I walk to the summer school office.
I spend twenty minutes waiting to ask one small question because the lady is so busy making copies for some lady.
She tells me I am not in the summer school office.
I am not in the summer school office.
I’ve wasted my time.
Apparently the summer school office is this little classroom looking room nestled in some little obscure alcove as you walk towards the main building. I entered.
“What do you need, buddy?”
“I wasn’t in my teacher’s attendance roster.”
“Okay, follow me.”
I sat down to presumably what was a counselor’s office.
“Student ID number?”
“055101.”
She typed it in and a bunch of numbers and figures came up on the screen. I had no idea.
“It says here you registered for Marcos de Niza first semester, and Desert Vista this semester.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I registered too late to take the first session here as I intended to. I was a day late. Desert Vista is closer to my house, so I’m here now.”
The presumed counselor then began to lecture me about how I was not officially entered into the system, and the classroom I was enrolled in, ranging up to 35 winner kids partaking in DV’s one and only Algebra 3-4 class, was at max capacity. They discretely told me I was making a mistake by switching over because of the teacher adjustment. Because of the material. Because of the distraction of 35 other kids.
“Why don’t you go back to Marcos?”
“Do you think you’ll be successful here?”
“Are you sure you’ll be on the same page?”
What these ladies entirely forgot was what it was like to be a student anymore. I’ll get by, because it’s my own name that’s on the line, so don’t bother me with questions of why and how come, and stupid hypothetical situations. The only thing that accomplishes is reminding me of all my fears I initially had going into this whole situation. Will I pass? Will I get the credit? Will it be too much for me? Fuck it. I’m not here to be interviewed for my place in a class I need to take. The fact of the matter is my mom simply paid the money allowing me to be here, and did it on time. One of your own was the person who messed up the paperwork.
I was utterly overwhelmed then and there. You know all those times when you were little, when you’re trying to explain something so passionately, because you know deep down that you’re right, and all the while you can feel the tears building up behind your face? I had one of those moments then, and I haven’t in such a long time. I felt like such a little kid.
“Why do you have such an attitude about this?”
She had to make a few calls. I just sat there. Then she wrote me out a pass. I didn’t even look her in the eye and grabbed it, walking out.
“Come here.”
The other lady handed me about three fun size candies from her little bowl on her desk.
“Don’t be mad.”
Mad? It was a little late for that. I’d missed about half of the first lesson on the first day of second session, already falling behind. The way you’re going to compensate for degrading me is by giving me chocolates?
I threw them away and walked back to class.
If every day is anything like today…
Summer isn’t over yet, needless to say.
Here's to better days. Whew.
The constant barrage of endless academics finally took a nasty turn this morning. Today I was supposed to transfer over to Desert Vista, from my previously attended campus of Marcos de Niza. The transition wasn’t going to be entirely seamless, as it was expected from all ends, but I figured the most trouble I’d have was finding my classroom, and once there, staying focused. I ended up searching for my classroom for only a short while, a little less longer than I anticipated at least. Three of the most popular girls from my grade just hung out right in front of the door, as I sat there waiting for the bell to ring. I felt all the more less cool than I knew I was before that. This, however, was pretty insignificant. Rather than seem like a loner any longer, I just walked in and took a seat at the front table because I knew I’d pay the most attention there. Facing minimal distractions. Feet in front of the burn-out’s and ghetto’s. It was ideal.
Only a few minutes later, my math utopia was compromised to reality. You know the kid who no one really wants to sit by, but one unfortunate soul has to because they straggled into the room too late to choose their choice seat? Well, this was me and my friend ‘Big Popa’, as he likes to be called I guess. The lad is about 6’ something-or-other, and he’s about 180 pounds of pure wigger. He had it all: the velvet jumpsuit, the sideways baby blue baseball cap, and more ice than the Atlantic ocean. About five minutes into class, we had to create our own name tags for our designated area of the tables. I spent about two minutes on mine, merely writing ‘Ty’ at first, in big, smeared, black mechanical pencil-y letters. I guessed that at a point, someone may inquire as to what my last name was, chiefly the teacher, so I promptly wrote another line of sketchy letters a few spaces away from the freshly created disaster to the left after much deliberation. ‘THURSBY’, all in caps. Now they’d know I meant business. My wigger friend decided however to take the high road by writing ‘(Big Popa)’ above his real name, which based off his funny glasses and towering white kid frame was no doubt Arthur or Clark. We’ll just have to assume because I never actually saw. The only words of conversation this kid would provide was cursing everything under his breath. Any excessive direction from the teacher, any assignment given by the teacher, any stupid joke made by the teacher. Essentially, just anything the teacher did prompted a good, “What the fuck”, “Shut the fuck up”, “Fuck this”. This kid is clearly oozing with substance and I can’t wait to see him everyday now.
My name wasn’t called off for role.
The teacher told me to leave to the summer school office and get it straightened out.
I walk to the summer school office.
I spend twenty minutes waiting to ask one small question because the lady is so busy making copies for some lady.
She tells me I am not in the summer school office.
I am not in the summer school office.
I’ve wasted my time.
Apparently the summer school office is this little classroom looking room nestled in some little obscure alcove as you walk towards the main building. I entered.
“What do you need, buddy?”
“I wasn’t in my teacher’s attendance roster.”
“Okay, follow me.”
I sat down to presumably what was a counselor’s office.
“Student ID number?”
“055101.”
She typed it in and a bunch of numbers and figures came up on the screen. I had no idea.
“It says here you registered for Marcos de Niza first semester, and Desert Vista this semester.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I registered too late to take the first session here as I intended to. I was a day late. Desert Vista is closer to my house, so I’m here now.”
The presumed counselor then began to lecture me about how I was not officially entered into the system, and the classroom I was enrolled in, ranging up to 35 winner kids partaking in DV’s one and only Algebra 3-4 class, was at max capacity. They discretely told me I was making a mistake by switching over because of the teacher adjustment. Because of the material. Because of the distraction of 35 other kids.
“Why don’t you go back to Marcos?”
“Do you think you’ll be successful here?”
“Are you sure you’ll be on the same page?”
What these ladies entirely forgot was what it was like to be a student anymore. I’ll get by, because it’s my own name that’s on the line, so don’t bother me with questions of why and how come, and stupid hypothetical situations. The only thing that accomplishes is reminding me of all my fears I initially had going into this whole situation. Will I pass? Will I get the credit? Will it be too much for me? Fuck it. I’m not here to be interviewed for my place in a class I need to take. The fact of the matter is my mom simply paid the money allowing me to be here, and did it on time. One of your own was the person who messed up the paperwork.
I was utterly overwhelmed then and there. You know all those times when you were little, when you’re trying to explain something so passionately, because you know deep down that you’re right, and all the while you can feel the tears building up behind your face? I had one of those moments then, and I haven’t in such a long time. I felt like such a little kid.
“Why do you have such an attitude about this?”
She had to make a few calls. I just sat there. Then she wrote me out a pass. I didn’t even look her in the eye and grabbed it, walking out.
“Come here.”
The other lady handed me about three fun size candies from her little bowl on her desk.
“Don’t be mad.”
Mad? It was a little late for that. I’d missed about half of the first lesson on the first day of second session, already falling behind. The way you’re going to compensate for degrading me is by giving me chocolates?
I threw them away and walked back to class.
If every day is anything like today…
Summer isn’t over yet, needless to say.
Here's to better days. Whew.