Adventures in Junior High
You would think that after nearly two years of frustration of working closely with a 13-year-old boy, I would have gotten it through my head that dealing with pre-teen adolescents is nearly impossible. But no. When I got the invitation, I was so flattered. I thought, "wouldn't that be fun!" The idea of talking in front of a group of kids didn't seem to phase me, even though I probably have a borderline case of social anxiety.
Oh no, none of that mattered. I just HAD to go speak at career day.
Never mind that my job really isn't that glamorous, or even easy to explain. Forget that I don't really have good visuals or many exciting stories. And completely disregard the fact that I've never been particularly good at getting media to actually cover the stories I pitch. I thought I could be the hero.
And so, I arrived this morning at a middle school somewhere in the middle of Prince George's County ready to be an EXCITING SPEAKER.
What is it about school environments that immediately suck all the life and energy from you? As I walked up to the doors with my former colleague, who was sweet enough to invite me, and two of her other friends, I felt a familiar feeling of dread settle over my chest. Surrounded by boisterous seventh- and eighth-graders, the old shyness that I've worked so hard in the last few years to overcome began to surface.
This wasn't going to be good.
After calming myself in the school library with some frozen fruit and a bagel, I was feeling a bit more secure. OK, so maybe my job isn't the most exciting. But if I were young, I'd have lots of questions to ask, right? So I'm sure I'll spend most of the time answering questions.
As my student guide led me down to the first classroom door, I took a deep breath. Damn, they were loud. Were my classrooms always this loud?
It was actually two classrooms consolidated into one. The teacher introduced me, and I launched into the little speech I had planned in my head. Five minutes later, I had reached the end. Blank faces (at least the ones that weren't talking to each other) stared back at me. "Any questions?" I asked, meekly.
Fortunately for me, there were two or three students brave enough to ask questions. And even more lucky, I could use those questions to expand a little more and eat up time. But the exercise had quickly become a race with the clock. When my student guide reappeared at the door, I breathed a sigh of relief.
As the teacher thanked me and the students clapped, one boy who hadn't spoken through the whole class motioned to me to approach him. I walked over. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked. You've got to respect a seventh grader with those kinds of guts, I thought.
Heading up to my next class, I tried to plot in my head exactly what I would say. As I walked in the door, an older group of students, even more chaotic than the last group greeted me. The teacher, who seemed to be disgusted with the kids, told me to start and then plunked herself down behind her desk, where she remained silently through the entire presentation.
If the first go was bad, the second was worse. The group was unruly, and I found myself shushing them to be quiet when one of their classmates had a legitimate question. The teacher made no effort to control them; in fact, at one point, they insulted her and she only glared at them. Quality education at work.
Then my friend who had invited me showed up to listen in, but by this point, the presentation was go nowhere. For 10 minutes, I tried to babble on, sounding more and more ridiculous. The kids, picking up on my discomfort, exploited it, mocking some of the things I said and laughing.
So by the time I shuffled defeatedly to the last group, I was spent. Fortunately, the last group had a teacher who was clearly in control of the classroom. By this time, I had gotten my shit together and actually talked about my job coherently for more than five minutes. The kids had thoughtful, interesting questions and seemed to at least listen to what I said.
My one takeaway from the entire experience? In that last classroom, one shy little girl tentatively raised her hand. I walked over to her, and in a whisper, she said, "Your job sounds tight."
I think I blushed. "Thank you," I said, and the class giggled.
Ah, maybe they aren't so bad after all.
Oh no, none of that mattered. I just HAD to go speak at career day.
Never mind that my job really isn't that glamorous, or even easy to explain. Forget that I don't really have good visuals or many exciting stories. And completely disregard the fact that I've never been particularly good at getting media to actually cover the stories I pitch. I thought I could be the hero.
And so, I arrived this morning at a middle school somewhere in the middle of Prince George's County ready to be an EXCITING SPEAKER.
What is it about school environments that immediately suck all the life and energy from you? As I walked up to the doors with my former colleague, who was sweet enough to invite me, and two of her other friends, I felt a familiar feeling of dread settle over my chest. Surrounded by boisterous seventh- and eighth-graders, the old shyness that I've worked so hard in the last few years to overcome began to surface.
This wasn't going to be good.
After calming myself in the school library with some frozen fruit and a bagel, I was feeling a bit more secure. OK, so maybe my job isn't the most exciting. But if I were young, I'd have lots of questions to ask, right? So I'm sure I'll spend most of the time answering questions.
As my student guide led me down to the first classroom door, I took a deep breath. Damn, they were loud. Were my classrooms always this loud?
It was actually two classrooms consolidated into one. The teacher introduced me, and I launched into the little speech I had planned in my head. Five minutes later, I had reached the end. Blank faces (at least the ones that weren't talking to each other) stared back at me. "Any questions?" I asked, meekly.
Fortunately for me, there were two or three students brave enough to ask questions. And even more lucky, I could use those questions to expand a little more and eat up time. But the exercise had quickly become a race with the clock. When my student guide reappeared at the door, I breathed a sigh of relief.
As the teacher thanked me and the students clapped, one boy who hadn't spoken through the whole class motioned to me to approach him. I walked over. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked. You've got to respect a seventh grader with those kinds of guts, I thought.
Heading up to my next class, I tried to plot in my head exactly what I would say. As I walked in the door, an older group of students, even more chaotic than the last group greeted me. The teacher, who seemed to be disgusted with the kids, told me to start and then plunked herself down behind her desk, where she remained silently through the entire presentation.
If the first go was bad, the second was worse. The group was unruly, and I found myself shushing them to be quiet when one of their classmates had a legitimate question. The teacher made no effort to control them; in fact, at one point, they insulted her and she only glared at them. Quality education at work.
Then my friend who had invited me showed up to listen in, but by this point, the presentation was go nowhere. For 10 minutes, I tried to babble on, sounding more and more ridiculous. The kids, picking up on my discomfort, exploited it, mocking some of the things I said and laughing.
So by the time I shuffled defeatedly to the last group, I was spent. Fortunately, the last group had a teacher who was clearly in control of the classroom. By this time, I had gotten my shit together and actually talked about my job coherently for more than five minutes. The kids had thoughtful, interesting questions and seemed to at least listen to what I said.
My one takeaway from the entire experience? In that last classroom, one shy little girl tentatively raised her hand. I walked over to her, and in a whisper, she said, "Your job sounds tight."
I think I blushed. "Thank you," I said, and the class giggled.
Ah, maybe they aren't so bad after all.
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