Apathy

Friday, April 28, 1995

It’s not even Friday. It’s Saturday.

By the time I left campus yesterday, at three o’clock, after I had worked on weekly grades, put together individualized progress reports for the Nines, created a sample chapter study guide (like the ones I’ll be asking the 4/4H’s to create next week for Brave New World), picked up my check from the office and my Professional Growth stuff from GumpDumb (all during my prep period), I was trudging down the hall. It was nearly deserted.

In mid-trudge, I had a flashback... Morning. The first warning bell has just rung: seven-eighteen. I am heading to class from the lounge. The hall is as devoid of adults as it will be these eight hours later. Students are milling about, heading to rooms, some open, most closed. A small group (my first period Nines) wait at my door, a few more at my west neighbor’s (and they’ll wait at least until the tardy bell rings since she’s notoriously late). As I open my door to let my students in, I look down the hall again. There are no teachers standing at their doors. It is a marked contrast to two months ago, when at least five teachers would be outside doors, greeting students. I would be there, too, so would Dan Thurber (a first-year replacement teacher), Jane Harb (my east neighbor, who won’t be here in the Fall, she of the soon-to-be-an-optometry-student hubby), Rick Habberston, and Harold Laws; sometimes David Jones and Gloria would be outside their classes as well. But that was before WASC, before the Big One, before March Blues. Now Harold and Rick come out only to close their doors, Jane is mentally preparing for the interviews that will come with the job-hunt up north, and I spend only about the last minute before class at my door. Dan spends a little more time there, probably two to three minutes, but he’s still trying to be rehired for next year.

I shook my head and the flashback ended. I now saw Dan Thurber tiredly hoisting up bundles of newspapers off a cart and Cindy Daniels, bowed and bent, opening (or was it closing?) her period-four classroom door. Dan offered a half-wave, Cindy nodded goodbye.

Three girl students stood at the end of the otherwise deserted hall, taking all this in. As I approached, I overheard one say to the another, "God, they all look so tired. When I reached them, the third asked, "Are you really tired?"

"Aren’t you?" I tried to smile. I wasn’t sure it was effective.

The first girl asked, "Are you Mrs. Walters’s husband?" She had obviously gone to Lisa’s junior high.

"Duh," said the second, as I passed them. "His name’s Mr. Walters."

The third called out behind me as I headed slowly for the gate, "How’s your baby?"

"Great," I called out over my shoulder, smiling. "That’s why I’m heading home early!" They giggled.

I lied. I wasn’t going home. I was heading cross-town to Kevin’s Adult Ed office, so that I could scan some images for my own 4/4H Electronic Portfolio (documenting hate groups—this in the aftermath of Oklahoma City—and introducing what I have decided will be our final piece of literature for the year, Steven Deitz’s docu-drama, God’s County). Kevin had not seen the infamous memo again, but he didn’t seem too sure if the Parent Meeting handout was the final version of the rough thing he saw.

What does it matter now, anyway?

Who cares? We no longer stand at our doors like sentries guarding against barbarians at the gate. We now close up and leave quickly after the school day ends, hanging our heads and dragging our feet. This is more than fatigue.

It’s apathy. (and the joke goes: And I don’t care. but neither does anyone else it seems... the staff year-end barbecue has been canceled due to "lack of interest". c’est la vie [but is this really any kind of life?])