| |
I was once forced (if that is the word for it) as an adult to simulate being a high school student over an extended period of time. It wasn't pretty, but it was necessary. Here is that story:
In the beginning of my teaching career in the late '60's, I had taught at the college level full time. It was possible to do that in those long-ago days with just a masters degree. But after taking the time to get a bachelors degree in another field, I found that the job market in higher education was now closed to me. And, as I hadn't yet gotten certified to teach in Massachusetts, public school jobs were also unobtainable.
So I took a job as a 'tutor' at Lexington High School. This was in reality a helper in a self-contained classroom. The pay was $7.50 per hour for a 30-hour week.
That was the fall of 1976. Our daughter had just been born and so we were in need of additional funds to pay bills. I was eating my lunches in the cafeteria and paying the faculty price for them. As I recall, teachers paid around $1.25 for their meals, while students paid $0.50. The difference over a 180-day school year was $135. That was a significant amount in those days.
I asked whether, because of my low pay, I could get my lunches at the student rate, but I was told that I couldn't.
So it became clear what I had to do: I had to simulate being a student in the cafeteria. I would have to give a daily performance which would fool the cafeteria workers - or at least the woman at the cash register.
How difficult, I wondered, would that be?
I paid faculty rates in the lunchroom a couple of more days while I closely observed the student human comedy there.
The first question was: could I look the part of a student in the age of my face? The answer I came up with was: most decidedly. I had always had a youthful face: I did not really start shaving until I was out of college (Brahms's voice didn't change until he was 25, but that's another story.) In particular, I had (still have) 'baby cheeks' with scarcely a hint of beard (I'd like to think this to be an indication of androgyny.) I was 32 now, but my face hadn't aged all that much (having no conscience, I never worried.) I saw several examples of students there with faces which looked much older than mine: grizzled veterans who looked like they had to shave thrice per day; wizened sages wrinkled before their time; etc. So I seemed fine in the face department.
The next question had to do with clothing. I soon realized that I had nothing in my wardrobe which even remotely resembled what I saw in the lunchroom. I would have to import the clothing I would wear. So off I went to a Goodwill store, where I purchased: a pair of worn bell-bottomed jeans; a Jim Morrison T-shirt; and a pair of Ked hightop red sneakers.
I tie-dyed the Jim Morrison T-shirt. As for the jeans: worn as they were, they were not nearly worn enough to belong to a student. So I took them down into the basement, where I placed a 2x4 up inside each leg. Then I used a power sander to wear away the material in the knees and thighs until they were threadbare. I also cut off the bottoms of the legs so that the material would fray there.
The sneakers were fine as they were.
I now began to consider what demeanor I wanted to present to the world (i.e., the lunchroom) whilst attired in that habillement. This I divided into two parts – the non-verbal, and the verbal:
In the case of the non-verbal, I first thoroughly tousled my hair until it was wild and down over my eyes. I made sure I was chewing gum – with my mouth open, of course. (Gone were the halcyon '50's of my own youth, when chewing gum in school was the arch-crime. Now, on the tail of the drugged-out '60's, gum was the least of the worries of principal and teachers.) I cultivated a decided slouch, and developed with practice an awkward insouciance, which would turn into a nervous swagger whenever I seemed to be feeling my oats. I practiced avoiding eye contact with adults, leaving them with the impression that my insolence took the form of indifference. And then, as a final touch, I tucked a Marlboro cigarette behind one ear. (In those days, students were allowed to smoke at school, albeit in a special cordoned-off corner of the parking lot.)
As for the verbal: on my reconnoitering missions I had noticed that the quickest way to be ignored in the lunchroom was to behave in an overtly absurd fashion. The more obnoxious one was, the more one blended in.
So I sought to be overt and obnoxious. I dressed up in my 'scholarly' attire and tousled my hair. I sauntered in and took a tray (I made sure I always held the tray with my left hand, so that my wedding ring was hidden. Of course I had laid out the money beforehand.) I went through the line, snapping gum and avoiding eye contact. I slouched, resembling a coiled spring. Then, just when I reached the checkout lady (that is, The Crucial Point), I suddenly yelled out into the lunchroom (I was not yelling to an actual person, but the cashier didn't know that), 'Hey Joe, waddcha get on that math test? The old bag gave me a D! I'll fix her tomorrow with a good wet spitball!' The last word was scarcely out of my mouth when the cash register rang. I glanced at the amount: it was $0.50. She hadn't even hesitated.
Only once did I see a look of suspicion in a cafeteria worker's face. I saw her staring at me (perhaps she had seen my ring) while I was eating. I had heard it said that desperate situations call for desperate measures; this was clearly one of those situations. So, out of the blue I began to laugh hysterically and flail about. In the process, I knocked over my milk.
I glanced slyly over at the suspicious worker. She had turned away in disgust. That's when I knew I had done it. I had carried it off. I had arrived.
Gradually I was able to wean myself of the bizarre outfit. As for my demeanor, I maintained the traits of a surly youth for a while, but gradually I phased those out too. My hair was combed; the gum disappeared; and I ceased to slouch. I even made eye contact! It was as if I had been taken in hand by a kindly aunt. Finally all that was left was the hint of a frown (a compact reference to everything else), which I could invoke should the need ever arise.
I learned my lesson from all this: I needed a decent-paying job. So the next fall I started taking courses to get certified to teach.
P.S. For some reason I cannot fathom, I did not ever consider packing my own lunches. Why not? Perhaps because doing so would have deprived me of playing a daily dramatic role which for whatever reason I needed and wanted to play.
P.P.S. The reader who found the above exercise in surreptitious frugality amusing might also want to read
'Wine & Cigarettes'.
Back to top
|
|
|
|
