fostering hope and then squashing it.

One could almost hear the atmosphere shift into a sort of "slow-mo" as each of my steps grew more and more reluctant to continue the direction my body was headed down the hallway. Let's be honest; no one in their right mind really wants to teach drama. No one feels truly qualified to conduct a just and fair set of auditions. No one actually likes to post the names of the chosen onto the school bulletin board, tooting, -to those in "the know"- who is good and who is bad at acting (when, of course, most high school students are a genuine average (at best), and those chosen only seem to fit the team's dynamic better than others). And I am quite sure that no one likes to walk towards a group of drama students, half of whom were now grasping -with red, blurry eyes- that they would no longer be on the team. It is difficult to get acquainted with the awkwardness that comes with teaching high school students. Coming in such sporadic moments, such as a student explaining, "I drew an ass, but then thought it would be inappropriate." or getting canned by a mis-timed gesture from a sitting student, or explaining to a parent that I did not directly say that his child looked like a pig, they are unexpected... and cherished. These moments should be expected, like a sailor expects to see mermaids off the port bow.

They keep me on my toes.

I have had the opportunity to enjoy some exquisitely crafted skies this last week. The morning sky has literally stopped me in my tracks. It is a true blessing of the Prairies. Yes, we see sky wherever we may be on the planet, but only here are the skies actually living.

In education, the fine arts often get mistakenly split into two categories: Band and Visual Art. Children who regard themselves as musicians most likely have a certain passion for the art and even more likely a supportive parent or guardian (especially if a costly rental of an instrument is at stake). Everyone else, from Alice "the Cross Eyed" to Zack "No Fingers" McGee get raked into the visual arts. I am blessed to garner the latter misfortune to class sizes of illegitimate proportions. This year granted me 37 grade nine students. With a typical class at my school being 20-25, one wonders if I am a terrible butt of a even more terrible joke. Alas, an option of splitting the class would have resulted in my prep hours whittled away to nothing. So each week, for two and a half hours, I take on an uncharacteristic "snark" which -to my pleasant surprise- seems to be working. I can discard my "cool dude" first-year teacher personae and become an ambassador of Terror and Wrath...and blind-contour drawings. So far so good.