- “Butch up, Sally!” (to a football player whining about a 1-page creative writing assignment).
- “What’s Purgatory? It’s God’s waiting room, like the Department of Motor Vehicles. Not heaven, not hell. You just have to wait there, bored, ’til they call your number.”
It’s like doing theatre: I have to get their attention, which is fully absorbed by iPhones and Blackberries; status updates and tweets; Jersey Shore and thumb-summoned pornography.* They’re too young to know how much trouble they’re in if they don’t finish high school, so part of my job is to know it for them. To require them to do things that make no sense to them; that they truly believe are useless. I am a modern-day scholastic Cassandra, whose curse is to speak the truth and be thought insane.
In semi-unrelated news:
- I asked the GSA kids to count how many times they heard “That’s so gay,” “You homo,” “He’s such a fag,” etc., in the halls from last Monday to this. The number? 178. And that’s because a bunch of them forgot to keep a tally.
- I’ve fallen in love with ‘Friday Night Lights.” At first, I thought it was a dude’s show — the women seemed to have nothing but supporting roles — but I was wrong. More on this later, even though I’m a way-late adopter.
- I’m trying to write about a traumatic relationship, but doing so has a re-traumatizing effect. I’m a Vietnam vet and she’s a helicopter. Any suggestions from my fellow writers?