Around here, the school year is off to a rousing start. I have met with all my students, and was sure to devote much of my time to an extended Marxist analysis of the social stratification and class exploitation seen in Saved By The Bell. I noted how Mr. Belding’s thinning hairline paralleled his labor alienation at the hands of the the ownership class, and suggested that Slater’s muscle shirts perhaps represented the enforcement of bourgeois ideology by the capitalist superstructure. Also we talked about that time that Screech had a sentient, wise-cracking robot that never appeared on the show again.
Though my inclination would be to greet each of my returning students with a friendly handshake and a playful hair-tousle, for litigious reasons I have chosen instead to welcome students with a faint nod as I vacantly stare off into the middle distance. This will help my school avoid damaging lawsuits and disabuse my students of the notion that I am a caring and reasonable person.
Now, as I listen to the teenaged babel of the hallways, I rock back in my chair and knowingly stroke my beard. I know what is to come over the next ten fateful months, for I am the bearer of the pacing charts. Better to ration my energies now for use in the dark days of February, when the days are short, the cafeteria food is gray, and the lesson plans about the legal and political systems of the Byzantine Empire are hopelessly dreary.
School is, after all, a largely miserable experience populated with terrible people. I accept this with stoic dispassion; if I should lose this equilibrium, I will have a faithful 8th grader take my sword and run me through. Better to be dead than plunged into unacceptable agitation. This is the life of a social studies teacher.