To Kill a Mockingjay

This is the second installment in my substitute teaching fan fiction series. To read the first installment, click here.

He wondered why he even traveled to the outer districts.  Sure, he understood the need was there and the job was there. However, at the end of the day, would there be any bread left for Jon?

He drove thirty minutes west towards the outer district.  The trees grew up around him until he suddenly passed into a giant field.  On the outer edge, he saw it- the outer district training center.  Today, he would need to prepare the citizens of district 11 for an important task in their dim futures: Venn diagram completion.

Commissioner Venn had created a full proof system.  With two swift strokes of his fountain pen, he showed each trainee how they were different, but not unequal.  They were all the same in some ways, but do not forget that we are different... separate.

Jon had long accepted the fact that each district had their own ways, but when the bell rang they all made the same sound.  The cacophony of district 11 was no different than the blabbering of district 8 or the chit chat of district 17 or the howling of district 2.   Jon had built an immunity to it- at least on most days.

Today Jon requested, asked, and then demanded his trainees' silence.  He had dimmed the lights, closed the blinds, and allowed them to shift their metal seats loudly across the tiled floor. Each time they asked for more, he knew he was losing control, and as he had been trained- you have to control the game to succeed.  As the opening credits to the classic To Kill A Mockingjay played, Jon stood high on a desk and made one final move for respect.  Suddenly, he had silence.  Some traineees logged out, placing their heads on their desks, others picked up their pencils and began their training.  He had done it... barely.

The peanut butter and jelly desegregated in his mouth.  He chomped down in silence- a short rest before the training would restart.  The importance of the Mockingjay might be lost on most students, but Jon had to control the room again for those who would learn to love it as he had learned to love it decades ago in similar metal chairs on similar tiled floors and awaiting a similar result in fate's arena.

A Raven has sent Word

Today I received a raven from Hampshire.  It had an all important message fit for pages of this binding:

Warn Sir Jon that his adopted liege lords wear smiles with sharp teeth and send him on quests they would be loathe to venture on themselves.  He should know, too, that among his young masters their may be an Arthur, but there are also morphlings sent by the dark mistress to suck his blood, crush his spirit, and laugh at his dreams... Still, if, with his light armor and untempered steel, he can survive that barren frontier, he will learn wonderful secrets and sharpen his craft and cunning to become a true knight. If he can endure, he will one day find honor upon the field, loyal colleagues at his side, and quests beyond imagining.  Goodspeed, Sir Jon!


Yet another lesson to carve into the storm battled wood of my life-tree.  

The Squire was no locksmith

So recently I have been doing substitute teaching work. There are a great number of issues I have with the work, but there is one great part of subbin'. Every night I come home and can have a beer, watch some TV and relax.  I don't have to lesson plan or stress or worry about much and it feels great.  In fact, recently, since I don't get Comcast Sportsnet, I have been getting a bit bored. And so, I thought I would try and write about my disposable daily experiences in order to keep a log.  Then, I thought maybe it would be fun to write about them as if I were in various universes I enjoy visiting. While this might sound like escapism, it's really something entirely different- and that something is fan fiction. So, here is my first entry into my substitute teaching fan fiction storylog. 

Jon knew he was traveling East as the sun pierced his windshield.  The kingsroad was quieter than he expected at this hour, as he drove by Sir Duncan's, Jon debated stopping for a warm mug of dark cream to help thaw his bones.   No! tardiness would be a mark of death with his faceless masters.  It was a risk his dripping eyes would blink away.  He carried on, reminded of the words of his bride's house sigil: the early bird.

Upon arrival he was handed a scroll with his day's chores.  They were lengthy at first glance and Jon became as confused as a Dothraki in water. He was used to a way of sheet working and screen viewing and such tasks took little explanation. Here, before him was something new... something exciting.

As he leafed through his mission, he learned he would be spending the day as a squire for a young master.  A squire's duties are not to be overlooked. He must see to his master's every need and be sure his master is fully capable of indulging in the full gain of education.  Pencils must be sharp as a dragon's talon and pages must be turned as swiftly as a king's reign.  It is the squire's duty to keep his master apace with his peers and not allow him to fall behind. As while the war is still early, Jon knew important victories were had in a king's youth as much as in his old age.

When he finished his master's scroll, Jon's brow lifted in excitement. He realized his day would be a rarity in the realm of his craft. He would be squiring for a master in a steel chair.  The steel chair masters were often well aware of their unique attribute.  They excelled above  many of the other players in the game as they had already accepted and embraced their individuality. In a realm in which trying to fit in and be absorbed into the mass was such a commonality, the steel chaired patrons of the realm had long left that trivial and ridiculous concept in the dust.  Jon hoped Sir Alan would be such a master.

It did not take long to realize, this was the case.  In a quick minute, Alan had grabbed his squire's instructions and read through them disapprovingly.  "Young squire," he beckoned, "these scrolls shall treat us fairly today, but take not- my name is misspelled in paragraph two. We cannot have such mistakes." Master Allen spoke confidently and with a candor unseen in these lands. Squire Jon was entrenched in the mid-lands; a place of vanity in which the house sigils were commonly colored blue to represent a desirable, yet unattainable, image of cool.  Master Alan, caped in a green hooded windbreaker, continued to speak,  "Furthermore, my locker needs opening."

At that, the squire bent down and quickly fiddled through the three number combination hoping it would work. It did not.  Squire Jon was no locksmith. In fact, he rarely carried a key to anything except his front gate. He reversed it, knowing that in some parts of these lands, clocks ticked backended.  Again, it did not open. Master Alan peered over Jon's shoulder, instructing him as his shaking fingers spun left to right to left again, and with a single clink- the iron lock sprung.  The day had just begun and the squire knew he would have to be on his toes with this one.

Criticism

Is there a place in the world where people are just happy to appreciate things as they are?  Where they read an article or story or poem and instead of criticizing it, they say, "wow, someone put a lot of effort into making that... Good for them!"?

What is the air like in this place? Would it be as fresh as a cracked orange? It wouldn't need to be.  People wouldn't criticize smog.  They would think about how great it is to be able to travel anywhere they want affordably or how useful electricity can be.

What is the food like there?  Would it be made with the love and care of a Grandmother preparing Thanksgiving? It wouldn't need to be.  People would realize, despite the bland taste, the nutrients were still giving them useful energy.

What is the classroom like there? Would the students quit moaning about homework and calling Shakespeare, "stupid?" Would they embrace the concept of knowledge and treat their peers with respect? Would they come to class on time and apply themselves in hopes of discovering something new?  It wouldn't need to be.

I am

This week I had an assignment for class.  I am ashamed to say I scoffed at it.  To understand why, I need to explain that the past 6 months I have been writing lengthy papers about educational theory and connecting it to the classroom.  That seems to make sense when pursuing a masters degree in education.  So when the first assignment for my spring semester course was to:

 write a poem that starts with "I am"

I was a bit shocked.  I was a bit confused.  I reread the syllabus and made sure I wasn't missing the analysis part or the essay accompaniment for the poem.  That was it, just what you read above- write a poem that starts with "I am...". So tonite we sat in class and waited as nervous hands of graduate students that spend their whole day speaking in front of audiences slowly volunteered their voices and I am poems were recited.  It was great.  Every one was different and I learned so much about my classmates.  And it was enlightening and applicable and easy- well except for that bit of nerve-building needed to raise my hand:

I am a spot on a small blue dot.  In a sea, I am a single drop.  I flow over the  falls and am gone.  I am hopeful to make it to a teacup, be swallowed, and, later, sweated out on a dance floor in the basement of a tall building.  I am a thirty one year old student. I am learning. Everyday, after I am done learning, I am a drowsy face on a sofa watching sports highlites. I am a husband.  A good one, most days, some days, most days.  I am calmed by the arms of my wife and the paws of my dog.  I am on mountain tops in North Carolina. I am on a bus heading west, I am clenching my lips trying to keep the Delaware shore out.  I am a riff in a prog rock opus.  I am the upbeat, the augment, the off key.  I am outside the spotlight.  I am backstage, eating hummus, wishing I had clean socks.  I am putting on a sweater to save on the oil bill. I am cancelling the cable to read more. I am eating in. I am avoiding the dentist.  I am still buying good beer.  I am a night porter.  I clock in when everyone is asleep and clock out as they are awaking.  I make the coffee for them.  I enjoy the night.  I am a son.  I can do no wrong. I am not as smart as my parents, and need to quit acting like it.  I am a suburban farm boy.  I am not suburban, I am not a farm boy.  I am good at NBA Jam. I am a dog person.  I never truly understood cats, but still enjoy when they curl up on my stomach.  I wish I knew my way around Philadelphia better. I am a grid-city kind of guy.  I can figure out Manhattan.  I am Jon and I have a sneaker fetish. I have spent upwards of hours online ordering sneakers then usually erasing the order.  I am the type of person that stares at the ceiling and wonders what other people think about.  I am looking at the ceiling wondering if other people are the types of people that stare at the ceiling and wonder what other people think about.  I am totally fine with anything.  I am the last person you want to pick a restaurant.  I am engrossed by the stars. I am most engrossed in remote lands when the stars reach down to the horizon.  I look up and see billions of sparks flickering from light years away.  I am a spot on a small blue dot.