Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.

Halo Reach ID

I just wanted to buy Halo Reach. That's all.

All weekend, I planned on purchasing the new Xbox 360 game during my Tuesday lunch break. This would allow me to go home directly after work and avoid the brutal rush-hour traffic around my local Best Buy. I put my "Happy Birthday from Best Buy" gift card in the top drawer of my desk at work. With a $100 balance on the card, the only thing standing between me and Master Chief was 4th period.

The second hand moved with the speed of melting ice on a cool day. Though I usually appreciate student comments, today, minutes from Halo Reach, their inanity grated my patience. I kept glancing back at the top drawer of my desk, imagining the moment when I could fondle the plastic gift card and slide it into the cashier's scanner. So eager for the climax of my day, I held the card in my hand five minutes
before class even ended.

And when the bell finally released me, I shooed the children from their chairs as if the room was on fire. I power walked to my car and almost vehicular-manslaughtered the janitor as I cut through the lines of the parking lot. Down the street, the deep blue of the Best Buy sign taunted me like the ocean taunting a captive goldfish.

In the moment of sweet release, I got into the Customer Service line, stacks of Halo Reach a mere three feet away. "Next in line," never sounded so beautiful. I slammed my pre-order receipt on the counter and said, "One standard Halo Reach please." The female cashier mockingly smirked at my nerdy bravado. I didn't care; I could taste firefight and forge modes, Spartans and Elites.

"Can I see your ID?"

In my feverish haste, I sped to Best Buy without my driver's license on my person. I had no form of identification to purchase the "Mature" rated title with realistic blood and gore. I pleaded with her, showing her my car keys and necktie: "Would someone under 18 be wearing this in the middle of the day?" My fingers grew wet with frustration. Sweat bled onto my gift card. It was no use: the tiny girl would not budge for my logic. I walked back to my car knowing I wouldn't have time to return until after school, when traffic would ensnare me.

Some people like getting carded. In their folksy voices, I hear crinkled women say, "Oh, I take it as a compliment!" People can only be happy when they don't have something at stake. Or maybe old women just don't care about alcohol or video games.