My Mom Thought Typing Was a Better Option

Ninth grade. Drafting. Selected as our major.

A perfect storm of personalities. A new teacher.

No chance of control.

Ian. Brian. Michael A. Peter. Rob. Dustin. Dave. Ryan. Jeff in a Morrissey t-shirt.

Few girls. Three. Kristen. Samantha. Kate talking Check Your Head.

Parent teacher conferences were inevitable. And they happened.

More than one in my case. Always embarrassing for my mother. She worked in the district.

I had many seats. Moved around. Not by choice. Eventually I sat with Rick. We had played soccer together. Various teams. In-house. Travel.

Others were moved. The games didn't stop. Throwing tennis balls around. Moving desks outside.

The classroom. Located near the shop classes. Contributing to our sense of freedom. Freedom from standard in-class behavior. Freedom from honors.

There was work. There was learning. Little of it committed to memory.

Brian developed his writing style.

The class constructed foamcore houses. In the real world. Mine would not have been structurally sound. The foamcore did not collapse under its own weight. Like a single family residence would have.

With the family inside.

We were at our worst in middle school. Junior high.

If I could go back. Find a lot of those teachers. Apologize. I would.

Morrissey - November Spawned a Monster. AKA Music. Bargain bin.