Thursday, October 23, 2003
LEITMOTIF
What is your leitmotif?
A leitmotif is often described as a short melody or phrase that is played, read, or spoken when an individual or an intangible idea re-materializes in a play or a musical.
What if we could hear or speak leitmotifs? What if we could hear words or bars of music in our heads as we interacted with friends, family, and strangers alike- throughout the course of our day? ...something like a musical?
I think I heard a leitmotif yesterday, when I had supervision duty during lunch in the junior high Courtyard area. Until Monday, I had never had such a duty, Typically, I supervise the high school Ramada or cafeteria, once a week, every three months. The junior high courtyard is a chaotic, motley, carnival-like assortment of children of all ages and sizes (there is one boy with an abnormally large shaped head..I suppose the rest of the body is still catching up?)
A few of the junior high boys are tall and lean-- but there are tell-tale signs that puberty has begun to chisel its mark on their "I'm-not-a-boy-not-yet-a-man" bodies. Most of the junior high boys are short and...well- just short. And their voices- my God! So high! So squeaky! These are the boys you have to watch out for. They know they are little, and still in the stage where "little-ness" can be a manipulative tool when confused with "cuteness." They mill and weave in and out of the lunch line, around the picnic tables, while a surreptitious"JAWS" leitmotif plays in my head. Push. Shove. Tousle. Snatch. Toss. Pelt. Insult. It begins.
"Hey! Cut it out!" I yell. "YOU!" I point and curl my pointer finger toward me, in a motion that indicates the accused should make his way to my table. He bows his head in the appropriate "I'm ashamed" position, and displays a sheepish smile. He is probably forming a sheeish excuse in his sheepish head with every sheepish step he makes. I wag my finger and recite a brief lecture that concludes with an assignment for him to pick up all the trash and wipe off all the tables. I end the decree with a brief wave of my hand to shoo him away. I feel faint. It's hot and I can see the steam rising from my forearms as the sun sizzles my life away. When will this wretched duty be over?
The junior high girls on the other hand seem to keep to themselves, holding ramdom and immaterial conversations with sisterly advice along the lines of: "Ashley, you shouldn't take that from your mom- I can't believe she said that to you." I hear snippets of how "the whole class thinks my presentation was the best." There are tall girls, and little girls. Mostly physically awkward and frighteningly skinny girls: not quite sure what to do with their hair, or their chest, or how to sit properly in a skirt. I consider asking a stick- thin 7th grader how she feels about the fact that her legs don't touch when she walks. Better not. Don't want to have to wipe away snotty tears during my lunch hour. As I eat my own lunch, and scowl at the sun, I see the girls I should really be keeping an eye on. They dare to sit with the boys, trying to make mature conversation, even though it's more than painfully obvious to the silent observer the boys are interested only in their lunch and the latest of video games.
Yesterday, a young lady walked up to a group of guys and began to talk in low tones. I began to hear familiar strains of Cindi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" leitmotif. So...she's one of THOSE girls. Nonchalantly, they acknowledged her with a nod of their heads. I heard someone mock her for "practicing what you're gonna say to him." Hmmm...that's piquant. I tried to hear more but another girl sauntered up beside her and together they slid off. Arm in arm. To a corner. Whispers. Hands over mouths. Laughing. Flicking blonde-Pantene-Commercial hair. More laughing. I glanced at my watch. 10 more minutes.
The good thing is there are only two more days to go; except today I'm cramping and so help me, God- if any of those kids leave trash on the ground and I have to talk to them about it they will see the righteous anger of the demons within me. (whoa- did I just type that? It felt like satan just pushed himself inside me and possessed my innocent body. PMS. It's a bitch.)
At this moment, I am preparing myself to suffer. Through the heat. Through the mindless chatter. Through the emptiness of lunch without adult banter or witty repartee. I will suffer for 55 minutes until I hear the leitmotif for teacherseverywhere, and the sound that governs the structure of our work day.The chime of the bell. Time for 6th period.
What is your leitmotif?
A leitmotif is often described as a short melody or phrase that is played, read, or spoken when an individual or an intangible idea re-materializes in a play or a musical.
What if we could hear or speak leitmotifs? What if we could hear words or bars of music in our heads as we interacted with friends, family, and strangers alike- throughout the course of our day? ...something like a musical?
I think I heard a leitmotif yesterday, when I had supervision duty during lunch in the junior high Courtyard area. Until Monday, I had never had such a duty, Typically, I supervise the high school Ramada or cafeteria, once a week, every three months. The junior high courtyard is a chaotic, motley, carnival-like assortment of children of all ages and sizes (there is one boy with an abnormally large shaped head..I suppose the rest of the body is still catching up?)
A few of the junior high boys are tall and lean-- but there are tell-tale signs that puberty has begun to chisel its mark on their "I'm-not-a-boy-not-yet-a-man" bodies. Most of the junior high boys are short and...well- just short. And their voices- my God! So high! So squeaky! These are the boys you have to watch out for. They know they are little, and still in the stage where "little-ness" can be a manipulative tool when confused with "cuteness." They mill and weave in and out of the lunch line, around the picnic tables, while a surreptitious"JAWS" leitmotif plays in my head. Push. Shove. Tousle. Snatch. Toss. Pelt. Insult. It begins.
"Hey! Cut it out!" I yell. "YOU!" I point and curl my pointer finger toward me, in a motion that indicates the accused should make his way to my table. He bows his head in the appropriate "I'm ashamed" position, and displays a sheepish smile. He is probably forming a sheeish excuse in his sheepish head with every sheepish step he makes. I wag my finger and recite a brief lecture that concludes with an assignment for him to pick up all the trash and wipe off all the tables. I end the decree with a brief wave of my hand to shoo him away. I feel faint. It's hot and I can see the steam rising from my forearms as the sun sizzles my life away. When will this wretched duty be over?
The junior high girls on the other hand seem to keep to themselves, holding ramdom and immaterial conversations with sisterly advice along the lines of: "Ashley, you shouldn't take that from your mom- I can't believe she said that to you." I hear snippets of how "the whole class thinks my presentation was the best." There are tall girls, and little girls. Mostly physically awkward and frighteningly skinny girls: not quite sure what to do with their hair, or their chest, or how to sit properly in a skirt. I consider asking a stick- thin 7th grader how she feels about the fact that her legs don't touch when she walks. Better not. Don't want to have to wipe away snotty tears during my lunch hour. As I eat my own lunch, and scowl at the sun, I see the girls I should really be keeping an eye on. They dare to sit with the boys, trying to make mature conversation, even though it's more than painfully obvious to the silent observer the boys are interested only in their lunch and the latest of video games.
Yesterday, a young lady walked up to a group of guys and began to talk in low tones. I began to hear familiar strains of Cindi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" leitmotif. So...she's one of THOSE girls. Nonchalantly, they acknowledged her with a nod of their heads. I heard someone mock her for "practicing what you're gonna say to him." Hmmm...that's piquant. I tried to hear more but another girl sauntered up beside her and together they slid off. Arm in arm. To a corner. Whispers. Hands over mouths. Laughing. Flicking blonde-Pantene-Commercial hair. More laughing. I glanced at my watch. 10 more minutes.
The good thing is there are only two more days to go; except today I'm cramping and so help me, God- if any of those kids leave trash on the ground and I have to talk to them about it they will see the righteous anger of the demons within me. (whoa- did I just type that? It felt like satan just pushed himself inside me and possessed my innocent body. PMS. It's a bitch.)
At this moment, I am preparing myself to suffer. Through the heat. Through the mindless chatter. Through the emptiness of lunch without adult banter or witty repartee. I will suffer for 55 minutes until I hear the leitmotif for teacherseverywhere, and the sound that governs the structure of our work day.The chime of the bell. Time for 6th period.
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