Hit it

     Some things you can take for granted in middle school. The pungent smell of ripe BO post-PE gives way during the 7th grade year to the harsh chemical fug of Axe. Kids who inhaled their lunches only 30 minutes ago moan of intense hunger. Black eyeliner and Egyptian cat eyes make their appearance on the pale white visages of this year's budding crop of goths.

    And boys launch themselves like so many spindly gazelles to slap doorjambs, exit signs, clocks--well, just about anything.

    I wonder how many exit signs have been broken by adolescents wanting to leave an imprint on the world? 

    Thankfully, wearing backpacks has a grounding factor on young acrobats. But returning from the office or the restroom and not encumbered by 20-odd pounds of LL Bean's or North Face's finest 420-denier-nylon ballasted with books and binders and bottles--that is when they slip the bonds of gravity. Sprint and soar through the hallway. Smack exit signs and wall clocks with their grubby hands. 

    I wonder how many exit signs and wall clocks are replaced each year due to jostling and breaking? I wonder how many gallons of industrial degreaser are used to scour sweaty palmprints from transoms and jambs?

    And yet I can't condemn the kids who leap and cavort. There is something noble and aspirational in a kid who extends his reach beyond the norm. Something universal in that urge--as well as the underlying love of rhythm that makes kids beat out a quick rat-a-tat on lockers as they slouch by. In a world where most of us loll on the couch all night, anyone who stretches and jumps and slams is a hero. 

    

    In particular, I think of Andrew anytime I see energetic kids. Boy, he had energy and to spare. Whether it was slaloming his bike downhill or racing a golf cart to the green, he has always been in motion. Always restless and enthusiastic, even as an adult. Albeit with more focus and practicality now than at six or ten.

      Even teachers are a bit light on their toes....at the end of the school year. I have seen more than one teacher--maybe even a staid administrator--take to their heels in joy over the close of that last day. Maybe that is one of the benefits of teaching--surrounded by all this boundless energy of youth, it is inescapable that we get revitalized by it ourselves. 

    Or maybe it is the anarchic strains of Alice Cooper blaring over the PA system that invariably plays as soon as the corridors are cleared. School's out for summer, indeed