They have book work. I write the page and exercise references on the board. A couple of students, boys, come up to me at the start and tell me their technology teacher will be taking his class out to the nearby oval soon and set off some rockets they’ve made. The boys ask if they can go outside to watch when it happens. I say okay. In fact, I figure I’ll take the whole class out when the time comes. I know it’ll be pointless trying to keep them on task when the fireworks go off just outside their window.
They work pretty steadily. I wander around the room. A student I go past wants me to have a look at some lyrics he’s downloaded from the internet. What he’s doing with them in class, I don’t know; but he seems quite absorbed in them. He tells me they’re about the September 11 disaster, and asks me if I know who wrote them. I have a look and tell him they seem to be the lyrics of The Rising, by Bruce Springsteen. The boy asks me about Springsteen, speculating “Does he play the rock stuff?” “Yes, he does play ‘the rock stuff’”, I reply in profound understatement. I can’t understand why he didn’t know anyway, since he downloaded it - but no matter. I can’t believe he doesn’t know any of Bruce’s stuff. I mention Born To Run, but it draws a blank.
It’s time to take the class out and see the rockets go off. We go out and most of us sit on the embankment overlooking the oval. It’s a pleasant sunny morning. The technology teacher takes his class of boys out to the centre of the oval and they set up their rockets. Each of the boys who made a rocket gets to wire it up to the detonator and set it off. They go off spectacularly. Soon, the other two classes on this side of the school have joined my mob on the embankment, enjoying the distractions.
I chat with one of the other teachers. We’re enjoying the break from work. But the other teacher from the class at the far end, she’s not happy. She’s obviously uneasy at the prospect of having to take her kids outside for something as frivolous as this, when they should be working. She fidgets and frets and looks on disapprovingly. Some teachers just don’t know how to relax.
Our fireworks show finally ends, with little or no loss of limb or life, and we trudge happily back inside to wait for the bell for recess.
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