So Much More “Flex”ible at 32

September 18, 2023

I’ve fallen into a daily routine in my senior years. I’ve become very predictable. In fact, you probably already knew I was going to write that.

It was different, though, back when I taught school. Things changed up constantly, and I had to stay on my teaching toes.

Some of the biggest changes took place in the early ‘80s. We moved into our new building.  On top of that, our administration figured we might as well try a new schedule. Instead of six 55-minute periods, we’d shave a few minutes off each one to add a short 7th period. 

That extra period was called flex time, and for good reason. Flex time wasn’t about the three Rs. The idea was to give students a chance to pick up a new skill or pursue an interest and make the day less tedious. The students would rotate to a new class each quarter.

The new classes definitely shook up my routine. First quarter I taught construction, second quarter library, and third landscaping. Fourth quarter, however, flex time was dedicated to the arts.

Each class was composed of both seventh and eighth graders together. One room had chorus, another art, another folk dance, and another that I can’t remember. I was overjoyed that I got selected to help monitor, and not teach, the chorus class. Not that I’m musical, but I’ll take anything over drawing and folk dancing.

Chorus class took place in an average-sized classroom with students packed together like an overstuffed suitcase. Luckily, the chorus teacher was a rather imposing figure and was able to keep all the students contained for the most part. It looked like I was in there mainly just for the musical journey. I passed out the music books. At the end of class, I collected them, as well as a number of spent paper wads.

The air conditioner cycles were still being adjusted in the building, and the air would only come on gradually as the day progressed. That is, until midday. For some reason, it kept kicking off after lunch. And it got hotter in school every week that fourth quarter.

Things went better in chorus class than I thought they would, though. The kids took surprisingly well to singing. They had three favorites, however, the tunes of which are forever burned into my musical brain cells.

The kids really got into “Fish and Chips and Vinegar.” This song makes no sense at all. Probably why they liked it so much.

Sorry for the cynicism, but kids in flex time were not the same kids that I had in my class the first six periods. They had the same names and faces, but they were not the same children. Even their parents would swear they weren’t theirs, even if DNA evidence would have been available to prove it. 

The second big hit was “Elvira.” They loved yelling out that name every time it showed up in the song, but not as much as they loved the “Giddy Up, Oom Poppa Oom Poppa Mow Mow.” Quiet nerds, big tough jocks, and everybody in between would sway back and forth in their seats in unison as Mr. C* played it on the piano.

And then there was “When I’m 64.” I enjoyed that song so much more back then when I was only 32. The kids loved it because when they got to the “Vera, Chuck and Dave” part, for some unexplainable  reason they would yell out the name Chuck. Every. Single. Time.

Mr. C would feign annoyance, but I could see what he was up to. The kids had the joy of thinking they were being contrary, even though he couldn’t have cared less. His strategy took care of most of their innate need to misbehave the last period of the day.

There was just no stopping the chatter, though. In between songs, it would immediately start getting noisy. The noise would build. Mr. C wouldn’t say anything. Finally, when it reached a level where the lone window in the room nearly started rattling, he would begin masterfully striking the keys to the next song. He played loud enough to drown out any chatter. Since the kids couldn’t hear each other talking, they figured they might as well sing along.

And if they did sing enthusiastically that day, Mr. C would play their three favorite songs to finish off the class. I figured that would get old with them, but then I was used to being wrong about middle schoolers. 

Once in a while Mr. C would take someone to the hall to threaten them. To my relief, he left the door open so the class could see and hear him. I think he wanted the others to respond vicariously to the warning. But maybe he just wanted to go into the hall for a breath of cooler air. 

What an easy gig. I was one of the kids, just singing along.  I even started to adopt their philosophy. This was not flex time. It was fun time!

Till that day the last week of school.

Class had just started and it must’ve been near 90° in there. I was already drenched; so were the kids. They didn’t care. The day was about over. This was the final day of “fun time.” Summer vacation was only a couple of days away. 

Mr. C tried to go with the flow and played even louder than usual. I tried to look helpful. We made it through a couple of songs, but during the third someone crossed the line.  Mr. C immediately left the piano and escorted the unfortunate, but deserving, soul to the office. He was angry. This time he wasn’t feigning anything.

Mr. C had never left the room before. This was my dad’s prophecy come true: You will be sorry someday that you quit piano lessons.

It was eerily quiet at first. Mr. C had been very upset with that student and his anger hung in the room like a mist—for all of 15 seconds.

By then I was sweating oceans. As if on cue, everyone realized they were alone with Mr. S, who had been more of a student than a monitor this quarter. What was he now?

I’ve always been told not to let them see you sweat, but it was way too late for that.

The talking started, and the noise level rose by the second. By the time Mr. C had been gone two minutes, it was deafening. It was way past the glass-rattling level where Mr. C would start playing the piano and the noise would morph into singing.

I couldn’t remember a single song from childhood to play on the piano. Well, there was “Chopsticks,” but how could the kids sing along to that? I couldn’t go up to the chalkboard and draw. I couldn’t do a folk dance. And I couldn’t do whatever that other flex time was about.

A paper airplane came out of nowhere. Some kids stood up. Disaster was seconds away.

I was only 32, but I knew I’d never make it to 64. Just when I was at the point of being gripped by the Stockholm syndrome and joining in the shenanigans myself, the door opened. 

The standing kids oozed back into their chairs. The decibel level dwindled for a moment, but as Mr. C walked toward the piano, it began to increase again. He grinned my way as if to say, “Well, three minutes of torture never killed anyone. And besides, you’ve had it made all quarter.”

I almost looked up a piano teacher that summer. But then I heard flex time would be dropped the following year.

It would be nice, though, just to break the routine these days, to be able to sit around and play pieces myself once in a while. Nonsense songs and country ballads would be fun. But first choice would have to be “When I’m 64.” Even if the expiration date has come and gone on that one.

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