50p
I Miss That Kid
Last Friday Jayden J, Hope '20 and Mr Collis hosted a Slam Poetry evening. Here is Mr Collis' heartfelt contribution.
I miss you.
I miss the kid who over participates in class. In a 20 minute discussion, this fire hose will blast away for at least 15 of those minutes, other hands up in the air be damned. Maybe, like my friend Harold, talking things through is how they solve problems. Maybe they were never taught social cues. I miss that kid.
And I miss the kid who almost never says anything. I see him in the shadows, lurking, avoiding eye contact. This Sphinx has turned not sharing into an art. Like a dog before an earthquake, he knows when participation is coming -- and slips off to the bathroom. He hoards his words like they are part of his monthly data limit, and his mom will kill him if he exceeds it again. I miss that kid.
I miss the kid who is so anxious about grades, I can see veins change position on her head when I return essays. I miss telling that kid, “Grades are not important; character is important.” I miss that kid ignoring me.
I miss the try soft (the opposite of the try hard). This kid will read the Spark Notes instead of the novel, copy their buddy’s lab instead of doing it, and tell his English teacher that he can’t come to tutorial because he already has a math tutorial. I’m pretty sure he is lying, he is pretty sure that I know he is lying, and both of us know I will forget to check. This kid thinks there are better things to do than school, and he may be right. I miss that kid.
I miss the really weird kid. I mean, we’re all weird when you get to know us, but these kids lean all the way in, like some sort of pre-emptive strike of shock and awkwardness.
I miss the jock. I also miss the jock who’s not actually very good at sports.
I miss the nerd who accepts this label, knowing she will one day employ the people who call her nerd. I miss their pregnant pencil cases, their laminated binders, their brows furrowed with a look of urgent concern even over the dullest of worksheets.
I miss the kid who just wants to watch a class burn.
I miss the kid who hears a chair make a fart noise and laughs and laughs and laughs.
I miss the kid who loses his concentration every time he notices someone move. He’s like a quail in my garden.
I miss the gamer who’s always sleep-deprived.
I miss the kid who grooms during lessons.
I miss you when you are cranky. I miss you when you are polite. I miss being surprised by you. I miss the kid who says inappropriate things.
Zeus H. Christ in a Chicken Basket: I really miss you.
Mr Paul Collis
I miss you.
I miss the kid who over participates in class. In a 20 minute discussion, this fire hose will blast away for at least 15 of those minutes, other hands up in the air be damned. Maybe, like my friend Harold, talking things through is how they solve problems. Maybe they were never taught social cues. I miss that kid.
And I miss the kid who almost never says anything. I see him in the shadows, lurking, avoiding eye contact. This Sphinx has turned not sharing into an art. Like a dog before an earthquake, he knows when participation is coming -- and slips off to the bathroom. He hoards his words like they are part of his monthly data limit, and his mom will kill him if he exceeds it again. I miss that kid.
I miss the kid who is so anxious about grades, I can see veins change position on her head when I return essays. I miss telling that kid, “Grades are not important; character is important.” I miss that kid ignoring me.
I miss the try soft (the opposite of the try hard). This kid will read the Spark Notes instead of the novel, copy their buddy’s lab instead of doing it, and tell his English teacher that he can’t come to tutorial because he already has a math tutorial. I’m pretty sure he is lying, he is pretty sure that I know he is lying, and both of us know I will forget to check. This kid thinks there are better things to do than school, and he may be right. I miss that kid.
I miss the really weird kid. I mean, we’re all weird when you get to know us, but these kids lean all the way in, like some sort of pre-emptive strike of shock and awkwardness.
I miss the jock. I also miss the jock who’s not actually very good at sports.
I miss the nerd who accepts this label, knowing she will one day employ the people who call her nerd. I miss their pregnant pencil cases, their laminated binders, their brows furrowed with a look of urgent concern even over the dullest of worksheets.
I miss the kid who just wants to watch a class burn.
I miss the kid who hears a chair make a fart noise and laughs and laughs and laughs.
I miss the kid who loses his concentration every time he notices someone move. He’s like a quail in my garden.
I miss the gamer who’s always sleep-deprived.
I miss the kid who grooms during lessons.
I miss you when you are cranky. I miss you when you are polite. I miss being surprised by you. I miss the kid who says inappropriate things.
Zeus H. Christ in a Chicken Basket: I really miss you.
Mr Paul Collis