Prom War Journal
May. 2nd, 2006 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mcroftProm War Journal: It was just another day at Delta High. Charlie was quiet, and I had a squad of Student Teachers to take into the Jungle tonight. I only had 21 days left on my tour, but I was gonna try today, try to get them all back out alive. I dunno why I was bothering, but if they were mine, I was gonna turn 'em into teachers.
I finished up my cigarette and walked in to the lounge. As they were getting to their feet, I started bellowing. Best to get their attention now. They'd learn to listen to me, or they'd be out of here. The way most people who didn't listen get out of here, most likely. So many didn't make it through the first year.
They were green and looked it. All fresh-faced Masters of Education just shy of their certificates, convinced they’d be the lucky ones. Full of theory and promise and rainbows and unicorns and whatever else they stuff in your head on the Edu track. Yeah, I remembered all that basic crap, none of it worth a damn. It’'s a damn shame what they’re gonna learn tonight. And beyond, if they're still with us come Monday. Time to wake ‘em up.
"Alright, Ladies, this is how it is. I know you would rather be writing lesson plans about The Grateful Dead for your Music Appreciation for Morons Class or agonizing over which color chalk will make five-year olds pay attention without Ritalin, but this, Ladies, is Prom. Prom is Hell and you are in it. I am Sergeant Kindred and I will be your guide and savior. I will be Virgil to your Dante." The one who smiled? I'd give her the radio. That's all you can do with Classics majors.
"Now, the fine young citizens in the ballrooms and bathrooms of the Radison Grand Hotel are not going to help you find Charlie today. Charlie has drugs, Charlie has alcohol, Charlie has the Vice Principal's daughter's panties, but Charlie also has the hearts and minds of everyone on that dance floor. You will need to exercise care, Ladies. We'll sweep from the doors here to the bathrooms, to the exit by the bandstand. Do not stop, do not get separated, do not help Victoria Hertzog adjust her spaghetti straps, do not dance with the members of the chess club, do not dance at all, Ladies. Miss Danforth's example from last year should keep you from doing that."
I looked across the dance floor while they forgot what I'd told them. Charlie was there, amongst the smell of Brut and Old Spice and Love's Baby Soft and Boone's Farm Apple, the flash of the disco balls and the uneven beat of the Class President's Best-Friend's Boyfriend's No-Talent Band. Charlie might be in that ill-fitting powder blue tuxedo by the tables, he might be in that crowd of boys who couldn't ask a girl to dance if you paid them. "Follow Ol' Sergeant Kit, Ladies, and look for the clues, just like I told you. The easiest one is on the feet. Charlie, he always wears Chucks." Or she does, I didn't add. They'd know that soon enough.
We moved out, and I tried to get them all back out alive.
Inspired by Kit Kindred's life, as posted...
I finished up my cigarette and walked in to the lounge. As they were getting to their feet, I started bellowing. Best to get their attention now. They'd learn to listen to me, or they'd be out of here. The way most people who didn't listen get out of here, most likely. So many didn't make it through the first year.
They were green and looked it. All fresh-faced Masters of Education just shy of their certificates, convinced they’d be the lucky ones. Full of theory and promise and rainbows and unicorns and whatever else they stuff in your head on the Edu track. Yeah, I remembered all that basic crap, none of it worth a damn. It’'s a damn shame what they’re gonna learn tonight. And beyond, if they're still with us come Monday. Time to wake ‘em up.
"Alright, Ladies, this is how it is. I know you would rather be writing lesson plans about The Grateful Dead for your Music Appreciation for Morons Class or agonizing over which color chalk will make five-year olds pay attention without Ritalin, but this, Ladies, is Prom. Prom is Hell and you are in it. I am Sergeant Kindred and I will be your guide and savior. I will be Virgil to your Dante." The one who smiled? I'd give her the radio. That's all you can do with Classics majors.
"Now, the fine young citizens in the ballrooms and bathrooms of the Radison Grand Hotel are not going to help you find Charlie today. Charlie has drugs, Charlie has alcohol, Charlie has the Vice Principal's daughter's panties, but Charlie also has the hearts and minds of everyone on that dance floor. You will need to exercise care, Ladies. We'll sweep from the doors here to the bathrooms, to the exit by the bandstand. Do not stop, do not get separated, do not help Victoria Hertzog adjust her spaghetti straps, do not dance with the members of the chess club, do not dance at all, Ladies. Miss Danforth's example from last year should keep you from doing that."
I looked across the dance floor while they forgot what I'd told them. Charlie was there, amongst the smell of Brut and Old Spice and Love's Baby Soft and Boone's Farm Apple, the flash of the disco balls and the uneven beat of the Class President's Best-Friend's Boyfriend's No-Talent Band. Charlie might be in that ill-fitting powder blue tuxedo by the tables, he might be in that crowd of boys who couldn't ask a girl to dance if you paid them. "Follow Ol' Sergeant Kit, Ladies, and look for the clues, just like I told you. The easiest one is on the feet. Charlie, he always wears Chucks." Or she does, I didn't add. They'd know that soon enough.
We moved out, and I tried to get them all back out alive.
Inspired by Kit Kindred's life, as posted...
