The Reservist
There are over a hundred and thirty of them; away from home, young, nervous, playful at times. It’s not normal for them to be here. They’ll stay for a year, at least; maybe more if things change.
Each morning I see them getting ready. Their uniforms set them apart from the others. There are a few who would rather be somewhere else, but my job is to keep them all here, all together, and get them all home.
The training given me over the years helps. Task, condition, standard. Praise in public; counsel in private. Work smart. Respect, leadership, attention to detail. Each day I reinforce these traits they grow a little. I work them hard so they will make it. What they are required to do is simple, but the environment we are all in makes even the simple things difficult.
The environment is harsh; the toilets are a long ways away and work sometimes; the twenty minute lunch breaks split a long day into two unequal parts. It’s hot. There is no air conditioning. Fans help, but they can’t reach everyone. Guidance from higher-up is contradictory and sometimes (usually) illogical, and even though my job is to put a good face on all of this, they all know I see right through it. I do my job anyway. They do theirs.
Sometimes, thankfully not often, a letter goes home to parents. Everyone knows what it means. I hate to write them. I tell the parent I did everything I could; the reassurance is likely cold comfort.
At night, when they are sleeping, I am awake and thinking about the ones whose parents got the letter. I wonder if I could have done more. I think about my childhood: working, church, my morals and beliefs. They are used and challenged every day. Sometimes it seems like more than one person can do, but tomorrow I will get up and take them through the day again. Tonight I will write two more letters home. I’ll wonder if I could have done more. It’s late. I’ll finish grading their papers now.
It’s what I do.
I am a teacher.
They are in 7th grade.
©Tom Kinton, 2003
Each morning I see them getting ready. Their uniforms set them apart from the others. There are a few who would rather be somewhere else, but my job is to keep them all here, all together, and get them all home.
The training given me over the years helps. Task, condition, standard. Praise in public; counsel in private. Work smart. Respect, leadership, attention to detail. Each day I reinforce these traits they grow a little. I work them hard so they will make it. What they are required to do is simple, but the environment we are all in makes even the simple things difficult.
The environment is harsh; the toilets are a long ways away and work sometimes; the twenty minute lunch breaks split a long day into two unequal parts. It’s hot. There is no air conditioning. Fans help, but they can’t reach everyone. Guidance from higher-up is contradictory and sometimes (usually) illogical, and even though my job is to put a good face on all of this, they all know I see right through it. I do my job anyway. They do theirs.
Sometimes, thankfully not often, a letter goes home to parents. Everyone knows what it means. I hate to write them. I tell the parent I did everything I could; the reassurance is likely cold comfort.
At night, when they are sleeping, I am awake and thinking about the ones whose parents got the letter. I wonder if I could have done more. I think about my childhood: working, church, my morals and beliefs. They are used and challenged every day. Sometimes it seems like more than one person can do, but tomorrow I will get up and take them through the day again. Tonight I will write two more letters home. I’ll wonder if I could have done more. It’s late. I’ll finish grading their papers now.
It’s what I do.
I am a teacher.
They are in 7th grade.
©Tom Kinton, 2003
posted by tomk at 6:38 AM
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