I have been in some pretty bad occupational circumstances in my many years in Medford. I stocked meat and milk in a gigantic freezer for a deli, while swiping rogue pieces of chicken cutlet from the kitchen.
I was an item compartmentalizer and carriage wrangler at Wild Oats on Rt. 16, formerly Wild Harvest, when I was a teenage townie, and I have such a deep-rooted hatred for any grocery store that is considered "organic" that I devoted a big part of an article to it at TheCampusWord.com (now that's a shameless and unabashed plug like only a townie knows how - it's a little side job that beats the hell out of stacking frozen pastrami or bagging tofu and sushi).
Of all my professional endeavors, however, being a Medford substitute teacher has been the most entertaining. It's a very difficult job, and I make about as much as Starr Jones would as a stripper, but it allows me to reminisce about the great aspects of being in elementary school.
First off, the diet of a first grader is far superior to that of a college student. Two words: snack time. "Those tasty Lucky Charms for breakfast are wearing off, ugh, I could really go for a snack. Oh, wait, just 10 minutes until snack fest '07." Each day would go by a little easier with the mid-morning promise of a coveted string cheese, washed down by a true nectar of the gods, an Ecto-Cooler Juice box.
Lunchtime? How about a PB & J with a helping of Nacho Cheesier Doritos, some sort of fruit to trade for a Snack Pack pudding and a delectable Nesquik? Luckily, I set up a covert deal with the woman who assigns substitutes to send me to the same school as my mom, who teaches first grade, just so I could reap the benefits of a maternal lunch (plus my cars all got totaled, so she was also my ride to school).
Playstation 2 and X-Box are great for playing video games, but there is no better experience than Number Munchers or Oregon Trail. I hate math, but there's no way I'm going to let my Muncher get eaten by a cannibalistic Troggle just because I don't know my Prime Numbers. How could I nap with that on my conscience?
Oregon Trail was an especially compelling experience. The point of the game is to follow the Oregon Trail, fording rivers, trading with locals, gathering food ... a true lesson in survival on the great American Frontier.
Unfortunately, I would spend nearly all of my time hunting bison, deer or squirrels - and spending all my money on ammo rather than medicine - that my entire traveling party would die relatively horrific deaths.
Apparently, typhoid fever, cholera and dysentery were running rampant, and periodic drowning while fording rivers and fatal snakebites were mere happenstance, leaving my Oregon Trail littered with graves with epitaphs that read something like this: "Here lies poopyhead. Beloved brother and boogerface."
One part of elementary school that will forever be remembered fondly is gym and recess. I'm not going to sit here and lie to any of you: I was, and still am, a phenomenally talented schoolyard athlete.
I was the Manny Ramirez of stickball, the David Beckham of kickball and the Patches O'Hoolihan of dodgeball. I ruled the asphalt arena with an iron fist, each game a Darwinian test of ability.
As a gym teacher, I sometimes felt the need to get back those glory days and participate in the games if the kids seem tough enough. Now I know when you play with children, you're supposed to let them win. But that's a loser's rule.
No mercy, teacher or not, or they won't learn valuable first grade lessons of sacrifice and teamwork. How can a class of seven-year-olds possibly respect a gym teacher who doesn't have top-notch arm velocity or catlike reflexes?
The only concern I should have is my throwing mechanics, because a dodgeball sent careening at a child's dome isn't good for anyone (due to the obvious injury factor ... and the fact that headhunting is illegal and I'd have to sit out, a rookie move).
Too bad "Dodgeball superstud" isn't a r?©sum?© booster.
With all this said, I don't think I want to pursue a career in teaching. The job of being a full-time teacher is much more draining and taxing than people give it credit for. It involves molding and corralling the minds of tomorrow's townies.
Children need a strong, respectable role model, not some college townie who doesn't shave and races off to "happy hour" on Friday the second the last bell sounds.
Pete McKeown is a senior majoring in English. He can be reached at peter.mckeown@tufts.edu.
