Day... Something

Sorry, been a bit neglectful of this journal.

Okay, I'm just getting over the flu. Yeah, that little influenza mother (cencered) exists here, too. Some little kid sneezed directly in my left eye as I turned to look at him. His survival is proof of my kindness to children. Meanwhile, I went to work yesterday despite my illness and I realized for the first time that school halls in Jeddah are much like the halls in Jersey, that is to say, very spacious. It was for this reason that I was able to lean against the wall as I walked. A really cool difference between the walls in Jersey verses Jeddah is that our walls are concrete, and thus, very cool. Teacher and child alike cast odd looks at the tall bearded white man leaning his sweaty forehead against the cool, concrete walls, talking to the walls as if they were alive, in fact, thanking the walls for being so cool to the touch.

"Oh yes wall, only you understand the pain that I am in."

Still, I am one tough s.o.b., so I pushed through all of my classes without having to yell once, because I used my hate-filled look of promised death on my students. Promised death, that is, because it would be a while before I could cash in on that death, I was way too sick to properly beat one of these crazy kids at the time; they run fast. Eight periods in the work day and the seventh period was my last on duty. So I grab my giant sized 2.5 litre bottle of 7up and head for the most comfortable chair in the teachers room. On my way, I feel this strange tugging on my left arm. I'm really knowledgeable, but my mind was sluggish, so at first I thought that I might be having a heart-attack. Me? I'm the epitome of good health (minus the flu). I reassesed and looked down and realized that it was not a heart-attack, but rather, it was a second-grader.

Yeah, there was a second-grader who intercepted me coming from my third-grade class, holding my 7up bottle with a two-fisted deathlock. Dude, this kid was strong, like he had the G.I. Joe kung-fu grip!! I say, "What the hell?" (I am a teacher, I never said I was a good teacher. Besides, this little runt wasn't my student... so screw im') He says, "Teacher! I want seven." Processing the events as they unfold, I understand that this kid wants my soda. "Teacher! Teacher! I want seven!"

Man, these little Saudi kids are so freakin' spoiled that they don't understand the idea that wanting is not enough to warrent getting. My response is neither educating nor kind when I say, "And?" The kid doesn't get it. He looks at me like I just slapped his mother and repeates himself again, "Teacher! I want seven!" I do a quick visual check to ensure that this kid isn't packing heat, because I'm from Jersey and I figure that this kid might pull a pistol and just flat-out mug me in the hallway. The kid's clean though, so I get a little braver and I say, "Boy. If you don't get yer hands off my soda then I'm going to rain a whole world of pain on yer fuzzy little head."

Some English translates better than others... he let go.

I can never believe all the stories that I hear about the kids RULING Saudi. Man, I remember my father walking into the house when I was three. We were living in Keansburg and he left before I woke-up and he came home kind of late, too late to watch my cartoons with me. This one time he came home and said, "I have something for you." Well, since he wasn't taking off his belt when he said it I figured that it wasn't a beating so I was naturally curious. He told me this story about him meeting Spider-man on the way home from work and getting into a fight with him and beating him up. Okay, Spidy was my hero and you're beating him up, way to make me endeared to you dad, can't wait to see where you take this story. So he tells me that he promised to let Spider-man go if he gave my father one of his gloves. So dad pulls this cheap plastic glove from behind his back and hands it to me. It was obviously a poorly manufactured marketing product with that crappy paint on that back (the kind that peels off the second you crinkle it) in a faximilated Spider-man pattern.

Hey, it was a toy and it was for me and I wasn't expecting it. From that point on I figured that there was no earthly reason for dad to leave the house other than to bring me gifts, just like that little Saudi kid. The difference was that I grew out of it the very next day when pops came home and my dumb ass asked, "So dad, what'd you get me today?" I remember running very near the speed of light in the opposite direction of my fathers shouting that I was an ungrateful little something or other. Maybe my threat to that little Saudi kid, yesterday, had a similar effect on his maturity.

Maybe I'm not such a bad teacher after all. I should start beating my students...
-- Bill,