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You know, folks, I’ve written—or rather related stories—for long as I can remember. The earliest were childhood tales about neighborhood grocers that my brothers and I considered humorous in a Laurel and Hardy kind of way. When we were supposed to be settling down to sleep I’d recite the next nightly cliffhanger of the family McBroom. Often our giggling would earn us a stern get-to-sleep-you-kids chewing-out. I’ve spent most of my life in the corporate world, which yielded a mother lode of humorous stories like you wouldn’t believe, some of which are chronicled in my essays and books. Put it this way: Scott Adams masterfully captures context and tone in his cartoon strip DILBERT. I left the world-of-work to focus on writing, which requires constant rebirth to remain fresh, contemporary, and edgy. Some new material is acquired from entrepreneurial projects; sure-fire providers of never-ending Damon Runyon characters and improbable scenarios. Check out my Amazines story from January 22, 2011 entitled, “Halitosis from Hell (Or How Bad Breath Killed a Business Deal)”. Anyway, I’m always on the lookout for new experiences for two reasons: 1) I’m inquisitive to the point of being nosy; 2) new knowledge yields new material; and therefore, new stories. Makes sense doesn’t it? This composition chronicles my latest adventure into the world of public education. Some years ago I contacted a local high school administration office and inquired about substitute teaching. An airline pilot buddy of mine tried it on non-flying days and thought it was “fun”. I figured several days a month would be a new experience and put me into an environment just waiting to be mined. A year of that experiment was enough (believe me!). It turned out to be daily and was more drudgery than pleasurable; and yielded precious little. Still it was something novel; and I did require the students call me Zorro (and pronounce it with an exaggerated Spanish accent) in the classroom. Recently I was involved in a new aspect of our government sponsored educational system, which (thankfully) only lasted 30 days. I am pleased to report the experience gave me a new aspect, albeit serendipitous, about life. Here’s the deal. Elementary through high school students throughout our nation are required to take standardized tests to prove: 1) they’re actually learning something; 2) teachers are actually teaching something, and 3) overpaid, puffed-up administrators are actually necessary. There are all kinds of shady shenanigans going on that have been reported in the media, which I will not recount here. One thing… I have a niece who teaches high school algebra. She is constantly loggerheads with her principal and administrators because she receives unprepared, unmotivated students who were previously passed to make the administration’s record look good. She does not perpetuate the ruse, and has been “encouraged” to conform. How is the system working? In US urban areas the graduation rate is a heady 30-percent. Now that’s something of which to be proud. That’s something to get up every morning to kill for. (Sarcasm and ending the sentence with a preposition intended for smart-alecky effect.) Another reality that I challenge you to check for yourselves: What’s the college major that yields the lowest GRE and LSAT scores? Education majors; that is, our teachers and administrators. I live near a center where standardized test booklets are scored, which come from schools nationwide. What an opportunity for a wisenheimer writer like me. My motivation was to see first hand and report (unfiltered) how our students are doing, and more importantly, learn about the “new” grading system because (after all) self-esteem is paramount. Everyone gets a trophy. Yethir! I observed examples of brilliant students and those not-so-brilliant, who were scored almost the same, but my focus changed from a get-the-real-story-and-report depiction to one of self-discovery and empathy. Sitting in front of two computer screens and scoring writing or math for junior high students is incredibly boring and tedious. The novelty wore off after two days, and (dummy me) I signed up for thirty. The bad news is once I make a commitment, I keep it. So anyway, here is the mind-numbing and unwanted byproduct of my labor. I was bored witless, and the whole exercise—somebody’s got to do it—seemed like I wasted precious moments of my life. At first brush it didn’t seem like I received anything of literary value from the gig. I was wrong, but to explain why I need to digress a bit. Back-in-the-day like many college students between terms, I took any job available to help pay tuition. Some of those jobs were on a factory assembly line. I worked on an embossing press in a muffler factory, made V8 for Campbell’s, and did some welding. The tedious nature of those jobs inspired me to apply myself in college so I wouldn’t have to do that type of work for the rest of my life. But that’s exactly what I was doing when scoring standardized state tests except all the workers were college graduates that sat at a desk in front of two monitors—a rubric on one and tests to be graded on the other. The payoff was I relearned what it was like; that is, I remembered something long forgotten. I remembered the little jokes and horseplay to make the time pass less arduously; looking forward to breaks and having conversation, brown bags during lunch hours; relief after shift completion. We did anything to break the cycle of dreariness. By the end of the shift we were boned-tired not necessarily from physical labor, but from sameness, repetition, and monotony. During my professional career, mostly as an executive, I never completely forgot my youthful factory-floor experience; and had a reputation of being fluid within the organization equally comfortable with gladiators in the arena and suits in the boardroom. I have always respected the line worker, but put behind me some of the more unpleasant aspects of being one until sitting in front of that monitor that very first day. My mind instantly returned to the factory floor. I no longer thought as a results-driven manager, but as one at odds with an odious system. The tedium was the main culprit, but was also aided-and-abetted by supervisors who treat people like saliva-bubbling, nose-picking halfwits. Again, the floor staff—500 in one room and 250 in another—are college graduates made up of retirees, down-sized professionals, and young college graduates unable to find work...and a curious mole. (That would be me.) I heard the loud voice of a Human Resources manager coming from another area of the room one afternoon; I think it was from the Reading / Language Arts area. She was yelling at people to stay alert and awake at their monitors, which seemed rather demeaning. Why not simply talk quietly (but forcefully) to the offenders instead of making a spectacle of them? I have no problem with the need for corrective action only with the method of communication. Did I mention we punch a clock? It’s not the old time clock system. We use computers. (Though we are pretty much volunteers, it is required a small stipend be paid. Your government in action…) Apparently some “slackers” were preparing their screens a minute before time to clock-out, which meant (naturally) all of us received an individual talking-to-warning, not just the offenders. I don’t question the necessity of running a tight ship; I’m just not used to being treated unprofessionally. I unwittingly went through a Kafkaesque metamorphosis, but instead of turning into an insect I transformed into a shop rat. The time-travel back into humbler days seemed to have an effect on some of my fellow workers as well, for instance, I walked into a busy restroom one afternoon and observed a fellow shadow boxing with reckless abandon completely oblivious to those around him—really throwing some haymakers. Another was in a stall dropping a deuce and singing his heart out. (…And now, for your listening and olfactory pleasure crooning his Greyhound Bus Terminal restroom hit, “The Septic Log Blues”, and accompanying himself on sphincter-phone here’s…) From the onset, accuracy in our work was stressed. Imagine my surprise when hourly quotas were issued. My normal rate exceeded the quota by far, but the new shop rat within me suggested that I slow down so the quota wouldn’t be increased. Guess what? It was. The number was inched up a bit day by day—death by a thousand cuts. So the new shop rat in me intentionally came back late from breaks, clocked back in a few minutes before lunch break expired then went to the restroom or lollygagged about. I thought about discarding my ubiquitous water bottle and replacing it with a whiskey flask (containing water) just to antagonize the screws. By the way, I tried to slow down my productivity but couldn’t. My nature seems to reject the shop rat’s machinations. I remember long ago in that muffler shop another youngster and I (on opposite ends of the line) got co-workers pissed-off because we always tried for hourly production records just for entertainment, to make the time pass. Some veterans bitched to our foreman, and one walked off the job in protest. Our short-term commitment may have been the culprit. Maybe when one is submerged in the arena day-after-day pacing is a natural byproduct. Here’s a little ditty written for the autoworkers underground years ago, but appropriate for all line workers, gladiators in the arena… Are these men and women / Workers of the world? / Or is it an overgrown nursery with children— / Goosing, slapping boys / Giggling, snotty girls? / What is it about that entrance way; those gates to the plant? / Is it the guards, the showing of your badge—the smell? / Is there some invisible eye that pierces you through and transforms your being? / Some aura or ether that brains and spirit washes you and commands, / “For eight hours you shall be different.” / What is it that instantaneously makes a child out of a man? / Moments before he was a father, a husband, a voter, a lover, an adult. / When he spoke at least some listened. / Salesmen courted his favor. / Insurance agents appealed to his family responsibility, / And by chance, the church sought his help… / But that was before he shuffled past the guard, / Climbed the steps, / Hung up his coat, / And took his place along the line. Copyright by Gene Myers, author of AFTER HOURS: ADVENTURES OF AN INTERNATIONAL BUSINESSMAN (2009), Strategic Publishing Group, New York, NY – a hilarious account of the author’s overseas travels; and SONGS FROM LATTYS GROVE (2010), PublishAmerica, Fredericksburg, MD - a mildly sinister, but amusing work of fiction. Both are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and available in Amazon Kindle and Nook formats. Visit www.myersamazon.com
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