Forcing myself to actually do the grading that needs to be done, DiTullio,
I opened Google Classroom and settled in for a long haul.
It has always been like this:
Classroom time is magic because it is the definition of potential energy:
Stored energy relative to an object's position in relation to other objects and forces.
Grading is soul-sucking because it is the definition of madness:
Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
At least, that has been my experience as a history teacher.
There are, after all, only so many ways a student can analyze
The fall of the Qing Dynasty.
This year, though, I am a librarian.
I am an English teacher.
And I can turn a blind eye to the occasional contraction,
The stray comma splice,
The unreliable narrator weaving a wholesome tale
Whose foundation rests on unwholesome truths not told.
And now, my definitions must adjust.
For while classroom time is still magic
(because these people I teach are magic),
Grading is perhaps no longer soul-sucking
(because these people I teach sometimes leave their souls on the page).
My story has shifted.
The narrative thread has
Skipped a line.
Skipped another.
And another.
And now
I find myself on a fresh new page.
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