"The first half of our lives is ruined by our parents, and the second half by our children." -Clarence Darrow

After almost three weeks with a group of twenty-one sixth grade students, I’ve compiled a short list of initial observations and assertions. My goals over the course of this coming spring include gaining their trust and joining their society, like Jane Goodall with the apes.

1. Middle-school students are to caterpillars as adults are to butterflies. While as adults, we still retain many of our memories from our earlier years, we lose much of the power of communication with the younglings of our species. After emerging from the dark, cramped, self-conscious cocoon of adolescence, many adults find their voices to be one or more octaves deeper than before. The lower range and timbre of a mature human’s voice is unable to be heard by pre-cocoon humans. Also, like caterpillars, eleven-year-olds have fuzzy hair sprouting all over their entire body.

2. Middle-school students use a rudimentary form of English. Despite the best efforts of teachers, parents, and PBS, sixth-grade students use a more primitive form of the English language. This dialect reflects the language of “never-bloomers,” or the many pop culture icons of the MTV, E! networks, who never spin their cocoons and mature like a majority of the human species. Improper verb conjugations, omission of the “to be” verb altogether, and the phrases “that’s gay” and “no homo” are common in “never-bloomer” vernacular.

3. Sixth-grade boys are the most unintentionally homoerotic caterpillars, with the exception of the actual woolly bear caterpillar. Because of the cruel nature of children, it is important that they find a group of friends to help support them. Eleven- and twelve-year-old boys often express their friendship through inappropriately touching each other while shouting “stop being so gay!” Woolly bear caterpillars are still more homoerotic, however, due to the fact that the males will spin a cocoon together, and emerge months later as butterflies covered in each others' semen. Sixth-grade boys’ interactions rarely involve the ejaculate of any animal.

Soon I will have more in-depth observations. I hope this current post has been enlightening on the subject of sixth-grade students in New York City, as well as that of gay caterpillars.

No homo.

"The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn." -Gloria Steinem

Once again, I have decided to tweak my format. I’ll continue to post some funny fake news stories up when I get the time and inspiration, but I think I’m going to start updating a little more often just with some of my thoughts.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays this semester, I will be working in a middle school with a sixth-grade class. I hope the students’ antics will provide me with some writing material. Don’t worry though - I won’t be that cheesy blogger who finds uplifting messages from heart-rending tales.

However, I may end up finding what I would consider truths about the world around me. My truths may not reconcile with my readers’ truths; if they don’t, I encourage my readers to share their thoughts openly. Tell me who you are, then tell me what you think.

So for my first foray into this genre of writing, I am going to post a short essay I wrote in December 2008. I was working at the same school then as I am now. With the knowledge that names have been changed to protect the students, teachers, and the school, I invite you to enjoy the following:

Reflections on a Government Cover-up

Today, I participated in a government cover-up. It wasn’t anything major; just at the middle school where I work. I was walking to the school this morning. It was just about 8:40 when I got to the school, which was way too early, so I passed the front doors and decided to walk around the block, getting just a few more minutes of quality time with my This American Life podcast. Luckily, for a morning in mid-December, the weather was as mild as a fall day. There was little to no breeze, and I had actually rolled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

As I made my last left and prepared to walk back to the school, somewhat disappointed that I was going to have to abandon this beautiful weather for a classroom, at approximately ten minutes until nine, I saw the principal crossing the street. I thought it was fairly odd--then I saw the stream of students following behind him. He waved to me, and said, “Come with us.” A few students I work with waved to me as they passed. I asked them what was happening; apparently it was a fire drill. I thought it was a little early for a drill, but I’d been at school during one of their drills before, so I followed the routine--keep them in two (mostly) single-file lines, make sure they aren’t shouting, screaming, or hurting one another, and then, wait. We waited. And waited. It seemed like it was taking a long time for a simple fire drill, and the principal seemed like he was on his cell phone a lot more than usual, but I’m not typically an observant person, so who knows what I’ve missed in other drills.

I exchanged pleasantries with a couple of the teachers, made sure the students were still in line, when I started talking with the first teacher I work with during the day. “What a start to the day,” I joked to her. “Yeah,” she sarcastically chuckled back, “They think it was probably one of the students. The call was to Ms. Smith’s phone, and I think that line can only be reached from inside the school.” The reality of the situation, of the “drill,” hit me at this point. I was pretty sure I knew what she meant, but I casually inquired, “Wait--so this isn’t a drill?” She looked at me incredulously for a second, said, “They think it is,” then added under her breath, “Someone called in a bomb threat this morning.” I gave a nod of surprised understanding, and she playfully tapped my arm, “There ya go,” she chuckled, and walked off.

I stood there for a second to make sense of it. I wasn’t too worried about the threat itself, but I was wondering now what my role would be as an employee of the school. Obviously since the students didn’t know yet, I shouldn’t tell them, which didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time; they hadn’t gotten curious yet. But after another ten minutes or so of waiting, they started to ask questions. “Did Mr. Morris tell you what’s going on?” “Why are there cops?” “Is the building burning down?” I wasn’t sure how to answer these questions, at least not honestly. I knew what I was supposed to say. “No, Mr. Morris did not tell me what is happening.” This was true, of course, Mr. Morris did not update me on the situation. “The cops are here to help with the drill.” Okay, so more of a lie than before, but still truthful in a way--the cops were here to help. “The building is not burning down.” The most truthful statement yet, but it still didn’t explain the fact that someone had called saying that something much worse than a fire could be (albeit unlikely) in the building currently.

It was during this line of questioning that I realized what I am. I am the fucking Man. I am nothing more than a puppet for an institution that maintains order and control through deception, depriving information, and even outright lies. I, the loudmouthed advocate for government accountability and transparency, sat there parroting what I was told to say by these people, all for the sake of preventing an assumed chaos.

When the “drill” finally ended, all the students were told to return to their homerooms. Okay, I thought, now that we weren’t on the street, and in small, manageable groups with one or two adults in each group, the truth would be told. Concerns by the students could be aired in a comfortable setting for all involved, and understanding could be assured. The kids filed into the classroom, chilly from the window having been open for so long without a class of warm bodies inhabiting it. They “Okay, class,” Ms. Gray said, “here’s what happened: there was an electrical issue in the basement that could have been dangerous, so they had to clear the building. Thank you for your cooperation and patience while we were outside for so long.” The students all understood, and the one or two students who said they heard it was a bomb threat were quickly quieted and thus put into the minds of all students as a wild rumor. The “truth” was out; no further questions need be asked. Ms. Gray even joked to me about the “electrical issue” between classes. We shared a laugh about how ridiculous it sounded, knowing the reality of the situation. But the class moved on to second period for their days to continue as normal, as though nothing happened, and, for all intents and purposes, to them nothing had happened.

I participated in my first successful government cover-up today. I say my first because I’m sure there will be more, especially if I continue to work in this school. Sure, it was a small scale cover-up. In all actuality this day will probably not be remembered by any of the students in a week, or even tomorrow. That’s how I know it was successful. But if we allow these little deceptions and white lies to permeate the actions of our authorities, at what point, what size of institution do we decide that we want full transparency? Do we really want the whole truth from our government? Is ignorance bliss, at least in situations of imminent danger? I pray not.