The Flesh and the Glass
Rodney Greenskin
First period and I already need a smoke.
Me and one hundred pairs of eyes look longingly at the clock, willing the hour hand to move.
All the students know me and hate me for being the history teacher; but first period it’s me and the seventh- graders, sitting cross-legged in our gymnasium and glaring at each other genially.
I am on an assembly line, and these students are my work. I do my job, screw my nut and bolt into their gears, their inner workings and watch them drift down the line, slowly being hammered, screwed and welded into shape.
Then I pray to god they run smoothly.
I look at these students and see heaps of metal, differing in construction but breaking down into the same spindly foundations, like a metal skeleton. The similarities are heightened by their p.e. uniforms; a hundred blue shorts and red shirts lined up like tin soldiers.
Not much of a stretch; they’re all formed from the same mold, all consumed with the opposite sex, clothing, television. For girls lip gloss, for guys Lakers, both genders share an affinity for the worst kind of pop music.
That’s why they hate my class. For one whole period, I make them forget. I make them forget about their realities and force them to accept the harsher realities of the past: thousands of citizens slaughtered at a word for the good of a republic, tens of thousands left their home and killed for a city they didn’t even own. I make them walk the footsteps of children their age, fighting for their countries in Zimbabwe, in Uganda, in Sudan, in China and Chad and Burundi, boys and girls as young as eleven.
These kids are learning valuable lessons.
Today, during fourth period, their lesson is in rolling with the punches.
Sometimes, people are fucked over. For years and years and years, they are pushed in the dirt and stepped on. And when you take this miserable, mediocre person and put him in any position of power, he’s going to abuse it with such a feeling of justification he won’t ever bat an eyelash, looking back at what he’s done.
You see this all the time in war, I tell them. The Germans in World War II did unspeakable things to the Russians, because they thought them an inferior race. And what did the Russians do? Even more unspeakable things back.
One kid, Tyler, asks me which side was right.
I ask, “Who won?”
“We did, Doc.” Spoken like a true American, with total disregard for the British Empire, China, and the numerous countries allied with us.
“Then I guess we were right, Tyler. Whoever kills the most people and still looks good, looks clean at the end, that’s who wins. See, we didn’t quite do that in Japan, but against the Germans? We could’ve done anything to them, walked out with clean hands. No blood on these Americans. Those dead bodies, those citizens forced into labor? People have cared more about game shows than they have about the well-being of Germany.”
Jeannette looks up from her texting and glares at me hard, smacking me with the full force of teenage cynicism.
“For a military history teacher you don’t seem to like military history all that much.”
Jeanette was a staunch patriot, and she never forgave me for denouncing the Civil War as the “biggest farce since the republican party.”
She blows some hair out of her face, never breaking the stare.
“Someone told me you were an officer, and you were lousy, so they kicked you outta the military.”
Has anyone ever needed a smoke this badly? Shaking fingers dig around in pockets. Not in my jacket, but maybe my pants?
“They don’t kick you out for being lousy, Jeanette. So I guess you heard wrong.” I bare my teeth at her in something like a smile, trying to remember why I have this job. It’s all for these students, these lovely, bright, overly-inquisitive students.
The little bastards.
Jeanette goes back texting I can only imagine what she’s typing now. “Lying dick.”
Sometimes I go home and think about them, no joke. Think about if Naomi’s ever going to take off her purity ring and just have sex with Danny, or if Danny will just get the clue and stop putting condoms in her locker with little notes like "Whenever you’re ready, baby." I wonder if either of them will get through Algebra without killing themselves.
I think about which students got new cell phones and which are eaten up with jealousy, I think about their shiny new shoes and how some students are getting their braces off. Teeth like petals, teeth like blocks of smooth stone.
Their lives are consumed with all the bright, shiny, flame-like essences of this world: they spark up, make a great deal of smoke, then snuff out.
My life is consumed with watching them incinerate.
The bell, god. I literally sag with relief at the bell. Fifth period is the toughest group of kids I have to deal with, and if I could get through, say, five smokes before I saw them my life would be five smokes easier.
But as I’m speed walking to my car a young woman stops me. She’s the new English teacher, taking over for Mrs. Hornbuckle, who retired to write romance novels.
She’s a young Shakespeare enthusiast who hasn’t tasted the world, hasn’t let it gum up her mouth like cement or sit heavy on her shoulders like a relentless, malicious child. I could literally fling her across the parking lot right now, if only I had that kind of strength.
Instead I let the rules go fuck themselves and pull out a cigarette in the parking lot. Every time I smoke, I picture a black lung, all congealed and shriveled and swimming with spots of yellow, decomposing in on itself. I picture a black lung and smile.
“Hi, Mr. Greenskin.” Her voice sounds breathless and rehearsed. I don’t tell her to call me Rodney because I hate her, hate her for standing between me and my car and hate her for being the first teacher on campus to try and make conversation with me in eight years.
Be a big man, Mr. Greenskin.
“Rodney.”
She looks confused. “Pardon?”
“Call me Rodney.”
We spend the rest of lunch standing together, in front of my car. Her name is Amy, she loves big dogs and conspiracy theories. We are both pacifists and hate our students.
At the end of the day the parking lot greets me like an old friend, heat rising off in thick, musky waves. When I get into my car I took off my tie and press my forehead to the damp varnished wood of the steering wheel, feeling like a man who’s drunk a glass of water after running for a lifetime.
Me and one hundred pairs of eyes look longingly at the clock, willing the hour hand to move.
All the students know me and hate me for being the history teacher; but first period it’s me and the seventh- graders, sitting cross-legged in our gymnasium and glaring at each other genially.
I am on an assembly line, and these students are my work. I do my job, screw my nut and bolt into their gears, their inner workings and watch them drift down the line, slowly being hammered, screwed and welded into shape.
Then I pray to god they run smoothly.
I look at these students and see heaps of metal, differing in construction but breaking down into the same spindly foundations, like a metal skeleton. The similarities are heightened by their p.e. uniforms; a hundred blue shorts and red shirts lined up like tin soldiers.
Not much of a stretch; they’re all formed from the same mold, all consumed with the opposite sex, clothing, television. For girls lip gloss, for guys Lakers, both genders share an affinity for the worst kind of pop music.
That’s why they hate my class. For one whole period, I make them forget. I make them forget about their realities and force them to accept the harsher realities of the past: thousands of citizens slaughtered at a word for the good of a republic, tens of thousands left their home and killed for a city they didn’t even own. I make them walk the footsteps of children their age, fighting for their countries in Zimbabwe, in Uganda, in Sudan, in China and Chad and Burundi, boys and girls as young as eleven.
These kids are learning valuable lessons.
Today, during fourth period, their lesson is in rolling with the punches.
Sometimes, people are fucked over. For years and years and years, they are pushed in the dirt and stepped on. And when you take this miserable, mediocre person and put him in any position of power, he’s going to abuse it with such a feeling of justification he won’t ever bat an eyelash, looking back at what he’s done.
You see this all the time in war, I tell them. The Germans in World War II did unspeakable things to the Russians, because they thought them an inferior race. And what did the Russians do? Even more unspeakable things back.
One kid, Tyler, asks me which side was right.
I ask, “Who won?”
“We did, Doc.” Spoken like a true American, with total disregard for the British Empire, China, and the numerous countries allied with us.
“Then I guess we were right, Tyler. Whoever kills the most people and still looks good, looks clean at the end, that’s who wins. See, we didn’t quite do that in Japan, but against the Germans? We could’ve done anything to them, walked out with clean hands. No blood on these Americans. Those dead bodies, those citizens forced into labor? People have cared more about game shows than they have about the well-being of Germany.”
Jeannette looks up from her texting and glares at me hard, smacking me with the full force of teenage cynicism.
“For a military history teacher you don’t seem to like military history all that much.”
Jeanette was a staunch patriot, and she never forgave me for denouncing the Civil War as the “biggest farce since the republican party.”
She blows some hair out of her face, never breaking the stare.
“Someone told me you were an officer, and you were lousy, so they kicked you outta the military.”
Has anyone ever needed a smoke this badly? Shaking fingers dig around in pockets. Not in my jacket, but maybe my pants?
“They don’t kick you out for being lousy, Jeanette. So I guess you heard wrong.” I bare my teeth at her in something like a smile, trying to remember why I have this job. It’s all for these students, these lovely, bright, overly-inquisitive students.
The little bastards.
Jeanette goes back texting I can only imagine what she’s typing now. “Lying dick.”
Sometimes I go home and think about them, no joke. Think about if Naomi’s ever going to take off her purity ring and just have sex with Danny, or if Danny will just get the clue and stop putting condoms in her locker with little notes like "Whenever you’re ready, baby." I wonder if either of them will get through Algebra without killing themselves.
I think about which students got new cell phones and which are eaten up with jealousy, I think about their shiny new shoes and how some students are getting their braces off. Teeth like petals, teeth like blocks of smooth stone.
Their lives are consumed with all the bright, shiny, flame-like essences of this world: they spark up, make a great deal of smoke, then snuff out.
My life is consumed with watching them incinerate.
The bell, god. I literally sag with relief at the bell. Fifth period is the toughest group of kids I have to deal with, and if I could get through, say, five smokes before I saw them my life would be five smokes easier.
But as I’m speed walking to my car a young woman stops me. She’s the new English teacher, taking over for Mrs. Hornbuckle, who retired to write romance novels.
She’s a young Shakespeare enthusiast who hasn’t tasted the world, hasn’t let it gum up her mouth like cement or sit heavy on her shoulders like a relentless, malicious child. I could literally fling her across the parking lot right now, if only I had that kind of strength.
Instead I let the rules go fuck themselves and pull out a cigarette in the parking lot. Every time I smoke, I picture a black lung, all congealed and shriveled and swimming with spots of yellow, decomposing in on itself. I picture a black lung and smile.
“Hi, Mr. Greenskin.” Her voice sounds breathless and rehearsed. I don’t tell her to call me Rodney because I hate her, hate her for standing between me and my car and hate her for being the first teacher on campus to try and make conversation with me in eight years.
Be a big man, Mr. Greenskin.
“Rodney.”
She looks confused. “Pardon?”
“Call me Rodney.”
We spend the rest of lunch standing together, in front of my car. Her name is Amy, she loves big dogs and conspiracy theories. We are both pacifists and hate our students.
At the end of the day the parking lot greets me like an old friend, heat rising off in thick, musky waves. When I get into my car I took off my tie and press my forehead to the damp varnished wood of the steering wheel, feeling like a man who’s drunk a glass of water after running for a lifetime.