Accepting two-days of subbing work as the high-school art teacher came with the naive sense that this would be easy. Compared with other subjects – science, math and history – art should be a fun – right? Yet I am still a young fawn in the land of high-school subbing, working with a bag of tricks mostly empty, and am met with the stark contrast between the elementary kids I am used to – who energetically and enthusiastically jump into art work – and teens who seem barely motivated to lift a charcoal pencil.
I stumble through attendance mispronouncing a couple Haida names, not winning myself any points, quietly introduce myself and begin to outline the work for the day. Some kids have “forgotten” their sketchbooks; others, their pencils. I circulate the class, encouraging and prompting students to get on with their work, some begin listlessly as if their bodies have been drained of blood, others lay with heads on desk, ipods tuned in, tuning them out.
Blocks are about an hour and 20 minutes long and some painfully trickle by as I nudge, prod and at time, gently threaten them to get some work done… any work done! I am sinking and not only do I feel like I am failing these kids, but surprisingly failing myself. I squirm with the sense that I have ingested a cocktail of ‘frustration and humiliation’ and am eager to have it pass through my body quickly. I feel helpless.
My preoccupation with keeping the language somewhat clean, other students from walking in, my students from walking out means that I barely notice the students that are working. There are a few in each class. Their heads are down and focused and they barely say a peep. I have two guesses, one that being a ‘keener’ isn’t cool, and two, these kids have likely been in the same class since kindergarten and the same kids who are disrupting this class have always done so, and at some point, it begins to get tuned out.
I make the point of connecting with these focused students, encouraging their work, supporting them to find the resources they need and commending their efforts. Over the two days I experience the “glued-teen” syndrome (boy and girl seemingly attached, making-out while walking into the classroom), the age old name switching for the sub ( I have done this one myself… oh the karma!), the “I have to go the bathroom” (for 45 minutes…), amongst other classic favourites.
One class is painting ceiling tiles for the school hallways. A tall boy with jeans around his knees, spiky lip piercings, and a saunter that says, “I’m da man!” announces loudly to the class that he is going to paint a “pair of eyes” and begins a crude outline of what looks very similar to breasts. The other kids watch me to see how I will react.
“I am not going to tell you what art is or isn’t, and there is nothing wrong with art that depicts the female body. The only art I won’t allow in this classroom is anything hateful” I state as I circulate around his table.
It’s all part of the substitute dance that the kids are all watching. How much can we get away with? What will she do about it? How will this end?
I hear a couple of girls mumble in agreement, that art is art, and I wonder what the boy’s next move will be. I decide to myself that I will let the real art teacher determine the future of the final product, yet my plan is thwarted because while I am talking to some kids at the back of the class, the boob artist flees – with art in tow. Drat! I feel my sub sink deeper.
Ten minutes later a fellow teacher walks him back to my classroom, with a blank ceiling tile in hand. I find out later that he went straight for the middle of the main hallway and began installing his work, his intention to maximize shock value was obvious. The dance of the sub continues, I re-direct some students to engaging projects and try to focus on these “mini” successes.
On the morning of the last day of subbing I am with four boys who are mainly preoccupied with their upcoming provincial exams and so I let them use this hour to study. One young man in jeans and a jean shirt, sits in the front row and diligently works on his Haida art in his sketchbook. He tells me that he works on his art from early in the morning till late at night, that he has worked with some of the local big talent on poles, carvings and other forms of art. He tells me of his recent trip to Lausanne, Switzerland where he joined Jim Hart and others to erect a pole at the Olympic headquarters. He loved the experience, and hopes that his art will continue to take him around the world.
Next to him sits a younger lad wearing a low fitting ballcap, Tap- Out hoody and Snoop Dog T-shirt. Black culture along with UFC (ultimate fighting championship) are extremely popular among the youth. He refuses to draw, preferring to watch and admire the young artist next to him. They talk in soft, low voices about their cell phones and ideas for their first tattoos – both want to have their Haida name and clan emblazened on their small frames. I smile inwardly at this statement of Haida pride.
Then, a text comes in and the hoodied youth softly mumbles to his friend that a young man in the village is dead. The facts are unclear, but broken text messages tell of a 23 year old man, whose parents found him ‘not breathing’ this morning. Later, unconfirmed rumours will fly through the hallways… suicide, accidental drug overdose, poisoned… but the fact remains the same. A life has been lost in this small close-knit community. Someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend. The artist continues to work on his sketch as he tells me about how fit the young man was, how they would often meet up during clam-digging season, how he feels bad for the brother.
My heart sinks and for the rest of the day I notice that subtle shift in reality when someone you just saw on the street, is no longer walking this planet. Suddenly, the teaching assignment I have been taking rather seriously becomes less important as I talk more with the kids about their classes next term, about the things they like to do, about their plans for the future.
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