You should be hated here. in Good Morning Providence.

It’s a La Niña year, so the weather is supposed to be this dry. The perennial longing for seasonally appropriate rain, the fretting over a summer potentially choked out by forest fires and drought pricing on utilities is intrinsically wasted energy, but it’s hard to convince myself of this when I’m on the road, squinting at the sun under a lucid California sky at 7:45 AM. For all I care, the sun can fuck off into another galaxy, and I’ll remain embedded in some pillar of ice, my face contorted in triumphant laughter when that magic happens.
The students -particularly those in periods three and four- are on the razor’s edge. I would imagine that this is because of the report cards. At the heels of another semester, my students are becoming reasonably restless. Where in previous years, they would come to attention at one clap, one stern look, one cleared throat, this batch requires more volume- more intention, more visible displays of punishment to demonstrate the need for an orderly lesson. In the last few weeks alone, I had to hand out four trash duty slips. In a single year, I perhaps distribute but one or two, so there’s clearly something in the water. I never feel good about doing this, no matter how egregious the offense. With so much pressure at home for to succeed where resources are becoming increasingly scarce, and the rapid fraying of guarantee of job security in the future, I would imagine that these are the clearest displays of burnout ((Cue the obligatory millennial polemics on late-stage capitalism)); the signs of a population in decline.
Among this growing malaise in the collective unconsciousness of the students at this school, I had to de-escalate one of what might have gone down as one of those rare bouts of physical violence that actually transpires our boring, academic-intensive campus; among first-generation Americans whose parents are in tech jobs. In passing, I’d heard some loud profanity, and turned to see some kids at the lunch table, standing up and shouting harshly at the other. I’d paused to see if this was cause for concern, and if it was worth my time. Indeed, the body language was intense enough to know that this had to be stopped. I raced over to the boys, making myself larger, louder, to break up any tension. When I’d demanded they stop, and asked them what had happened, barking over each other, they’d mentioned that one of the students had thrown his fruit cup against the table in anger following a lost game of cards, its contents splattering against the three other boys, only one of them rising up, swearing, threatening violence. Without hesitation, I raised my voice, demanding all four come to the office: two offenders, two witnesses. Still hot under the collar, they entered the office, pointing, shouting, swearing, prompting every office admin present to scold them as if they were their own students.
…But of course I’m overthinking it. The good far outweighs the bad, or something…