Each morning before first period, there is an extracurricular music class. Of course, I am being incredibly generous by calling it "music". The abusive cacophony that scurries out of that room, tearing the ears of unwary hallway travelers, is the adopted stepchild of music.
It is led by the most piercing, spine crunching flute player: The teacher.
I have taken to listening to my iPod at full blast to avoid hearing him. I rush into the hallway to fill my water pitcher, during a quiet space. But always, just as I depress the fountain button, I hear "And a one, two, three!" through the open door, and he spits into that flute until it toots like a dying swan.
I am tempted, oh-so-tempted to sneak up and close the door.
I don't though, because I think the kids' feelings would be hurt, and I might crush someone's dream of being a nationally acclaimed concert violinist.
It is led by the most piercing, spine crunching flute player: The teacher.
I have taken to listening to my iPod at full blast to avoid hearing him. I rush into the hallway to fill my water pitcher, during a quiet space. But always, just as I depress the fountain button, I hear "And a one, two, three!" through the open door, and he spits into that flute until it toots like a dying swan.
I am tempted, oh-so-tempted to sneak up and close the door.
I don't though, because I think the kids' feelings would be hurt, and I might crush someone's dream of being a nationally acclaimed concert violinist.
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