I should be writing to you, dear readers, about the massive machine rolling into town today, the one injecting a tremendous bolt of creative energy into Toronto’s downtown core. Trust me: you can feel it. The pulse is unmistakable.
That’s coming here, with many reviews and notes about the TIFF experience. It begins tonight with two films on my schedule, neither of which is the opening gala, but then I’m planning my kind of party. Check back to hear more.
Instead, the Friendly Greek and I are riding high on a different wave after attending our last curriculum night at our kid’s high school. We usually note the big ones; proms, graduations, last night sleeping in home bed before college.
Somewhere in the halls, traipsing from classroom to classroom to hear each teacher unveil a year’s lesson plans, it hit me: we’re never doing this again. This is it. Our youngest is in grade 12. This was to be our last time hearing from teachers and course outlines. From here on, any chit-chat with academic staff will commit us to Helicopter Hell, that gutter of bad parenting we’ve all slipped into more times than we’d like to recount.
The parents’ room fell silent as one revered teacher wrapped up his brief outline. I couldn’t help but blurt out next: When can I sign up for this class?
Here in this space? Passion, curiosity and joy. In teaching. I wanted to stand and cry; THESE PEOPLE TAKE MY KIDS AND STUFF THEM WITH GOODNESS.
Another lifetime ago, someone whispered to me: You are your child’s first and most important teacher.
Yes, I shushed them; I got it, I’ll do my best, but indeed there are others?
Nope, it’s mostly you guys; it’s your gig.
Turns out they were wrong. These committed teachers know what they’re doing. That’s the lesson this student received: learn to recognize the most intelligent person in the room. My kids were lucky. They had, and still have, teachers who care. Like stress and Snapchat, passion is a contagion, but one we hope sticks.
Inside these rooms, expectant walls wait for brains to turn on. Polished floors are not yet scuffed. My kid will learn about ancient threads and tie them together this year. Or so is the plan. Everything is new in September. Hope is on the breakfast menu in the cafeteria, along with oatmeal and boiled eggs.
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