Zoo Class

After school today, my new office partner and another new teacher and I were discussing the peculiar psychology of the "zoo class." This is the one period of kids during the school day that can be counted on to act like marmosets on speed. Doesn't matter what you do to them or with them, they are--as the kids at my school say--"off the chain."

My zoo class is fourth period. It's not overly large, but it has one screwed-up dynamic; i.e. a sociology doctorate waiting to happen 55 minutes of every day. One side of the room is all boys, most of them jocks. Interesting répartée, to say the least, especially when the comic book/manga fiend speaks up. One gaggle of girls in the corner cannot. shut. up. Cannot. As in, couldn't hold it in at gunpoint. One of them taunts another girl across the room with badly-drawn pictures of Patrick Starfish, because Girl 1 swears that Girl 2 has Patrick's intellect (Girl 2, to her credit, thinks that Girl 1 is full of it and doesn't take the bait. Smart girl.) Two guys in another corner are quietquietquiet. You have to wonder if they're supremely introverted or just plain catatonic. Needless to say, it's a bizarro balancing act every day. Sometimes I make it. Sometimes I plunge screaming into the net and go begging for chocolate.

The trouble with zoo class? Despite all the weirdness, you can't help liking them for their spontaneity and unpredictability. Zoo class will definitely wear you out and send you groaning for the Tylenol, but it can also unearth some profound comments.

Still, every once in a while you wish you had a Cone of Silence to lower, for no other reason than thirty seconds of absolute quiet...