Dear Terminal 2,
Thou art a muse.
But really, why have more people not written odes to your inspirational qualities? The entrancing qualities of the flickering fluorescents, the gentle odor of old Starbucks grounds, the peaceful murmur of waiting Midwesterners…
With such conditions, and with my propensity for travel in the past five-going-on-six years, it’s amazing that I haven’t yet written the next Great American Novel.
[although tragically, I cannot say that Terminal 2 has ever inspired much in the way of paper writing, article reading, lesson planning, or grading.]
Wherever one roams, Friday evening travelers are more likely than not heading home from a work week. Equipped with compact travel cases and professional-yet-comfortable-and-wrinkle-proof attire, they ooze the inevitable adulthood of Employees.
I don’t think I give off that impression as a teacher, Terminal 2.
My dress down Friday jeans are somewhat limp beneath my omnipresent air boot. I’m wearing a slacker cardigan, a classy $12 t shirt, and my somewhat smudgy glasses. My hair is down (gasp) and straight (gasp) and side parted (gasp) but probably more frizzed than not.
[Sidebar: I love how kids react when you alter your daily appearance. MS. B! YOUR HAIR! I DIDN'T RECOGNIZE YOU! Really children? MS. B, TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES. YOU LOOK SO YOUNG! No no, I had a pet dinosaur, don't forget. MS. B, YOU DO THE MOST.]
There’s been a lot of talk lately about teaching as a profession. As a soon to be card carrying NEA member, I surely have my own opinions about unions and strikes and all that.
Good thing this is a silly frivolous blog and not one of those profound political ones.
Regardless, more and more I see teaching as my job. It’s a job to which I, almost happily, dedicate my rare hours of freedom. A job that I am learning to prioritize with, like, you know, my life (hence why I am sitting happily at the airport waiting for a much delayed flight, and not entering grades in my apartment).
Every day, I feel more like a teacher and less like a corps member.
Amen and hallelujah, because that’s never a sentence I thought I’d get to write.
So thank you, Terminal 2. You’ve loved me through College Dems elections and honors thesis drafts. You’ve taken care of me through wanting to flight rather than fight through teaching. You’ve helped me hide from any number of awkward social interactions. You aided and abetted escapes and respites.
I owe you, friend.
NOW WHERE IS MY FREAKING FLIGHT CREW?