“Who doesn’t like death metal?”
Student One asks student Two. Student One wears a hoodie with the words, “the Profitt” applied to the back. Student Two, a tall student wearing horned-rim glasses seeks out “the Profitt” for a quick high-five.
The teacher asks both, “Are you done with the assignment?”
They both say, “Yes.”
I have my doubts. Might this prophet be false?
The questions they pose each other join all the questions I secretly carry. I can’t get a hold of any of them long enough to find an answer. Today, this pile of questions seems to be the only thing holding me up. In the eye of a hurricane, I stand. All the unanswered pieces of my life whirl around me. They move too quickly. I close my eyes to keep from getting dizzy. With my eyes closed in the eye of the hurricane, I begin to see.
I jump up to help hand out math worksheets. Sadly, there is often a lot of down time in my job. Teachers have to wait for enough of the noise and chatter to stop to go on to the next thing. Some students need more time. Some never use the time to do the work. Some times I write a sentence here or there in between the waiting. I am trying to stay anchored and to keep my brain alive.
As I hand out papers, “the Profitt” changes seats. With a wry smile, I ask “the Profitt, “Is that really YOUR seat Mr. Profitt?”
“Yes, it is. . . Mrs. . . Mrs. Helper Laaady,” he says.
Now I know “the Profitt” is false. He is rather charming, though. He continues to talk quietly in between working math problems to determine probability. There is some sort of poetic justice here. I KNOW it but I don’t know what IT is. Math is often shrouded in mystery to me. Probability is a blank wall of unanswered questions that withstands very high winds, winds of hurricane force.
If I chose “X” than what is the probability of “Y” and/or “Z”? This problem cuts too close to home. This question merges with all the others. They seem mutually exclusive repelling each other as magnets with opposite poles do. Again, my thoughts leave me feeling dizzy. I close my eyes and dream of false prophets to avoid facing what I already know.
“You’re the best of the worst.”
A voice says from across the room. A new false prophet has arisen. The room is quiet, listening for what this new voice will say. I have heard the voices that have come and gone before. They are whispers in the wind and can not last. I turn my attention to other things.