While I'm waiting for the world to change, I'd like to bitch about those damn kids. Those damn kids may or may not congregate around the building where my class is held. They perpetrate crimes against fashion, Memphis style. I can't remember exactly what they are, but they are there. They use bad language. I dropped a water bottle near them and one swore, saying bitch please! Due to the stimulus money, there's a lot more of them than usual, swelling the coveted ranks of the jobs program. They talk to women who are much older than them, even calling my prof a drink of water, she reports. Some boys in semi preppy vests tried to talk to me. I think they used ma'am. When their paychecks are late, they are antsy. Some may be trying to pay rent or funnel money to little brothers or sisters, and some may want the latest shirt to deal with the all consuming rites of adolescence.
I can't help but thinking there would be a big difference in reaction if the crimes against fashion committed were hunting camo, confederate flags or redneck tattoos. I say this, but the sea of class is between us. Something else divides us, but I can't name it. A former honor student; all my effort has gone to dust. I half want the kids to blaze their own paths, but the other half of me says THOSE DAMN KIDS!