Kids tend to laugh at me all the time. On many occasions, they had really good reasons. Usually, my thick skin deflected the laughter bouncing it off, and hurting very little. On one, snowy, winter night, my feelings weren’t hurt nearly as much as my backside.
Teaching at Morse Middle School involved more than just instructing kids about reading and writing. I constantly reminded the overeager kids of how loud to speak or which side of the stairs to walk on. I also learned who Tu Pac was and how hair extensions work. One of my favorite learning experiences happened at Little Switzerland Ski hill.
Morse consisted of inner city kids whose experiences on mountains consisted mostly of riding the Space Mountain cars at DisneyWorld. Putting downhill skis on these wide-eyed youngsters created gleeful monsters. Once the kids were all outfitted in their boots, skis, and poles, I set off to get myself ready. On this particular night, I decided to try something new. Snowboarding. The less than enthusiastic high school workers seemed to think that anyone who could ski could snowboard.
After strapping my plain, white, Burton board on, I proceeded to glide backwards right back into the door of the lodge. Gritting my teeth, I hopped and leaned moving myself at a grindingly slow pace toward the nearest chairlift.
Once there, I maneuvered into the short, lively line and moved forward toward the actual chairs. This part was quite easy since the ground was level and the line progressed in a relatively straight manner.
Lifting off, the chair ride, short as it happened to be, was the best part of the night. The top of the hill loomed, and I readied myself to disembark. Smooth may not be the best way to describe how I ended up face down in the hardpacked, icy snow at the dropoff point. Having already fallen twice, my students obviously thought my first try at snowboarding was nowhere near graceful.
I shuffled and scooted over to the top of the bunny hill. It appeared much higher from the top than from the security of the warm, inviting lodge below.
My first trip down the hill lasted five, excruciatingly slow minutes. This time was broken up into small segments of wild arm flailing, loud shouting, and crashing on my backside. On this first trip, all my concentration was geared toward standing, flailing, and falling. On subsequent trips down, I heard the giggles, laughter, and mocking of my students as they rode past me either on skis or the chairlift.
“Ooomph!” all of the breath left my prone body as I again hit the snow.
“Nice one, Mr. K,” Maurice taunted from the chairlift.
“Smooth landing,” added his seatmate, Chris.
Barely lifting my head to acknowledge them, I replied, “Thanks. It’s all in the knees.” I could hear the laughter as the boys moved along to the top of the mountain.
The winter night flew by as fast as a squirrel hiding its food in winter. I’m sure I fell at least 500 times if you count getting in line, scrambling off the lift, and flying down the hill. I deserved my share of laughter and probably joined in on more than one awkward occasion. It wasn’t until our departure back to Milwaukee that I realized how hurt I really was. As our school bus bounced and jumbled off of the icy, mountain, my tailbone screamed at me. The whole fifty-minute trip was spent sitting half on and half off the uncomfortable, dark, green seat of the bus as my embarrassment continued.
My Hurt Feelings
Mr. Klosterman
December 13, 2011